Breadcrumb #339

JAMES FOSTER

          A big red balloon floats up high,

          the string’s

         c

         u

          t,


                               twisting

                              heroically on,

                    battling the winds & rain & rain.

                       It pierces the blackened clouds

                              then gone.

                                  A

                               big

                            red

                            balloon floats up high,

                                        then pops in the sky.

• • •

Breadcrumb #338

COOPER WILHELM

If I could reappear an instant later clinging to the ceiling above trouble like a cat I’d still call out
for reassurance. Does this iMessage look infected? Do the poachers know my real name? Are
my sorrows still attached?

How unforgiving we can be. How thrashed. I’ve aligned myself with longing and worn regrets
around me like a sandwich board, and I’m doing that now, but I’ve decided that’s the past.

No more po-ems about fire, no more
parables of loneliness—rest easy,
ugly heart.

Only werewolves now.

Only howling to the kitchen so you rush back
in and do not miss the good parts.

Maybe a fake molar full of stem cells I can crack when under scrutiny so I could feel like I did
something and still retain my tooth. Maybe a kitten’s all I need.

This one time a man in an I Heart Jesus hat asked the kid next to him did I miss my stop

“Huh?”

Did I miss 42nd Street?

“Uh Yeah”

“Why’d you let me sleep?!”

The kid shrugged they didn’t know each other and Jesus Hat looked up
and asked sir (I’m not even 30)
sir (or 29) do you know what stop is next and
I didn’t know where we were together because I was writing this poem and I still am but I’ll stop.

• • •     • • •

Breadcrumb #337

BRANDON BANET

We all had fun in the balloon ride until it caught fire.
Marty died first, singing Neutral Milk Hotel
as he somersaulted.
His impression wasn't very good (to be honest),
too much quivering in the words;
too much turbulence.

But Marty's a saint!

He cared not to disrupt the cloud's puff
as he capered downward,
so he tucked his feet;
he thought it a sight to see.
But Nancy didn't think it funny.
Maybe she couldn't see.

So she did something outrageous,
Griped about the weather,
said she didn't think hot air balloon rides
literally meant
Trial by fire.
Said she wished for less space between
our cotton ball shooting star
and the dirty ground.
I thought it all ill of her
(Uncouth)
Bu then Nancy caught fire,
too.
Turned straight up blue.

And now it's just me,
somewhere between
12 and 10 thousand feet.
And I wouldn't mind a drink
with Marty and his baritone,
or with Nancy and her blue hair.
But, alas!
I'm the only one here,
and I must tend to the air,
or leave a bad review on Yelp:
whichever one helps.

• • •