Featured Work: Untitled


Sagacity in anyone or anything
is like the unclipped talons
of a blue-green parrot (or maybe
it’s the unclipped talents
of a blue-green pirate, or maybe
‘tis a gray pirate or parrot—
the fact that I’m wobbly here
and not quite sure
of me similes and metaphors
in no way diminishes the strength
of wisdom and/or its sex appeal).
Here’s an example and proof for yuh:
when you’re wide-hipped intelligent
and bulbous-butt-ed (or heavy-breast-ed)
brilliant, and you’re turning about
slowly in front of me,
it will appear to you—nay, to all
the world—that I’m smiling directly in
your eyes, though in point of fact,
I’m looking through yuh and past yuh
to the tall, stately clock in the corner
over yonder; I’m successfully masking
a temper that’s already advanced
from a pale coral-pink to dwell
in shades among the fuchsias,
and you’re going to start at my voice
(many say it’s positively stentorian)
when I bark out at the clock in no
uncertain terms, “Hey, ticker: keep
yo’ twitchin’, silvery hands to yoself!”


William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Poetry London, PRISM International, In Between Hangovers, Fiction Southeast, Roanoke Review, and The California Quarterly.