Again the scent
Of wet fur and burnt grass
Returns to this humble abode
The wolfman is crashed on my couch,
curled ball that twitches and growls
In slumber, a comfortable comforting
Old friend, though strange even to I
Who rests by the window
Empty wine glass in hand,
Taking in the music of the night
An hour will pass
And he’ll leap to his feet
Alive! We’re Alive!
We’re not old news
Time to hit the town
And spread some fear!
Time to crash the club
To Monster Mash
Or at least
Hit up McDonalds…
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I am the bad seed who chose where to sprout,
alongside these meadows. I moved again
despite your need for me. When I came out
West without one look toward where I had been
it was because the things that choked me—worse
than thistles or stones, all the ordnance thrown,
your savage son waging unholy wars
in the memory of Cain. But here I own
my square, honest piece of the well-worn dream
one half I’ll mow and leave the rest to woods
enough room to take root by friends who seem
quite happy I am close. Who thought I could
grow strong beside these windswept stalks of grain?
Where bravery yields a remedy for pain.
– D.E. Kern…
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Why bother bending utensils when you can bend minds, bend limbs, bend roads? We pulse from city to city, light streaks even a map can’t catch. Sammich sustenance absorbed in rest stops with carelessly locked bathrooms and landscaped-area flowers flaking color into the absence of light. At least the sprinkler timers are working.
The visitors from the Continent stitch the air in my car with vexation over how to locate themselves in/on Google while I creep streets striated in freezing precipitation in the hopes of a spot. Their kindly obliviousness and the night can’t be wrapped up and slammed into an umbrella stand soon enough. I am a chorus of rubberized responses desperate not to get sick, but the crud catches me three days after my friend hacks without mercy from the passenger’s seat. …
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We cry, with the throb of deception,
Because we’ve seen the tongue of deceit, without exception.
We cry, and we feel guilt,
Because we’ve spat the words of trickery ourselves, knowing what it would wilt.
And so, we speak in feathers of white, to cover our scarring words,
Even when we know white lies can so easily be tainted by the song of black birds.
But why can’t we speak in different shades of light?
Periwinkle lies, so soft and pure it would chirp with joy even through the darkest of nights,
Or navy lies, that, with its deep hue, would calm our harrowing thoughts.
And why not lie in shapes and spots?
Diamond lies, with their captivating clarity and sharp precision,
Sphere lies, the ones that may seem shallow, but offer solace in their gentle vision.…
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Limp leaves shudder
In cluttered puddles
Dead and brightly colored birds.
L. Noelle McLaughlin…
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He sat perched in his old place, where he had sat a thousand times before. From that lofty height he turned and gazed upon the green patched floor. He saw all that there was to see; there the smoking chimneys and there the willow trees. Nothing could escape his gaze, there was nothing there he did not know. He knew the lanes, their bends and straights. He knew the hedges, farms and loam. He knew each cheerful homestead and each happy family. He knew the little streams and brooks, he knew each bird and tree.
This is my home he thought to himself, quite contentedly. Why is this not my native land, where all my life I’ve been? I could not leave, I never could, for other pastures green.…
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Remote, in this sparsely appointed corner,
We project our way upon the sky,
a firm plateau of gray beneath us
and a bicycle turned upon its side.
The lead-wheel upturned,
it splits the air
and raises piles of ice cream high above.
Greater and richer,
the pillar grows,
stacked by the wheel’s uplifting power,
until sparkling bits of chocolate
like unimaginable raindrops
fall before us there,
the exquisite tower toppled over
by a silken contingent of clouds.
– William Mullins…
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