Soulless Solace

During yesterday's moment-of-silence
I wasn't being overly reflective
or appreciative of the moment.

Nor did I think back
on the past two weeks;
the unseasonable heat, the flood,
the collapse of the midtown bridge.

I didn't meditate on the loss of numerous
church members, your husband included,
who perished in the rush of water, venturing
from their homes against sound advice
to try and lift those drowning from the river
onto the midtown bridge.

I didn't have my usual talk with God,
the one where I acknowledge His vow
of silence and sarcastically scorn
His hands-off approach, while actually
fearing that He was listening and,
worse yet, playing along with the joke.

Instead, I looked around the circle
of people holding hands and watched
the candlelight play across your face
and wondered how soon I'd have to
wait to ask you to dinner

or just show up at your house, timing
my arrival perfectly with the intersection
of your vulnerability and hopelessness.
An eye of the storm doorbell ring.

well wishes

I'll forever say you're gorgeous.
You'll forever deny it.

So,
your face is like a putrid orange
your voice is a cat on the rack
your presence, a pestilence.

I hope you trip tomorrow,
stub all twenty toes.

One of these days
I'll fully commit myself
to a yawn.

Let my unbridled jaws
rise, stretch, and crack
until they overwhelm my face.

Folklore

Reynard the Fox was in the barnyard
up to his old tricks again,
roosting around the restless hens,
reaching for eggs between their legs.

The clucks, shrieks, squeaks, and squawks
woke Farmer John long before his clock.
He lit the lamp, grabbed his gun,
crept 'round the barn before Fox could run.

The door swang open, the hens rustled and sang,
but just before the fatal "bang!"
Reynard dashed beneath the farmer's feet.

The trickster'd tricked, the farmer tripped
and pulled the trigger as the shotgun flipped.

Reynard ate poached eggs that night.
The farmer left behind two girls and a wife.

That's the story my parents told
me when I was only five years-old,
about the death of Uncle John,
at that point, he was six years gone.

I heard he was quite the trickster too,
but it's hard to tell those myths from truth.
Tails of hitching a tractor to loose a tooth,
or the time my father said he threw

a handful of bullets into a bonfire
just to tempt ol' death's ire
or maybe he had an awful desire
to build and burn his own funeral pyre.

Years later, I heard another story,
of a night Uncle John felt mighty sorry.
His wife found him in the basement, sitting
alone with his gun, the chamber spinning.

2094

Two days of snow
and sleeping in,
our schedules shattered.
In the free time I sprawled
over all hours, tucked under
linen sheets, stained coffee-white,
while you photographed
my room in light too dim
for full exposure.

Outside our Senator
screamed obscenities
in the street. The neighbors
just laughed, handed him a broom
and said, "Sweep".
Tonight, Senate shovels
while we sleep,
while the solstice eats the moon,
blood-red behind the clouds.
There's nothing to prove.

Chores

Pablo's heart is beating at half-speed.
He's sitting crooked on the couch,
smiling at the screen.

Grandfather's throwing fire
in the backyard
at all the passing cars.
Something wrong with this year's
model.

Natalie takes a damp cloth
to Pablo's forehead,
trying to make herself useful
or keep her mind off the clock.
Her prom date's already ten minutes late.
If he doesn't show, she'll be stood up
for the fifth year in a row.

Mother and I sweep breadcrumbs
in the kitchen. Push them into little pyramids,
pack them in the freezer then thaw them
in the fireplace.

Father should be home soon.
He'll wrestle Grandfather to the ground,
tell Natalie she's gorgeous and useless,
hook the jumper cables up to Pablo's left ear
and right hand, rev the engine.

Then we'll all settle in by the hearth,
breath in deep the pumpernickel fumes.

the odicy

Come on in,
sit down, Monk.
You're soaking wet.

Pull up a chair,
my friend. The table's set,
but I'm afraid we don't have much
to eat.

Just chips. Rather bland and dry,
but with a satisfying crunch.

Just like the Host

That's uncalled for.

In the heart

As it turns out,
the knife had been a birthday present,
smuggled through security
in the side zipper of my smallest suitcase
seventeen years ago.
The perfect gift to give a nephew.

All the way from Spain
because those Swiss
are so cliche.
Really, we only want a knife
for one thing, the appendages
are just jewels in the hilt.

It took a minute to recognize
it buried in your chest,
but that's the one.

You're eyes were just as wide
when you unwrapped it
as they are now,
as I walk through the door,
find you in the living room
finally putting it to use.

I hope

I keep gnawing at my fingers,
don't stop at the nails
but get the whole fist in there
devour up to the elbow
finally hide my awful hide
I hope I choke.

I hope my plane crashes
scream like a turbulent child,
abandon ideas of civility and art
for survival, piss my pants,
curse my god, my mother, my luck
all things I don't believe in anymore

I hope I land in the jungle,
body torn apart by quiet tigers,
bones gnawed on by the yeti.
I hope my grave goes unmarked,
my luggage never found,
journals decomposing in the swamps.

I hope my heart stays broken,
hope these wounds stay split wide open
I hope I never write again
make excuses, drop the pen
I hope I give up hope
I give up

Infestation Tests in Jesting Gestation

The bees came back,
burrowed in the space
between the walls
and the heart of my home

they hum at night
buzz in the morning
when I wake, with honey
in my eyes

angry threats scrawled:
you mother
you cretinous
you son of a

Don't dare spray
insecticide inside
their abject hives

the swarm is too destructive
stingers too sharp
dances too instructive

when they stare
at me
I feel fractured
a million of one

We'll live in begrudging harmony
bees feeding off the flower
of my youth,
I wear pollen in hair.

Only takes one punctuation
to send me into a comma
thought cut off too short