One gives notice. Another grins and abides. The one no longer interested in content, the other insisting on diary entries reaffirming his firm grip on reality. One is motionless, the other still moves about. One accepts but withdraws, the other complains, and even though there’s little to complain about, finds a way to complain about that too. One prays in an empty space, the other watches the news in a room full of knickknacks and memorabilia no one remembers. One drifts, the other plans outings.
One falls silent, another gets up and talks. One is more interested in conversations without words. One deactivates, the other continues to like and comment and, in short, feels engaged.
One stops the vertical fall and the horizontal push, and edges fall away. Another scrolls up and down and takes cuts.
The one never did make sense, the other insists on making sense.
Mr. Bodhair awoke drinking purple fortified mulled wine, spiced with rotting fish, from the mouth of a grotesque gargoyle (disturbingly aware of the redundancy), a recurring dream in which he scaled the crumbling masonry walls of some late medieval gothic cathedral, compelled by an insatiable thirst for water, only to be frustrated by the bizarre flows of undrinkable fluids emitted from the throats of the unspeakable yet annoyingly noisy concreted creatures. He got out of bed, pissed, and started the coffee percolator, smoking a cigarette while he waited, refusing to think about his gargoyles, believing the interpretation of dreams, like poetry, a waste of time, along the lines of horoscopes, prayer, or NASA.
Yes, lend an ear or
if you can’t hear
a hand everyone
needs help some
day sooner or later.
A great funnel follows
this big bang spiral
the universe a canal
of turns and twists
through a milky orifice.
The birds play the leads
the melodies while the trees
rhythm leaves in the wind
as I wile away the evening
dressed in hearing aids.
More than sound is here
to hear is to feel motion
an eyelid angel’s kiss
across the baby’s lanugo
can you hear this?
Won’t you please tell me your rules,
style flaws that send you over the edge,
your conjugations, constructions, con-
junctions, your clauses and marks
memorized, when to be and not to be,
double negatives and things dangling
in white space and other wedded dark
matter; for I will find immense
pleasure in breaking & trashing
the etiquette of your ways & days.
Nomere Ana R. Chist
with spring’s sprang nearly sprung
green cheer spread here and there
winter’s rust vanquished vanished
birds appeared and cats chirped
bees abuzz and poets well coffeed
at sidewalk bistro tables smiling
flowered girls no more sobbing,
words like dandelion seeds fill
vacant lots of napkins and notebooks
from self sown gardens of the mind –
happens every year most this clime
a great force in and out the ages goes.