Cosmo Dreams of Flies

Cosmo dreams of flies

Plump, slow, juicy ones

Bursting with blood and guts

Easy to catch 

A morsel protein treat

He steps into a cool brook

Laps at the water striders

Lowers his belly to refresh

He steals a bone

Rolls on his back

Positions himself over his master's foot

Wishes it was 4 p.m.

Julio Lechuga

Julio Lechuga stands down the street from the DES, huddled with others waiting for day work. He will do anything within reason and as far as his strength will carry him, forced into labor servitude to earn money he'll send across the border to his sweetheart. A man pulls up in a van and points at three men who climb in. Julio, unchosen, walks to the curb and kicks a rock, certain he has missed his chance today. He recalls his father, a large big-handed man who should have lived forever, who would tell him about large mountains and the jewels they carried. Be smarter than I am, he told him. Julio shrugs off the heat and turns his back on the sun. Tomorrow will be better, he thinks, another day, another chance. 

Dupont Circle

I lost my only coin in Dupont Circle and had nothing for the fountain, an offering, a dime, which was my last hope for netherworld communication, a thought cloud riding on ethereal wavelength rails, traveling with the wishes and prayers of a dozen others who stood by the water, throwing pennies, closing their eyes for an instant, blocking out the bongos and harp and laughing pubescent boys playing team keep away, pleading with the gods for just a scrap of understanding. 

Elaine Carstadt

Elaine Carstadt burns her hand on the stove

Curses herself

Clumsy

Searches for ointment 

Wraps gauze into a mitt

Ghost puppet

She drives with one hand

Can't apply makeup

Questioned at work

Makes up stories

Fell out of an airplane

Fought off mugger

Touched poison ivy

She pecks at a keyboard

Hunts for words

Finds she is less of a person

That her life is changed

She can't recall where she left the rest of her body 

The good half

The worthless half

Random half

She shuffles through her apartment

Trying to assemble her life

As if it were worth it

Amity

Energy expended on ego

Anticipating animosity

Predicting conflict

Unfair as a slain lamb

But is there any righteousness in squaring off?

Pushing someone to cross the green mountain?

Where is the virtue in that

Or the virtue in surprise?

Let us all wish for amity

Of hope

Bonded understanding

Pale shade of love

Or semblance of love

Perhaps resemblance

The song fools you 

It's not over

Never was

Magic glasses are bestowed

Permitting true vision

Each other's shoes

Maybe it's that savory snack mix

With poison and 6 percent iron

Press on toward the horizon

It offers that green mountain 

Ready for crossing if it comes to that

Gerald Semster

Gerald Semster works alone

A porkpie hat

A landline phone

Calling strangers at their homes

Asking their opinion.

He mostly gets some angry no's

An F-word curse

Told where to go

At night he dons a mask for show

Joining all his minions.

Four lives ago he rode a horse

To spear some game

To scalp and curse

With paint and fear across his face

Chief of all the Indians. 

 

Toast

I propose a toast today

To celebrate or sail away

To lift our hearts

And bend our minds 

In jealous reveries

Shine a spotlight on these few

Who show us what we used to do

To close the door

And douse the lights

In carnal heavenly

We turn our backs and ride away

Allowing this to be their day

To let it go

And pass the torch 

In cycles endlessly

Shooting Star #2

I hear that song and I'm back in the car again, driving south at night to oblivion, a nightmare in three acts, a cast of thousands. The highway is crowded but my car is the only one on it, transfixed by that song and its eerie swamp twang, the sighting of a heavenly event and how it connects the singer and me to everything that ever occurred or will happen, a refrain of such pain, such longing, self-reflection. The song ends and I play it again to revel in its moment, to set a place, hammer in a marker of this moment and others like it, to be a player in a great act of cowardice, confusion, retribution, of you, of me, of everything I might have accomplished.  I am forever hearing that perfect terrible melody.

Things I Think About Just Before I Die

Oh hell

Bills unpaid 

The dry cleaning

Who will be there

What will they say

Who will know to renew things 

Maybe it's not that bad

So this is it

I made it, at least 

Only halfway done

Please don't let it hurt

Who are those people

More dignity please 

Getting cold

Very tired

Just let me close my eyes for a second

I'll be fine

The insurance is paid up

Never got around to choosing songs 

Where's the light?

Unfair

So sorry

Big mistake

Stop it

John Chardovic

John Chardovic sits in the airport, weary, tired from years of service to the Firm, a brown worn heavy samples case at his feet, tie still strung tight around his neck, perspiration dripping down his face, exhausted from chasing the next sale, no longer a young turk, wonders about the years he's missed being on the road like this, the family he left behind, the children who have disappeared, all for one more catch, one more big one, one more attempt to keep his job.  Thirsty, he rises in slow motion, grabs the sample case, takes it with him as he walks the airport, passing so many brothers.

Glance

The mirror asks

Is this what you've come to?

Its reflection is charged, obscured

A raised eyebrow of knowing

Nods

Yes, it's ugly

So to turn away

The image will always be there

For study, reference, reminding, insult, lecture

Push Pin

The day gets away

It runs on rails

Speeding past pushy people

The balding man crosses the intersection 

Emergency siren draws attention 

I Can't Explain claims the lobby

Energies and entities push pin points

What is happening 

Twisting all outcomes

Such great thinkers evaporate

Drawn into a whirlwind of

Dead skin and insects

Inhale

Feast on the past

Above/Below

The man in 801 sits on his couch at the precise time that a floor below in 701 a woman sits on her couch, just under him, both facing north, connected magnetically in a mirror universe, wind-up toys living lives in cardboard boxes, running from room to room, opening drawers, changing channels, talking on the phone at the same time, living identical desperate lives, wondering what that noise is coming from the floor above/below. 

Inverse Life

Inverse life

Splayed, revealed, open

Conversing in double 

Split and bloodied 

Transparent 

Truth on display

Here I am

See?

Thrown to the lions

Tasty treat

Martyrs

We yearn for martyrs

To worship

To hold on high

To reference and guide

To die in our place

Dinner guests

The kids cook dinner while we sit on our asses. Joyous. Even if the food is burned it will be worth it. Even if we are forced to clean the dishes it will be water well spilled. Has the BBQ been turned off?

The Juggler

The red felt hat sits tall on your head, as if it contains a warhead or a giant cartoon bump, but it serves to counterbalance the star-filled orbs you are weighing, tossing, pulling apart by the cord that joins them.  Even then, with everything at stake, you show off by moving your left foot back, daring strangers to push you down, to challenge your confidence in an eternal life, and paying no mind to the rough waters that toss ships

Coffee

Half empty coffee cup
Liquid tepid
Dares another sip
Dip
Into room temperature
Molten promise faded

The Brainstormer

The damsel, brainwashed, spots a glowing fairy fly in the window
The invincible hero, relaxing in his tropical plantation, dreams about being a musician
The mysterious hero, fresh from hunting wild animals, pushes the cowboy into the arena
The inventor's lab has been demolished, vengeance for a crime
It's madness, certainly, but it is undercut by his intergalactic shield
Perhaps through self-preservation, the collapsed police station still resonates
A naturally nomadic porcupine wakes up transformed into a crab spider
Cautioned, the emaciated amoeba morphs into a barn owl
The makeshift steam punk finds his trailer too confining

Bees

We bother a hive

A swarm of bees

Angry

In formation 

Sends us running to the small pond

We duck our heads under

Wait for the bees to give up

Like the movies

Only they don't leave

The call their wasp cousins 

Who glide and dip

Touch the water 

We run out of air 

Gulp some above water

Return

Wait for our enemies to grow weary

Before we tire and drown

Sinking to the bottom

Sorry for antagonizing them