Category: Poetry

The filth has followed me
and now leaves a film
on everything I hold dear.
I just want to go two weeks
without dust accumulating
on my curios, is that too much
to ask? I thought that
leaving my windows open
would circulate fresh air
into this stagnant pit,
and it has, but the dust
is still encroaching on my space
just like it always has.
Today a skunk must have
released its pungent essence
just feet from my bedroom window,
before I’d had enough of this
fresh air nonsense. Now
I’ll never open my windows again.

In harsher climates, you may find a legal document that states the importance of wearing layers and walking with the wind instead of pigheadedly skirting the law of the land and freezing off your nipples for the sake of being contrary and seemingly nothing else. Now, if you’re a man, your nipples are just cosmetic features to be risked on a regular basis–if you so choose–but once they’re gone, your days of flaunting physical features are numbered. No non-nippled man will ever be taken seriously in these parts, on principle.

A Grover Cleveland impersonator
steps up to the podium
to speak about his rights
and the rights of his fellow impersonators
of obscure historical figures.
“My dear friends, please do not despair
when people wonder who you are
and question your motives
when you’re kind enough to enlighten them.
Their ignorance needs to be tolerated,
but you shouldn’t think anything less
of yourself because of it.” He gazes out
over the crowd to see C. Everett Koop,
Randolph Scott and Percy Lavon Julian
all nodding their heads, side by side
in a brotherhood as improbable as
a yak in the Sonora Desert.

Grant effervescent praise
to the wormhole-riding quadrant jockey,
content to pirate whatever feels like
a worthwhile media experience

before stalking two lovebirds
on a picnic in Central Park,
those lovey dovey types
who eskimo kiss sans embarrassment
while the sky blushes
and burns its way into the night.

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.