The Tree Where I Made You
leaves in the Fall for rebirth in Mississippi swamps
grows eager to explore Bayous with multiplying roots
hates squirrels that eat acorns, owls who hide wisdom
believes sunlight’s a lover that will never forsake it
fears the wind its shivering branches touch is not a friend
blesses Spring weddings underneath its green umbrella
witnesses couples picnicking, embracing on soft blankets
knows it’s older than every animal it protects and feeds
hears the baby cooing in the father’s red pick-up truck
dreams it runs around itself, playing tag, jumping away
plants itself in children’s arguments over swings and tires
provides canes for grandfathers taking one last look
drinks the cold water flowing down the graveyard’s hill
The Street Where I Live
Posters on my street announce lost pets
have been run over by just executioners
who practice death on all kinds of animals.
From woodchuck to caribou my hood's
not safe for living things. Even flowers
are chewed up by mad lawnmowers,
plucked one by one by crazy lovers.
I could ask killers to stop, to understand
children miss these fuzzy pairs of dice
they roll toward backyard graves. They'd
probably just shake their heads, see me
as a new victim they could shred apart
if humans were on hunting season lists
and not the people who compiled them.
My neighbors would spot me if I tore down
these signs. They'd report me to authorities
needing few excuses to burst open my house
with rhythmic dances of machine gun fire,
and plant evidence of support for revolution.
Instead, I sweep birds off my sidewalks, hug
wounded wombats, tell squirrels it's not too late.
Yodel
Pretend you love yodeling on NPR,
attending wine tastings in valleys,
picking up the latest issue
of a high-end magazine
as well known for its ads
as its pretentious writing.
I’ll welcome you back to bed,
where we eat two-day old pizza,
paint our brains with thick coats
of reality television.
The costs of moving up
the bourgeoisie ladder
are forgotten. We'll pay
the bill of moving to McMansions
tomorrow. For now, we’ll eat
our burgers and fries, walk around
in underwear while watching
gymnast co-eds dancing in theirs.
There’s always time,
when we’re older, to fail
to recall what we love warmly,
to get our fill of the cold enthusiasms
of the soon-to-be-dearly-departed.
Dab your tongue
with a silver stud.
Pierce your eyes
with the latest horror movie.
Dig into
the city's layer cake,
pick me out a piece
of alternative lifestyle pie.
We will lose
our ages, blot out
the death and hollering
tingling down our transistors,
ready, at one sweet spot,
for our final frequencies
Welded
Last night my father welded his ass
to his La-Z-Boy. We saw the torch's
sparks but hid inside our bedrooms,
ready to escape if he set the house
on fire. “I don't have to move!
That's
what sons are for, to get me shit!”
We brought him rare figs from Spain,
newspapers from around the world,
movie DVDs no one's ever seen, the
directors blindfolded during filming.
Our dad demands we hover nearby
in case he needs us to get rid of waste,
ferry it over to the drain where rats
fight for the right to consume his fluids.
At night, asleep in our beds, we dream
of hacking him from his chair, throwing
it in the front yard for a garage sale,
everything fifty cents, while our father
stumbles in the living room, his legs
too weak to bring him to the kitchen,
where precious water gleams like gold,
chips and cake remain out of reach.
The Spirit of Technology
Today the new printer cartridges arrive.
The
entire office celebrates their ink.
Our documents will be so black night
will sue us for infringing on its copyright
on covering the blank paper sky with text.
Our slides and presentations will glow
with color,
run
the rainbow out of business,
selling out Leprechauns' pots of gold.
This is what secretaries chant to bosses,
contractors sing to their program officers.
They eat the cake shaped like a fax machine
to send their stomachs sugar sweet messages,
and drink Kool-Aid
as
red as the blood
of the interns they stapled to the door.
Then supervisors hand out big bonuses,
all mint green checks freshly printed,
except to the witches.
They
are accused
by loudspeakers in the puritan ceilings,
monochromatic dots expressing guilt.
It’s because they don't believe in paperwork,
the chain of memos linking high and low.
Up
there executives know who has faith.
The party winds down, pink hangings begin.
The admins decorate nooses with wreaths,
place stars on hoods.
Christmas
is near,
cubicles hum with happy elves toiling,
the spirit of technology is always watching.
copyright
2008 literary chaos magazine |
