The Neo Noah in his Shockingly Funky Arboretum
—for Tonya Judy
this knothole don’t belong
to any tree, it simply got by me,
can’t you see? Blasting gushers like those busted off
fire hydrants in a New York summer …
When we were kids, all terrified of the swimming lessons,
convinced the stench of chlorine was paralyzing
our insides, pebbly scrotum suck it up
in the frigid, languid morning air, blue
water always breathing there, not like arcs
of two by two, or sweet trees— that knothole
it got by me, it’s mercy can’t you see? … May or may
not tap any sap, come July, it’s totally anomalous yet
prototypical, shape of things, squish, splash a wildebeest
trapped by lions raged the shallows: torn up and dying
in heat, while knotholes deepen, and implode, analogous
to love. I know this much: that we
drift, morph big wood in the end two by
two by two by four, over rails, over falls, any accursed dam:
Carve my initials in its arc, the bloated vortex
liquid bark. Its breathing leaves frightened me
senseless: now the dark.
The Neo Nero @ Home Alone
That guy from Fox News sure had pockmarks where the sun don’t
ever go, censors, ax to blind, he was standing in front of the mirror
in the bathroom mirror humming All Along The Watchtower,
one helluva din: Should probably be illegal with crystal candy dish,
solid-gold sink, a tall Cassius with white gloves reeking of nutmeg
at the door for gratuity, oh Commando of Butt Wipe.
Me Myself I let go by closed caption, closed circuit, eyes on the cracks
in a concrete floor, and wondering about the CIA
corporation, what’s next,
horizon, all that’s pitiless, duplicitous and broken in the world.
My precious Stradivarius, in hock down at the pawn shop, and that’s
one middle finger up in the air, a gut fiddle you ought never copulate
with. Can’t imagine, but I’ll burn this toga yet, this amalgam of entreaty
and entitlement. Most trouble I have now is with the fingers don’t know
what to do, with themselves sans — instrument,
but no surprise, just Jimi Hendrix twisting round upon the auger in his
grave. Acoustics, Acrostic, be with me now I’m turning, changing too,
via Home Shopping Network. Classical guitarist Esteban’s burn-
scarred face swathed in silk scarf, Ray Bans. Get the picture, a video,
tablature, plectrum, and what happened to
him is the reason you never let the first thought in. Rosetta Stone’s
coming soon, her Babel on the back burner: I’ll learn some Eye
Taliban before I die.
FB This Cannot Be the Verse
Larkin, we’re all suffering
Some get close
before they metamorphose
in late summer, larvae are
numbered. Social network?
Never had any
myself, listen, listen to a child’s cry over
the buzz of the common house fly.
I will most likely outlive it, Phil,
Mark, but I’m also turning into
my Father, the more
I Like, and hide,
and lie here.
Blu Ray & Hal
Aliens dig a creature feature
now and again, at the Drive In
of apocalyptic solar winds. “Earth men
are simply the scariest things … ever,”
squeaks the one.
“Got popcorn, pal?” squawks
the other. Credits roll on
by bracken, the sepia nuclear sky.
Speakers, stalagmite like — hang
from the icy liquid corners of their
all too quick for six
billion eyes. “Oh, the coming
attractions!” exclaims the one.
“Movie night’s so fun!” refrains
the other. Some species, sees
its sun go, then another, so much
phosphorus from a flare gun.
“Earthlings are the scariest
things ever,” says the other, cackling
now, in a fulsome hailstorm timbre
that the one finds very sexy
Dennis Mahagin’s poems have appeared in Evergreen Review,
Absinthe Literary Review, Exquisite Corpse, Everyday Genius,
elimae, The Nervous Breakdown, Corium, Stirring, Juked and
Night Train. His latest poetry collection is called “Longshot
& Ghazal”– available now from Mojave River Press. http://mojaveriverpress.storenvy.com/products/