When I Went for a Walk

The health of a decade in childhood has been
canceled five times. The goat-milking scene
still has forever escape into west of here
when I went for a walk in the forest.
The last corn dog raised concern among
the predeceased. Oh yeah, signature hamburger,
what kind of cloud is a tribute to
Frank Sinatra? I reach inside for
the oddly-shaped pearl I call Beirut.

And Mexico, Peru, Brazil remain undercooked.
Everyone hidden in general admission.
We played Drop-the-Handkerchief during
the drug wars. The voice and its three day
festival, its genres of fake birds and
fragrant wood. I slide between the mixologists
required to be discrete. Oh, info booth. Oh, yoga
in the park. Oh, all day play resort. We go to
the mall because it has more security.

Obey no pants urged the printed programs
and the favorite uncles
       and I obeyed no pants.
Obey no pants warned the t-shirts
donned in the Saturday hours of
the patient care probe
       and I obeyed no pants.
Obey no pants the sunbathers commanded
       and I obeyed no pants.

The step-by-step plan to rid the world of
committees has resulted in a heartburn pill
and toning mists. Staring contests have restored
faith in the quiz of the road map. Opa! Opa!
Was that stranger who said hello part of
the package? It was time for us to play
the symphony for shop vac where the rabbit
makes no noise at all. Look! Propellers, cones, and
knot-wraps when I went for a walk in the forest.

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Tim Kahl is the author of Possessing Yourself (CW Books, 2009) and The Century of Travel (CW Books, 2012). His work has been published in Prairie Schooner, Indiana Review, Ninth Letter, Notre Dame Review, The Journal, Parthenon West Review, and many other journals in the U.S. He appears as Victor Schnickelfritz at the poetry and poetics blog The Great American Pinup and the poetry video blog Linebreak Studios. He is also editor of Bald Trickster Press and Clade Song. He is the vice president and events coordinator of The Sacramento Poetry Center. He teaches at The University of the Pacific and currently houses his father's literary estate — one volume: Robert Gerstmann's book of photos of Chile, 1932.