Three Poems

J. Michael Wahlgren



Just row houses roped in with seatbelts,

No hope but an answer of a riddle. You trace her figure

upon a thin gray sheet of paper. I tell myself


not to forge his structure: a stick figure

of a grocery shopper at check out: item following

item, a sociology lost. I picture her alignment:


a lamp left on to guide us into certainty. No

light but the coasting of light. No dogs

but the noise of dogs aiding us up a ladder.





If a broken record encircles

a needle… Oh, headphone world.

It’s only natural repeated, again &

Again, solely mesmerizing. No light

to breech from our pockets. No inside.





so I write my 

own proceeds

so I didn’t like

yours. Hours

blend inside of

you, me, watching

tv, torn apart

as an apple slice.

I said you want

to go on vacation

but there’s that song:

THAT song. You know?

Hours blow as baby

powder will in wind,

but the fan is on &

I smell of bamboo

& opiate. Shoot.

Whichever is the

past tense of smoke.

There’s that whole

recording that fails

to light even a match.

I danced while attached

to somebody else’s side,

which reminds me of

That song. Along:

enter chorus.

 About the Writer
Split Lip Press

J. Michael Wahlgren is author of CREDO, a chapbook on Greying Ghost & Valency, a full-length collection on BlazeVox [Books]. These poems are from a new collection, McKenna & the New Wonderment,which is still being revised. He lives in Massachusetts.