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Kenneth Pobo


Kenneth Pobo had a book out in 2017 from Circling Rivers called Loplop in a Red City.  A book of his prose poems, The Antlantis Hit Parade, is forthcoming from Clare Songbirds Press.



Squirt me in the eye again
you ruddy thing
and I’ll bounce you like a watery basketball
into our trash receptacle’s
purple hoop.


This sour one
needs honey.
I don’t swab it on.
I bite in, make a face,
not missing a drop.


My friend Aggie asked me what’s
my favorite fruit.  Grapefruit,
I say.  She looks at me
like I’m a Wal-Mart
and the line is ten people deep.


Irma Thomas sang “a man is a
helluva thing.”  So is a grapefruit.
And a heavenly thing too,
dropping from a California tree,
1000 chimes in the rind.


I told a grapefruit my deepest
secret—so far,
it hasn’t blabbed.  What if I carve it?
The silver knife digging deep,
my secret sliding off the counter and running.


Raccoons routinely got in
our church, a quavery building
falling apart.  God
lacked money.  Each week
I went to Sunday School,
vaguely better than gym.
One Sunday School teacher
told us that we should be
in Viet Nam.  Protesters

marched and 20 miles away
some threw shit at cops.
The Mayor shook his fist.

Radio songs seemed
to be for peace.  Yet the pull
of the church stayed strong.
Belief and Napalm.

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