Self-Help Picture Book
by Dylan Buckser-Schulz
Lately I’ve been lying
on lawns, pulling up thoughts
by their throats like turnips.
Chewing loudly. It’s called
liberty. You ought to have
some. Yesterday I saw
a huddle of fuzzy goslings
and did the right thing—said
aww. I watched a runt foal
lick its mom’s muzzle. Thorns,
eating dead sage. Are we all
just riding time until tragedy
strikes? Don’t think about
your birthday. You are born
daily. Carry, through crowded
rooms, a quietude in your chest
like a static charge. This will
make you sexy yet untouchable.
Brush your teeth at night, only.
Soak in your natural sour when
you wake—it’s good for your
inner devil. Walk
a skinny unmarked path
through a wild meadow. Life
will stand around you. Don’t check
for ticks, but for beer glass, forsythia,
fox tail. Lost earrings. Pale, rustling
sky. Inhale, often. Let the world turn
our head on its little axis.