Yuri Hospodar


I Found This In A Book

there are times
I caul to him
and then to him
I towards go
at day is donet
he stunned old chamber
which pill or plane
thats made me do this
time’s in chastity
old forgotten
writ large in his
legion book
at end of day
responsible blue
would trickle down to
gear his face
with tic-tocs of
a crumpled ocean
to the hour of
cat parade
and there we be
full-on bereft in
this Madrid inside
a coaster


Grong Grong

The chip in my digital camera leaks,
now look at this mess all over the table.

Birthday parties, fleeing ibis,
thumbs over faces breaking obscured noses,

whole towns (caught on a dry dandelion)
that cried to the camera “we are here”.

Today I meant to do some dusting
but with memory everywhere

who’s to say which are dust,
which are pixelated vision,

which are flakes of sloughed-off skin
to patch back on and make me whole?

Don’t answer that; they are listening.
I am listening.


Snowman Golubtsi

It was a trembling, I’m sure,
and not some caffeine jitters
either; more a temblor roll
in a kitten’s wild eye,
adjectives clanking like
sugar cubes in a teacup,
in a tempest that honestly
meant something.

There are times my thumbs
do the better negotiations
and leave the vacuum in the dust
choking on the fumes
of your little red wagon.

If I named a cat “Chlorine”
would it grow up to float?
Or would its whiskers just have
that tart Speedo stink?

Would a grandmother’s recipe
still taste the same
if someone else cooks it
long after she’s dead?
Or would the homeland air
have a whiff of Sears?

If I ram a point home
will I get your goat?
Or would it be a sheep shot?

Lying awake at night
(or in the blurred eyes-full
of the early morn)
these questions come to me
and kick the Sandman’s ass
with their intransigent blizzard.

What will we make with them?
They’ve been so kind,
they’ve ruined my alarm clock,
their shrill punctuation
gets me ready for the day.


Love Poem In Marshmallow

oh the fights of anymore and the truth
in the kitchen junk
drawer Ed would spend all night
rooting through for just one fact

protest, protest the knock on the door
when masturbating and it’s interruptus rex

I really had a spangle of moment, there,
where the canyons came clean and
the hoarse coyote yipyapped clear

but in this lesser eastern range
the wolf is dead, the bear is dead,
the deer is just a head on the wall
or eyes in the headlight

you promised me a chug chug chuggatrain
of endless journey and left me standing at the station
like a Bette fucking Midler song you bastard

I wait for the horn section and moist rescue moment
but the rain sweeps the dirt down the thin hill
as mud and slurps at boot or shoe or hope
and your long shadow is cloudedby clouds


The Education Of Yuri Hosopodar

1st Grade
I was trapped in a beehive and could not escape.
But I learned diligence and patience from the Queen.

2nd Grade
Over summer,
as all the bees left the hive in a surprise of discovery
at a particularly large supply of scrumptious pollen,
I had escaped and managed to find my way
to a delightful gingerbread house.
Or so it seemed, at first.
I did not enjoy second grade.

3rd Grade
The Giant Moths of Wahoo-Waheyy spirited me away
in the night, just before I was to be baked,
and taught me the secret ways of moths.
Having no wings, I found
applying the lessons of 3rd grade difficult.

4th Grade
Mrs. Froop.
She brought in cookies
the day before Thanksgiving.

5th Grade
Assigned to Mr. Grapplenozonovich’s class,
the Tertiary War of the MetalFace Galaxy
and the Three And Almost-One-Half Nebulae broke out,
and after he disappeared in a transporter beam
of a most startling violet, we barricaded the doors
and didn’t come out for the remainder of the school year,
no, not even for recess, even if I was forced to sit
next to Valerie Hossfritterharf (very mean)
due to seating in strict alphabetical order.

6th Grade
After some complex contract negotiations with the school
board, Ben Franklin came back from the dead just for me
and brought the University of Pennsylvania swim team over
to initiate me into the ways of manhood.
Some might say quite a bit early, but I enjoyed it,

and Ben was so pithy in court
that charges were not pressed against anyone.

-all poems previously published at Shampoo Poetry