I once opened an antique drawer,
And found covered in dust,
A tiny burlap doll,
With black buttons for eyes,
Yellow yarn for golden locks,
And a sewed-up mouth,
That stood at about 1/15th my size.
A stand-in,
For me,
Though I was unconvinced,
And didn’t see the resemblance.
I hope there was no malice in this,
It was kind of cute,
In an unsettling way,
Besides,
I get pins and needles enough as it is.
I pinched him,
Just to make sure,
I wasn’t dreaming,
And wasn’t pleased,
With the results.
The Nephelae,
In their endless nebulousness,
Floated,
With empty jars,
Once filled with rain water.
The Hamadryads waited,
With breath bated,
For a little drizzle,
But the Nephelae,
Wasted all of it,
Once again,
On a parade.
So to save face,
They went to their sisters,
The Naiades,
To fill their pitchers.
“Back so soon,” they asked,
Poking their heads out,
From the running rapids.
The Nephelae looked at their feet,
“Use it wisely,”
Said the Naiades.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you”
The Nephelae screamed,
Dipping their jars,
Into the river.
They floated off, toward the forest,
Then the Aurae blew them away,
Over the Amphitheater.
“Now’s as good a time as any!”
And they dumped their cargo,
Onto the concert.
The spider in the corner,
Of my dorm,
Foreigner,
Hoarder,
With web in disorder.
If I were shorter,
I’d steer clear,
And try not to vear,
Into his hunting gear.
He’s well-equipped,
Works from home,
And quite strict,
When prey roams,
Toward his crypt.
The monster,
Stands,
A stone’s throw away,
Saunters,
On silken-strands,
He’d be easy to slay,
With a magazine,
But that’s mean,
And I’d have to clean,
After.
He keeps,
His heaps,
Tidy,
And tiny,
So I’ll let him stay,
Maybe.
Diamond-plated steps,
peeling paint,
and a cardboard ruler
demonstrating the height requirement.
Pewter pistons,
hidden hinges
standing cushions,
eroded by time
and centrifugal force.
Blinking lights all around the ridges
and a long line of patrons
brandishing bracelets
soft drinks,
plush prizes
and crumpled tickets.
The ride spins,
blinking like a UFO,
ready to launch
and fly faster than light,
but it never gets off the ground.
You stumble around,
pretty dizzy,
ready for the next thrill.
“One more time?”
she says.
Your hair is mussed,
from the last six times,
she asked.
“Why not,”
you say,
while turning about face,
to stand single-file
once more.
It’s not that pine trees,
Have a lot to hide,
They just don’t have much,
To show.
Standing solid,
Solemn,
Stable,
Their needles as green,
As they ever were.
Crows, for being draped in black,
Are not very stealthy,
Rather garrulous,
Cawing in threes,
Bobbing, posturing,
Perched in the trees.
The rusted-out fire pit,
Doesn’t do very much,
In the day,
Besides,
Retain,
Past rain.
I’m sitting on the old bench,
That’s been here,
Since before I was,
Thinking about how,
The more things change,
The more they stay the same.
Bacteria
stuck to the side
of a hydrothermal vent
metabolizing,
with black smoke,
rising,
or encased,
in ancient salt crystals,
photosynthesizing.
Processing cyanide
or sulfur
to grow,
then split.
Residing,
where it’s corrosive,
with high temperatures,
and/or
intense pressure,
dissolved metals,
minerals,
or chemicals.
Found,
in massive, arid, vacuous deserts,
the bottom of the arctic,
or gaps inside boulders,
or the vacuum of space.
Extremes are not insurmountable
just because they are not conducive
to life.
It’s full of proverbial surprises
after all.
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Holding a stack of Polaroids in my hand,
“I was there,
I was there,”
I said counting and recounting.
My thumb stuck to their glossy surfaces,
I turned them over to find the dates scribbled in black sharpie,
“April 10th, 1997– Hannah’s birthday,”
Curly, unruly hair and a missing front tooth,
And a little frosting on the tip of her nose,
And her brow.
She was laughing,
We all were,
Now I am.
The next picture,
All of us,
Surrounding,
A dented cake,
Seen from a bird’s eye view,
In a fisheye lens.
The next picture,
Blowing out nine candles,
Her face amber through the dim light,
While we stood nearby,
In the shade,
My face was buried in my hands,
Now it is again,
The stack falls to the floor,
Spreading the moments all about,
I look toward the hall,
I hope the door opens,
And you’ll be back again,
Someday.
1) Black, cracked tarmac,
Potholes dot line,
Craters on the moon.
2) Grey plastic fragments,
Torn toys, paper bags, roadkill,
Litter on the shoulder.
3) Dented divider,
Past event– tragedy?
Unnamed accident.
4) “Fuel, 16 miles”
Gas light on, alone, no signs,
Driver’s dilemma.
5) Deer crossing; beware,
Old habitat rended now,
Just passing through here.
Image source
Folds,
Within folds,
Hold,
A cursive serpent.
Servant,
To recursive function,
Fitting together,
Like puzzle-pieces,
Forming,
A doctoral thesis.
Fire-breather,
Meat-eater,
Jurassic classic,
Emerging,
From the ether,
And merging,
With itself,
Over and over.
I crouched low, and felt the grass rustle up against my empty stomach.
I’m very good at this; it’s what I was born to do.
There stood a hare, ears swiveling, back to me. It hopped toward a red flower.
I’ve never gotten one of these before; they’re supposed to be a lot of trouble to catch.
I couldn’t take my chances, so I used a slower approach than normal.
Right paw first, I slowly tamped down the grass so that it didn’t make a sound.
The hare picked its head up and tore the flower out of the ground; its ears scanned the surroundings.
I took another step.
The hare sat motionless.
I grew impatient, but slowly continued. My tail flowed with the wind.
The hare suddenly stopped eating, sat on its haunches.
I dropped into the grass.
It turned and walked toward another patch of herbs growing near tall grass, all the while the bulb dangled from its mouth by a length of disappearing stem. Still hungry.
When I felt sure it was occupied with eating again, I arched my back and moved forward again.
The hare dropped to the ground and folded his ears.
Now was my time to strike, his guard was down.
I bounded off, eyes widened.
He clearly sensed something, his ears popped back up but he didn’t move a muscle.
I was closing in.
Mouth agape, arms outstretched, claws extended, I leaped toward my prey.
In turn, he jumped straight into the air.
I hit the empty spot where he was and bounced a bit, then he fell onto my back with a sharp “thud,” and knocked me into the dirt on my side.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing much.”
“Not funny,” the hare said with a flick of his nose, “you caught me at a bad time.”
I hissed. He held my legs down, I was pinned.
“But I’m going to be nice,” he said.
I couldn’t do much else but listen, my stomach growled audibly.
“If you promise not to chase me, I won’t have to embarrass you.”
“I’m pretty fast,” I said.
He held his chin high, “sure you are,” he said.
I leaned forward and bit at his neck. Force of habit.
He bobbed out of the way then put his front legs on my head, kicked my face and jumped off of me.
“Last chance,” he said. The field behind him was wide open.
I looked down and noticed some dandelion seeds stuck to my fur. I licked them off and looked at him.
The hare sat staring.
“Choose wisely,”
I jumped suddenly; he ran underneath me and disappeared into the tall grass, yelling obscenities.
Now he’s done it! I dug my claws into the ground and spun around.
The tall grass extended out into the distance.
My stomach gurgled again.
It might go against my nature, but I think I’ll just cut my losses this time.
The File Pile 