I am the world's worst fisherman.
I have the subtlety of a slam poet
when it comes to asking for validation.
All I can do is extend metaphors so membrane thin
they threaten to snap in the sunlight .
Or become a Hallmark card dump bin,
spouting pockets of glum like
"It's a frowny day in Sadsville"
with the finesse of a kid who has had
his shoelaces tied together.
So I when I ask you to tell me you love me,
it's not because I didn't believe you the first time.
It's because when you say it,
it sounds like six-string sunbeam.
When you hold me,
I am a permission slip to exhale.
I'm not searching for cherry lipstick
sparkle valentine baby animal cuddle beams.
Just maybe a sneak preview of
the matinee of your palm.
Maybe a note passed back across the classroom
scrawled with HECK YES.
I'm the simplest sucker.
Straight up and spun sugar.
This is a pixy stick-up.
Love tag, sweetest.
ROB STURMA used to be called “Ratpack Slim” when he ran around Los Angeles doing performance poetry and slam, where he ran the seminal LA open mic Green (from 2003-2007) with superstar selector DJ Jedi and beatboxer Joshua Silverstein. Now they call him Rob Sturma again, especially while promoting his newish book of poems, Miles of Hallelujah, by Write Bloody Publishing. He now rests his head on the red dirt of Oklahoma City, where he is the co-director of Oklahoma Young Writers' Collective, half of the USB Boys on Geekweek.com, curator of Extreme Championship Poetry, forever writing, maintaining the website robsturma.com, and in editing the upcoming zombie anthology Aim For The Head, getting more prepared for the impending zombie apocalypse than you are.