Poetry | Short Fiction | Creative Nonfiction
A slammed door
means to be heard
It is not exactly
protected speech under
the first amendment, but
ask it if it cares
It is not assembled
peaceably, this petition
for the redress of grievances
Its fury is as brief
as an infatuation, and lingers
in the silence that after
follows you around
It is a microphone
dropped at the conclusion
of something better
left unsaid
And I think
you know what I’m
talking about
We’re off to see the dentist
He’s packing our cheeks with the gauze
Because because
Because because, because
Because of the oral neglect that was…
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
We’re off to see the dentist
To rescue what’s left of our jaws
So central to every kind
of understanding, but of
myself, and a measureless world
this membrane, this foggy glass
clouded with the breath of a
face against it—mouthing
‘not apart’—this is such that
the bullet cannot touch.
I argued with my analyst
That a coping saw
Is a kind of coping mechanism
Pretty sure I won that round
I feel better now
The sessions are helping
I anticipate the taste of the food
as I lift the fork to my mouth
because I can’t wait, even for a split second
to satisfy a desire.
“Anticipation is a smash-and-grab
of the near future,” says a voice almost
close enough to hear, were I to listen.
As I chew, the flavors lose all interest
and I scan the table to see what else
has been serve up.
“Desire does not want to have
it wants to want,” says the voice
still trying to get through.
Stomach full, flecks of grease on my collar
I smack my lips like a sated pig, and go
lie in the mud of this unexamined life.
“We’ll try again some other time,” says
the voice, still determined to reach me.
Image by Alexas_Fotos from Pixabay
I’m accused of believing in deities
like an irrational dummy, while
the material world in every direction
teases our intellects into a
puzzle-solving mania, clamoring
for the victories of knowing
and having known.
Happily, these elaborate conceptions
serve as a handy basis for making
offerings to the deities.
And they do supply the
handholds we’ll need, if we’re
determined to get a grip.
Beyond that, I don’t much bother
with ‘that is’ or ‘this isn’t’
unless I have to.
Every conclusion is a
leaf on the winds of inquiry.
Ephemeral as a raspy little fart.
We shrink from July’s
sizzling face-lick, as August
stokes the coals and prepares
its glowing branding iron.
Biosphere’s down with a fever
fighting the infection that’s
razing her trees, fouling her rivers
smoking her skies.
She’s picking bits
of plastic from her teeth
with all the patience
she can muster.
I wrote that your face was
The source of all light
But my maladroit fingers and
Two spastic thumbs
Bungled light into ‘blight’
In the draft, late at night
And hit ‘send’ for good measure
From this, no good comes
thank you for the telling
all these things I didn’t know
how like the wind it ever is
to blow and blow and blow
the mind, so like a cup, is filled
with things to know and do
the brim of it is never reached
the murky depths, so too
so on we go, we never quite
see how this knowing queue
takes up the flow of intellect
exchanging old for new
that knowledge is impermanent
is one more thing to know
it really is no problem, friend
—relax and let it go
