the little cat
the little cat thinks it’s made
for this, the little cat
mewls at the window when birds fly by and
does not wonder why, why,
why the little cat tears at upholstery and
paces furiously the dusty corners
listening for – something –
the little cat thinks it’s made
for this and
will age, long and graceful,
and pass on
without eviscerating
a single mouse
misfits, discards, and perfectly functional garbage
all piled up &
chipped, spattered, rusted or
jittery. so many believe that
so much is useless;
so many believe in
discarding the outdated;
so much use is
heaped at our doorsteps;
so much refuse is
fine if not refused.
work without hands
work without hands,
work without minds,
a spiderless web
brimming with flies;
meadows rolling in bloom
over cluster-mines –
work without hands,
work without minds.
Encore
once more back out and
everybody smiling, clapping –
the stage was dark for but a moment,
a hallucination of finality;
the lights are up and here they come and
we are oh-so-proud,
and we are oh-so-pleased
we lured them back for six more minutes;
six more minutes to hold on to
for the rest of a life.
breechblock
the last possible moment,
the last mechanical shifting –
here, now, it all
becomes deadly –
soon, a hammer falls
into something greater –
everyone hears the
shift, the click –
and nobody knows
the target
Absolute Stillness
there was a boy who sat so still
and thought so hard,
and thought so hard,
there was a boy who sat so still the
earth flew from under his feet
and the sun and planets spiraled deep into darkness
and he sat so still as
the stars rained sped at double-speed and
the universe, ever in motion,
spun far, far, away
just a twinkle in the distance
and the boy sat
so still,
so still.
River, River
We will tell them we were from Earth,
the place made of earth,
and they will examine our Earth earth and wonder
how we name things, and wonder how our
language wends like the mighty River River
Avon, Nile, Cuyahoga, a thousand others
with enshrined generic names –
and they will cross our Desert Deserts and
live our baleful lives;
and they will wonder how we
lived like this
midland
It ain’t heaven but
it beats hell outta Akron;
the people here are
happy or at least hiding their despair;
the streets are paved with asphalt in places
and we all rattle, rattle, rattle
down the road
Romance Writer
only fools write about love
for, in love, they’re foolish,
and out-of-love, monstrous –
only fools waste time with
pen on paper when
there’s someone within reach –
and only monsters
can dream so sweetly
it feels like reaching someone.
gunstock
the blameless wood that
shoulders the barrel, that
crawls with spring and steel;
not deadly itself but
built for deadliness;
not threatening, unless
assembled
A Wolf on the Fold