For The Cute Poet In Iowa,

by Melanie Browne

My husband is jealous of you,

Because I make him read your

Poems,

He likes some of them.

He squeals like a pig and calls

You farm boy,

Apparently you have sex with lots

Of lonely housewives in Iowa,

And you have lots of adventures

With down on their luck

People that hang out

In bars and greasy diners,

Also in Iowa,

I have to admit,

Some of your poems

Are a little hard to believe,

Like The day you met the Indian

Chief and he turned out

To be your grandfather,

and he told you

your sacred animal

was the Beaver

and a silent

tear fell from your

face and settled

into

your overpriced

shot glass

The Couple Fighting In Front Of The Box Office Ultimately Decide To Go Home

by Melanie Browne

It can seem like a small thing,

the refuge of the cinema on

a saturday afternoon, his hand

tucked in yours, your head

on his shoulder, sharing one

large Diet Coke,

yet society has conspired

against you,

clipped your sanity,

so you continue the fight

you started earlier that morning

about nothing really,

and now you can't even

remember the

name of the movie

you both wanted to see,

his back hurts,

she would rather

eat ice cream in the bath,

look at her Star Magazine

Your Eyes Are The Saddest Cowboy Lament

by Melanie Browne

Your eyes are

lonely like

the Streets

of Laredo,

at high noon,

with 100% humidity

You aren't a

jolly cowboy,

and I ain't a pretty

maiden,

I don't have any

roses for

your coffin,

because I had

to buy a

40 ounce,

your eyes are

the saddest

cowboy lament,

when I look

in them

I see roadkill,

scavenger

birds &

old people

with cataracts

I might dress up

fancy for your

funeral,

I have some

new stilettos,

back seam

stockings,

a handkerchief

made of

white linen

The best part

by Melanie Browne

of the poem,

about the chill

that travels

down my

sticky thigh,

shivers

up every bone

in my spine,

I lost that part,

I'm left with

a few lines

about

the sunrise,

waves crashing,

the seashell

in my hand,

both parts

are a lie,

but that

was the best part

Not William Burroughs

by Melanie Browne

I locked myself in the

bedroom closet

with the glass

skull liquor bottle

my husband got

for Christmas

I balance the bottle

on my head

and took some

pics with

my cell phone

I never

showed anyone

but tell me,

is that strange?

One of the Reasons I will Never Read Ulysess

by Melanie Browne

My friend came over

and wanted us to

go get some Slurpies

and we layered them,

the Coke flavor and

the Cherry flavor and

Then we were blowing

our Slurpees

at each other,

I don’t know,

If I want

nonsense

I’ll read

a bunch of

German Expressionist

dream diaries,

I'll watch an Andy

Warhol movie while

Wearing

3-D glasses

and sipping

Absinthe in

my waterbed

Name-checking Billy F***in Collins

by Melanie Browne

I thought about it,
and I really don't want to waste
your time with another
poem that name-checks
Billy Collins.

I changed my mind.
He's much too
anal for me.

No offense intended,
but i cant stare
any longer
at the
clean and shiny
bowl of lemons
sitting on a
quiet, lonely table

or smell the
hand sanitizer,
the folded corners
of a hospital sheet

I hate to leave
You empty handed,
I know you were
Looking forward
To a good Billy- Collins
Name-checking.

Sorry,
Really I am…
Want some sugar-free gum?

Just thought you should know

by Melanie Browne

There’s a lot
of talk in poetry
circles about
the poetic voice

Your poetic voice
is kind of an asshole!

Just thought you should know
but really,
you're more interesting
than the others
with all their
metered mumbo-jumbo
and when I lie down
at night,
my poetic voice and
your poetic voice
get freaky

That Tricky Bastard

by Melanie Browne

Death,

tickling our feet
with catfish whiskers;

the nose
with rabbit's feet;

sprouting weeds
at frozen graveyards;

(those crowded
ghostly wheels)