Category: Numbered

A council of unsuspecting elders took a page
from The Book of Minuscule Black Dots
and ran a quick scan of it
through their collective,
only to find a nasal passage
from 18th Century Europe–owner unknown.
Each elder had a distinct idea
of why such a thing would come
to their attention, but nobody
could agree on one reason.
The council had recently sustained
a series of crushing blows to its morale,
and this particular incident opened
a fissure that would never be repaired–
even to this day, 87 years later.

Gene screeches halt movement
through the capillaries, tending
to favor inborn anomalies
that prefer to stride about
with a confidence normally reserved
for viruses, kicking over trash cans
as they go along, wishing
to preserve nothing and destroy
the fabric of existence
as most well-meaning individuals see it.
Blood-borne imps choose mischief
over guaranteed function, shutting down
arteries to play pick-up street hockey
and puncture whatever they please
in the process; bulls in china shops,
the lot of ’em.

There is really nothing quite as fearsome
as a sentient sock monkey staring you down
from a gruesome sixth-story parapet,
replete with several survival satchels–
the majority of which being loaded
with nearly-expired mayonnaise–
causing nearby neighbors to shout,
“Don’t you dare open those bags,
they’ll be a goddamn biological weapon!
Christ!” Unfortunately, the sock monkey
doesn’t understand a scrap of English–
or any spoken language, for that matter.

Beanings stoke all-around deciduous reactions,
shaking and flaking into the Autumn
as though nothing but leaves are important
once the fall classic has come to a close.
Veins through chlorophyll, now earthen–
trodden over and united with soil–fade
and shrink into worms’ mouths and scream
a muted shriek until completely inaudible.

As I hold the 4×4″ carpet sample to the floor, I try my best to visualize an entire expanse of it as the power of my imagination is challenged by the habitual tapping of fingernails on a wooden armrest just a few feet from the back of my head. I’ve learned to stop asking about why the tapping occurs, because I get a different story every time. I’ve tried–as gently as I could–encouraging the cessation of the activity, but nothing has gotten through.

“Sorry about the tapping, hon. I just can’t wait to see the lottery drawing, and it’s six–now seven–minutes behind schedule. I think I got a winner this time, I can feel it.”

Okay, at least I got an apology this time.

The lake, once robust and visited often, drained quickly last week in a giant whirlpool that ripped through the homes of countless fish and waterbound creatures, taking most of them for the ride down. Current science cannot explain where the water went, as there’s no hole to be found in the bed of dry sediment. This predicament is likely to be hidden from the public, so as not to frighten them about phenomena linked to a different and more-accomplished species that regularly travels to our neck of the woods in order to observe this planet and impact it with unexplainable events that shake the very foundation of what we know to be true in this universe. Sneaky bastards.

Dump what’s expected of you
into a pile of rotting wood–
covered with mold and crawling
with bugs–and toss it into the fire
when its turn comes around.
It’ll get smoky and irritate you
if you stand too close (pondering
the necessity of holding other people’s
esteems above your own), so keep
your distance as you witness
the incineration of those external
elements, remembering that you must
continue to tend the fire and repeat
the process throughout the night.