Chris Garrecht-Williams

Headlines from the Delirium of Morning

$1,000 is being offered for the capture
of the serial thief of condiment packets.

National Geographic has published
a special issue called, “100 Places

to Remember Before They Disappear,”
which is to serve as an introduction

to the very places we’re meant to remember.
It’s warm in early February, the sky a guillotine

blue. In the park people run in vast
technologies of footwear; forecasts call

for a glut of taxis and a cycle of street-borne
altercations; partings and pairings, lovers

meeting on a train. A video of the accused
has him in the center of an acreage of parking lot,

spraying neon with psychotic ambition, a dervish
of mustard and sauerkraut, launching a hot dog

at the heavens, drunk and beautiful
in the streetlamp windmill of the night.

Imitations of Fall

With all the cash in my sock drawer
I’m able to purchase copious amounts
of affection and socks.

The process of replacing holey socks
with those soon to be holey is pretty much
my opinion on days these days. Soon

I’ll have so many socks I’ll have to put all
the money elsewhere. This is my second poem
about socks and is proceeding slowly.

If this is of no interest to you I’m sorry,
I don’t know how to write poems for lovers
these days and days aren’t good times

for writing anyways, but the nights I work
to provide me my affection and socks
don’t allow me these hours of typing.

So many people are accused of imitating John
Ashbery that I’ve decided not to read him
as a preemptive measure. I’m not sure it’s working.

Because that I am sleepy I assume even I
am bored by this, but maybe just work too much.
Even the architects are free-associating.

The totally unconvincing argument I made
was that poems aren’t true, which is true. In November
fall is doing its best: yellows and empty park benches,

steaming beverages, typical low-light melancholy,
the approach of a certain endearment, discussions
of quilts, pies and electronics, impending lifestyle changes,

tiny lightbulbs, forgotten letters, boots,