Foxes for pillows at the head of his bed
and knock-knock joke eul’gies now that he’s dead.
He died as he lived–face down in his soup
or crying alone in a telephone-booth.
Sometimes he’d smile at cars passing by
while walking the freeway’s concrete divide.
I had him over last Tuesday for lunch.
He ventriloquized broccoli but it didn’t say much,
only to floss at least once each new moon
and never to trust lion cubs to baboons.
Now that he’s buried six-feet underground
I admit that it’s lonely without him around.
While driving through McDonald’s
for the nineteenth time
that week alone, he paused and stared
at their menu sign.
Little flecks of red and gold
upon a field of white
littered with black curving shapes,
tiny strips of night.
The world upon its axis slowed
and time refused flower
as the patron held those shapes
and crumbled ‘neath their power.
The tears came quick but quietly–
he couldn’t hear his sobs.
The server’s voice was poetry;
the neon lights were God.
Typical Friday at High Noon
Like an Easy-Bake Oven from hell, the sun stiffens mud and a lone worm screeches in his mother tongue as he’s slowly Han Soloed in the carbonite of home.
That eagle over there isn’t all that eager to pry him out.
In the distance, Vin Diesel high fives Poseidon. Buoys break. The ocean swoons.
above rain puddles,
the red of stoplights shimmer–
Winter, stay your leave.
There once was a loogork named Darg
who nightly camped out in my yard.
I offered him fish
and fresh pretzel sticks
which he took as a trade for his log.
like laughter-clatter, ArmaLite refuse
echoes up the hall. A shrill metal bird
has been paid to sing arson
and lure us to fire.
Riddled, we watch
as others prod, fiddle
with our holes, feel
for the thin veil of prayer
the dosh demands be woven
–ever retroactively–into our skin.
Let their fingers burn.
“We are going to be the kids you read about in textbooks.”
Here she is: Hope–the angelspeak burns inside our corpses.
The filaments of false-god that dangle from the tongues
that dangle from the mouths which hang us out to dry
catch fire, and now we are sacred. Holy. Set apart.
We are godsong in their skin,
Eaglethroat mounted o’er all terrestrial halls
to sing of more furious embers that burn
through the woven lines of society.
We are the children. The last to die
and our souls scream democracy.
This is where it ends.
Please take the time to watch or read Emma Gonzalez’s original speech here.
And–when the midterms come–please, please vote.
Sick of tradition, Frosty tosses his corn cob pipe into the fire. As he does, a bit of his arm gets over-warm and sloughs off as slush on the bearskin rug.
“Typical,” Frosty mutters. He shuffles back a few feet. He would sweat nervously if he could afford it, but the Californian winter, ever short on snow, is even sunnier than usual.
He has an itch he can’t scratch on the top of his head. He’d hang his hat on the rack by the door, but Frosty the Cabin lacks the same musicality, and he knows he’s nothing if not song.
Sunset sets conceptually.
Daydeath dawns. Decay
writ large, writ regular,
in the way we end the day.
Stop connoting soft death under constructed beauty:
lithe ghosts that float over fields of miribilis jalapa,
four o’clock flowers that flex out sweet sweat and hold the night in thrall.
Make it explicit: we blink, dark comes;
we shudder and forget. Death is a black patch
on a white wall; it is ash from the sky
that has settled at our feet. Evening
, inevitable. Evening, everyday.
No lack of windows, no number of bulbs
will undo the day undone————–
o, let’s say Like poetry,
the earth turns. Death, now, forever volta–
dark, dear, the final stretch of day,
and from it, morning.
Housemate’s hairs stick, plague
shower floors–winter’s rain, my
refuge from the filth.
The sky has called in sick.
The clouds (grey) hesitate. Watch:
they float, crawl, dawdle.
Nearly as many NOs as DAYs.