Three Poems by Andrew Boston

Fried Egg Found Poem


‘My fried egg didn’t turn out like Picasso’, said the TV chef.

No, not even Braque

My fried egg’s aesthetic remained undefined

As it shuffled through whitewashed nights

And whitewall days

My fried egg did not assail the battlements of the New York Art World

My fried egg was not inspired by Basquiat and it didn’t

Trade verbal barbs with Julian Schnabel

My fried egg lived in a studio apartment on 26th Street

Until the rent got too high and it moved to Sunset Park

With some other fried eggs and a Spanish omelet

Finding the Spanish omelet to be too overbearing

My fried egg moved out in April

My fried egg is couch surfing

And playing bass in a noise rock band based in Yonkers

My fried egg didn’t turn out like Picasso

My fried egg has been celibate for seven months

My fried egg is beginning to get desperate

My fried egg has a nice car

My fried egg feels dread sometimes

My fried egg knows never to look a gift horse in the mouth

I ran into my fried egg at a bar where a lot of fried eggs are known to hang out

I was there for a two for one night, and my fried egg

Was kicking everyone’s ass at pinball

I asked my fried egg what it was going to do with itself

And my fried egg said ‘I’m feeling a little scrambled and nothing’s really panning

out so I’m incubating for a while until I hatch another plan.’

 

Go Fly a Kite


Go fly a kite why don’t you

You might even consider

Joining the Kite Flying Society

An offshoot of the Flying Fuck Society

You can meet people who share your interests

Which is an important thing

Plus it’ll teach you about

Fine-tuning your reflexes

About control

And if you make a mistake

And you watch your pink kite become a dot

On the backside of a cloud

You’ll be a bit closer to understanding loss

 

Go take a hike

You can take a hike or ride a bike

Although you might not want to take a hike

Where people are riding bikes

Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage?

Don’t you think you could do with some space?

Well, you can hike all you want

And you won’t have to follow any etiquette

You just have to check for tics

But scrutiny seems to be one of your strong points

 

Go jump in a lake why don’t you

Immerse yourself in the muddy cold

Like a Boy Scout on sabbatical

It won’t hurt you

There are a wide variety of lakes

For you to jump in

You can float on your back

And learn something about the immensity of things

You might want to look for a lake that is close to your town

And as isolated as possible

That way, you can jump in the lake

And feel like the first one.

 

The Best Part


Don’t worry because

I saved you the best part.

I saved you the sound of a pile

Of newly raked leaves

Disturbed by a falling body.

I saved you the very last piece

Of birthday cake

With the blooming green icing.

I don’t want you to waste any more time

Thinking about this

Because I saved you the good paper

The first Saturday morning bird

The Style and Arts section

I saved you the best part

I saved you my cheeks just after a shave

I saved you my arms when my generosity

Moved through them like an arc of welcome winter light

I saved you the glorious part of breath, of weight

I saved you my most trenchant commentary

I saved you the softest, coolest pillow.

I did all this

Because I ate all the leftovers

And the cat ran away.

 

By Andrew Boston


Andrew Boston is an undergraduate at NYU studying English Literature. He has been reading throughout the city since October 2010.

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