3 Poems
by Donald Dunbar

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Joke for an Emergency


A man walks into an ambulance factory. He looks at the robots stapling big ambulances together and says, Hello? Hello? I need an ambulance—

The robots chew their big staples.

My daugh oh my god Anna?—Anna—Look at me honey oh god my daughter she's been hurt—

The robots fit together the paper and tin and blue-lined electronic equipment that make an ambulance, one half held up against the other half.

Thirteen thirty-eight Hoyt street she's bleeding there's her blood all over my—

The robots in sharp white, steady method robots, question mark robots, motorized articulate robots, robots steaming and hissing to staple huge fake ambulances together.

You don't understand it Needs to be here now we do not have time—

Suddenly the robots all turn toward him synchronous and say, Please Calm Down Sir, You Need To Calm Down. Now Tell Me What Happened. Beep. Beep.









Easter Sunday

        for Ian Hunter Anderson


You believe in the menu and choose from it, and believe in God.

It's specific, and complicated. Simple and vague.

The names of the ingredients and the names muddled into the name of the food, as every man holds one part of the name of God.

One morning you wake up completely uncovered in the forest and the forest animals are making breakfast.

The forest lawn is highly detailed, and the trees tall enough to be vague in the sky, and Jesus Christ is there. Nailed to the menu, the menu he built his church upon.

His holy blood and the ink describing the specialty coffee.

His inconsolable face and a raccoon cooking eggs and venison.









Beautiful Friend

        for Lucas Bradley-Kelly


My friend feels unfamiliar when he watches porn.

That's a bedroom, he thinks, but it's not my bedroom. And yeah those are people, but they're not my friends.

Outside a cat is buried in the yard, and in the video never is the General's Chicken ever delivered, and then eaten. No geography lesson will end in a new understanding of South America, and so many have been disappeared there.

My friend flushes more visine over his eyes.

These staccato fits of love, he thinks as the OB/GYN is choked with his stethoscope, just want to be commercials. Those doctors and their cocks flapping like wings, he thinks, some modern-like ornament, some angelic, confused apology.