9. Will he never be still

He required a lap full of rabbits. His mother was mad as she had nothing with which to pay the Attractors or at the very least some advice for getting the soft things to come through the hedges and the high grass to sit on her son’s legs and hold him still. He twitched like an alien. His choreas seemed evolved as defense against being eaten. Directionless as escape from a paper bag. He calmed when carried but his movements allowed no tenderness. He will incite riots she told the Doctors. These are the spasms that urge the world to violence. There is no medical precedent they replied. Hence the rabbits.

#weeklypoemandpic
​

Number 8.

The news is not meant to be hopeful.

​A.
We were informed that the foreigners wouldn't play the match on the chosen field. Our coach said this is ridiculous. It's a good field. An old newspaper was sent over in a brown envelope. There was an article that reported on a massacre of peasants at that address. The venue had to be changed. My wife said call and rearrange. I said no it's your fault. She said you're better at this sort of thing. I said that's fine but make them something to eat. They're bound to be hungry.
B.
The tornado hit a single powder blue house. The investigators returned things directly to the family that had lived there. Bottles of children's elixirs and leftover pain medicines found four miles away. There was no one else to whom they could belong. No need to go through channels. Yes, the mother said, that's ours. Might as well take it. You never know.
C.
The sharks will turn those of us capable of love into dolphins. To make us safe, you know. Although we’ll have this place for longer, we won’t have a sense of smell like we did and we’ll think of flowers, remember honey and sadden. We’ll relearn singing. We’ll keep a wary and playful distance from the sharks but they’ll have saved us and we’ll be grateful.
#weeklypoemandpic

7.

This is
not a prelude.
This is
not
an introduction.
This is the
way things are.

A. possum

the morning's
sweet little birds
are killing me.
peck.
peck peck.

B. elemental

wood is my
favorite element.

paper is mine.

it’s not an element.
it comes from wood.

C. what to wear?

another bad dream
(gaping maws
yellow gears)

and he awoke
determined
not to have
another.

his head: cold.

remembering
all his hats:

my hats!
where
are all
my fucking
hats?

D. we used to talk

this place is the
opposite of that.
it's where they
clone insects

E. sniper

long
long
arms.
he was never
dismembered
in a former
life.

someone held
a gun out
in the dining room--
a big pistol--
and the
gangly man
sprang out
from within
the china cabinet
hands up
and pleading:

it's not true
that I
could be
anywhere.
I have to
be here!

F. the end

this is
not
a road.

this
is not
a tree.

this is
not
milk.

this is
not
a shoe
a dog or
a stump.

this isn’t
a game.
tell me

what you
see.

#weeklypoemandpic
Art courtesy of F. Shils.

love letter 13: epidemic
​
he went back for his sister.
he'd thought to
leave her but could not.

she rocked in her chair.
she put her hand to
her mouth and
cawed like a crow.

he thought he finally
understood her.
the caw wasn't a call for help
or a laugh or a comment.
it was the sound of the
last person on earth enjoying
the vibration of her voice
against her hand.

he said 'you're not alone.
I'm here with you.
let's go to school.'

even though there'd
be no school.
there were no more teachers
and there were no more students
but it was one of the words
that got her to move.

'take my hand,
walk with me out the door.'
'caw' she said.
or didn't say but
placed into her cupped palm.

caw.

where are all the
birds he thought.
the cawing birds
dusting the ground
clean with their wings.
'caw' he said
​and she arose.

#weeklypoemandpic

5. bowls and jars
A.
I have everything
I have nothing to steal
I have nothing
I have nothing to steal
steal my bowl
and the space remains
and it isn’t my bowl
and it isn’t your bowl
but there is a bowl
and it isn’t red
and it isn’t clay
there isn’t a bowl
and it’s glazed red
and it’s sturdy clay
there is a nest
there isn’t a bird
there is a bird
making a nest
there is a tree
and in the bowl of
the lowest bower
is a nest

B.
a cluttered bunch of meat.
that's how I'm moving
today. What's inside?

when I was a child
everything was encompassed.
there wasn't such a thing
as hollow. everything had gears.

I was asked as an adult:
what is the mechanism?
that drug--how does it work?
that piano--how does it play?

now I recognize empty.
things have to be
beat on to make their noises.
things are made.
things are cleaned.
things are tuned.
things are filled.

we make them contain.

I was offered
the gift of a jar.
what does it contain?
every dog. every man.
some ashes. some men

#weeklypoemandpic

​4. Love letter 8

We were too far
from one another
to say good bye.
The blast took you.
The water boiled around me
but brought me nowhere
that a current wouldn’t.
I needed a ship.
So I clambered up
and thought of words.
I made a language.
The word climb occurred
to me as I escaped
up the hill and
as a woman fell
trying to get to
high ground to
throw herself off.
I made the sound for night.
The word moon came
before the moon.
Above the clouds
were the stars
facing the stars.
Above the stars
was our boat.
Within the boat
were the stars
that move
within the clouds
and the moon
that was still.

#weeklypoemandpic

​3. Arachnophobia

The spider had an abdomen like a
mouse and after I stunned it with a nudge
but was afraid to squash it I showed
it to my father who said:
Put it in a jar, seal it tight,
and write on the label:
On this date I separated this thing
from the world in which it could do harm.

Before he left he pointed out its
fangs and their perfect
mechanism. It had a tail for camouflage
or disguise or balance. It began again to move
and as I tried to cover it with a glass
inflated so the cup's diameter
wouldn't encompass it
entirely. As it recalibrated I knew
my squeamishness had been a mistake
and I was afraid. I left and shut the
door and wrote on it what my
father had suggested. The walls weren't smooth
though and the cracks and crumbs would allow it
to grow and climb. I went out of there
and forgot the spider which has continued
to gain traction and precision.

Someday a boy will enter the room
and carefully loosen the threads that
time has corrupted into binds. The spider
will have molted into an armored monkey
that'll regard its rescuer coldly.
They'll leave together and find me.
They'll laugh at my useless containers,
my empty jars, and my soft belly.

#weeklypoemandpic

2. Letter to the Editor

​Larry I read the article.
Frankly it appalled.
It made me regret things
about which I’d been
formerly quite pleased.
It didn’t change my mind
but now as I travel back to
my days of love and the giddy
feelings that were provoked
I understand the
need for retribution.
It felt like torture at
the time but looking back
it was bliss. We kissed
in cabs and once someone
made to pummel my forehead
with her high heel shoe
for some now unrecalled slight.
Probably all of my
regrets are a wish
to be forgiven. What
the dreams of last minute
packing and no room for
the books are I’m not sure.
In short Larry, thank you
for bringing this to my
attention. I am your
friend and although not
your most trusted
nor your oldest one,
I am happy for
your affections.

#weeklypoemandpic

​1.

Don’t look directly
at the stars.
Look sidelong.
Don’t eat mad.
It isn’t bad manners.
It isn’t disrespect.
Chew and swallow
then see if
you are angry.
Don’t risk malabsorption.
Push the purple up
into your scalp
past the hairline
with your fingertips.
Require an explanation
better than: it’s the wind.
Teach the boys to
vote with nectar
and the girls with rocks.
Nothing is too far
from your heart
to kill you.
I don’t care how
you’re motherlike
only that you are.

#weeklypoemandpic