Three Poems by Kam Walters

soft cartel may 2018

Waiver

You gave me a waiver from wearing your head dress tomorrow you, you considerate racist. I thought, once, we could both enter a solemn exchange of saliva and house pets. I thought we could be that buzzing space between cell phones that radiates tumors when we won’t look at each other. There were two bathroom sinks and you said the left one was yours because I left toothpaste on the edges and it hardened and blackened and when you bent over it it spread to your hair and now you have casino buffet hair. We never existed. Not in a rom com way but really, you are a person that never existed yet. I ask to preserve this note for the day when out of all possibilities you read it and it makes perfect sense. There is no other reason to hurt than to acknowledge that something has waited a very long time for you to experience it but there is nothing special really about you. It is just an infinity of possibilities playing out and at some point two things will happen at once and a lot of people have died in the time it took for those two things to meet. You’ll die graciously so that a woman can have conjoined twins all to herself and the father can forget his pregnant wife and fall into the Colorado River from a very high place into a very shallow rapids.

Nature Lover

There was once a town on my finger and I licked it. Then there wasn’t a town on my finger. Mmmhmm my tongue and its history. You might remember it was August and oh about 1 am or so and the puddles were too warm and greasy. I pushed you and you fell into one. The oily water was your tuxedo which was better than the pant suit you had on once I said yessir that cut is finer by half. Your look weighed 500 kilograms and you pluncked it onto me so what was there to do but lick it? Another time you jumped off the Chrysler building right after calling me. It went to voicemail and I haven’t listened to it yet but when I do I salivated and kept salivating until I dried up and fell to the ground and was trampled into dust that spread out like mold on the family hiking trail.

My Savior

I want a Hot Pocket
with your face chopped up
so nicely inside. Not

in a mean way, but in the way
I just said. I can’t stand

knowing other people
do nice things. I can’t stand

that most things work
in ways I could not recreate say
in an apocalypse. Like
the way the paths of airplanes

make our planet look moldy. I
wish I was the moldy one. Or at
least both of us I feel unloved.

Do you know I wrapped myself
in dumpsters and put
your smell on me like a taco? Do you

know I screamed at the wall for 3 years
and in the end there was a little
concave there
in front of my mouth. That’s magic

I’ve done and the elderly woman
down the street stepped off her roof
something about Christmas lights

but I don’t think so. She knocked on my
window right before and

mouthed this one’s for you, kid.

Kam Walters writes a lot of poetry and most of it sits on his computer but every once and a while it goes out to the world or his students at an alternative middle school. He lives in Boise, Idaho. He pays a lot of money to read and write at BSU and doesn’t pay a lot of money to read and write on his own.

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