Truffle butter, Chef. Your freshest.
I’ve recently simplified my goal:
a full-time gig, a dance of your choice.
If you don’t want a label, you could

check every box, take out your trash,
get German authorities to pronounce
the Zodiac signs. Delightful. Worthy.
Adored in bed. Lying next to you,

I know what you’re thinking: I’ll be
starting my life over in Rome,a simple
fiery season. I have to be vulnerable,
a surprise bouquet of your voice.

Give ’em a refresh and they’re ready for round two.
Fairly simple, a doe-eyed look. Shorter hecklers
are more colorful, willing to take that sexy cool girl
to the drugstore for deep injection in the cheek area.
Mustard, a yellow powder, this sunshine all over.
Don’t be extra—leave your lips at home.

Angela Lansbury, you’ve been muted.
You’re a terrifying real-life detective,
head of the Bureau of Secret Danger.

Remember those pants you found
in the trunk of your car? You need to
pee in the home of orphans, set your

alarm for Saturday. How much time
do you need for showering? Who will
call you the essence of a woman?

Okay, let’s up the ante: It’s time to
take notes. You gotta think big—
you’re known for killer style, baby.

Look at you! Your breezy jeans
and loosely tucked shirt, a hat—
it’s all about the edges of your eyes.

I wish I could get that time back.
I don’t care. I don’t care!

As a kid in Nashville, I was waiting
like pretty much everyone on the planet,
falling for bad boys, damaged people.

I once would have worried about pain,
shaken to my core. What are we doing?
It’s fucking delicious, what happened.
Nobody cared about the big lie:

a freckling of cigarette burns,
a razor inside my clothes.

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Here’s a bonus post, to catch up on the time that I’ve been mostly at home because of COVID-19 (prevention of, that is). This poem tracks a bit more logically than many others in this magazine series—and I actually was a kid in Nashville for a short time.

Don’t get me wrong, the weather still sucks.
Move to a tropical island of steak, if you like steak.
Sleeping on silk is a must for overnight smoothing.
It’s not messy, you fancy lady. That ain’t right.
The secret is a bunch of junk in 2020, a piece of art.
You should be able to look at it. It’s mostly
a dizzying game of women in a nosedive of fertility.

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I’ve decided to share one poem each day that this COVID-19 whatever-you-call-it lasts. I truly don’t know what we’re officially calling it at the moment here in Illinois. Not really a quarantine yet? Still just social distancing, but more extreme than a few days ago? I don’t know. But if what many of us need is connection and reading material, then I can contribute at least a tiny something to both. Also, it’s a little silly to hold poems back on the pretense that I might want to submit them somewhere. It’s been two years since I last did that. I can spare these, and I want to share them. Remember, this month, I’m writing from phrases I find in the March issue of Cosmopolitan.

We’ve had the wildest trips in my bed.
Plot twist: actual romance long after sunset.
If you’re ever in San Francisco, never reveal
feeling really insane. Within seconds, she is
delighted to be full-stop wrong, floating above
Hollywood while drops of my blood spatter
on the elephant in the darling angel city.
Los Angeles is quietly canceled, a horror that
never aged a day, all the minutes and hours.

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Now that my play is prematurely over (coronavirus), I’m back to my project of writing poems from phrases in magazines. This month, I’m using the March issue of Cosmopolitan. I feel like I’m finally starting to get how to work with its, umm, Cosmo-ness.

Bring some warm tequila in a shiny new bottle.
You don’t want to have your apartment smelling like a
couch. I wait for it to naturally correct every superhero
at once, accept the fact that Chris Evans is just a kid,
for once. There are but a handful of moments that can
get fucking real. Inhale a burrito, either wine or coffee.
TBH, the previous six hours are now kinda shocking.
Good f*cking luck. Your solid B Tinder date dared you
to lick your finger, search for hot dogs in your email.

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You might recall that this year, I’m writing poems using phrases from a different magazine each month. This month, I’m using the March issue of Cosmopolitan, and it shows.