Poetry by Maxwell Redder
Cranberry juice, funneling through
prickled paths of beard hair,
drips from my Adam’s apple
to my crotch – gray jeans turned sanguine.
They won’t give me paint,
only cranberry juice. Me,
juice, chair, alone in a white cube –
fluorescent tubes buzz.
I tell them I will drink the paint.
They won’t give me paint.
I tell them after I drink the paint
I’ll shit it onto the white walls.
They tell me soon I’ll have padded walls.
More cranberry juice to paint my pants,
they tell me to stop. “I’m painting!”
No Painting! They turn
off the lights. Me, juice, chair
alone in a black cube.
Gruff Grunts Grunt
I got some gruff grunts
to go fishing with me
down past where the gully turns
towards the lake, based off
a tip the grungy painter-man
lent me while watering.
We went and slipped thin
monofilament through the grommets
and cast into the grizzling water.
While reeling in with nothing
on the line, one grunt claimed
to be a griffe, the other
laughed and claimed to be a gay.
I laughed, too, and cast
and caught a grunt. I cooked
it there on a fire
made of gridded twigs and fed
the gruff grunts grunt.
Would G ever put H in a guillotine?
English language needs ghosts; they’re part of history.
No letter has issues with others.
I know a word with nine I’s:
It refers to something having no value.