THE CAROUSEL TURNS
I am the empty cat, burning blue
in the dead kitchen sink in the house of you.
Your flies are whispers on me
and your steak melts in the refrigerator
while the mailman knocks on the door.
He misses the bloated upholstery
of your chairs, which are bathed in
only the ghosts of lamplight, by which,
mumbling in extinct languages,
all of our grandmothers read about geometry;
the space inside a cube is not the cube
is their verdict.
I am an orange tree, sleeping alone
in the broken down mule of you.
Looking at you has the taste
of frostbite on an important limb;
of anything freezer-burned
by the hands of nighttime.
Overcompensating for this, my fruit
hangs misshapen and fluorescent.
It taps on the eye, and looking at it
has the taste of paisley.
From my vantage point,
I can see a blade of grass doubled over.
Winter is coming.
I am the ghost of a diver, frolicking
in the eels-nest of you. Somewhere,
between your rusted steel ribs,
a skeleton sits hunched inside a pocket of air;
I go through the wall and find his diary preserved.
On the cover he has etched lions;
they weep over a bloody herd of gazelle.
He has closed it with the word “togetherness”
In a field the trees stand drained.
Their blanched faces glow pearly
and they practice the art of shivering.
Their autumn foliage streams towards the moon,
and the earth is vacuumed,
and the earth is emptied,
and the earth is vacuum packed by the moon.
The roundness of the earth becomes pure.
The earth spreads its delicate wings
and glides into the sun.
The sun expands quickly;
it’s arms wiggle out into the planetary realm.
The plug is pulled by a glistening hand
the whole scene is drained in a gyrating funnel
and it gurgles down into blackness.
The colors of the milky way are claimed by a cosmic toilet.
Art by: Scott Dickson
AN INTEGRAL PART OF LOCAL MINNEAPOLIS PUNK-BIKE CULTURE
Welcome to Denmark, the happiest place on earth!
The war for the Baltic rages on,
but the bishop and his assistant are working to correct this.
They stride nobly into the midst of screaming missiles
to give their blessings to the dying.
They transform into dangerous gasses and blind the enemies.
They over hydrate and drown out their brains in holy water.
They taste sour.
They react with metals such as calcium.
They dissolve the rocky ground into a carpet of soil.
In bonding thrice with oxygen,
they ascend, finally, leaving their ghostly forms behind.
Art by Stacey Rozich | It’s been a while since I did one of these, but I decided to do a wiki-walk poem.
THE CARBON CYCLE
Come be primordial goo oozing through the duck pond with me,
and we will build skyscrapers with a whisper
in a reverse-Jericho maneuver.
This is an ambitious thing to say
for someone who is only one picket in the fence,
but I have always held that it takes confidence
to transform a picket into a bumblebee
and start on the chain
that leads to transformation
into a kingfisher
or a mollusk
or a unicorn.
In summary, the sky is rightfully ours,
and we must claim it from the murky reflections in the water.
Art by Holly Roberts
If the seven-winged angel dives into an ocean on Neptune,
Portugal will visit the Taj Mahal in a zinc balloon
The ocean shakes
with thunderous galloping
a lack of flowers
as if wolves had feathers
after the rain
in the Earth’s core
one million camels
a blue rabbit
speckled like a civet
leaps to the moon
in the mouths of crocodiles
like if dusk were covered in
the twitter of birds
bites the unprotected skin
of a scorpion
Art by Ben Shahn
If catfish ever circumnavigate the Earth
Each bison will awake and shun its great girth
The gloomy mintiness of elegance
Stands in its vigil like a picket fence
The anemic frog of movement
Flies inside a circus tent
The undulating rose of blasphemy
Enfolds the rooster in its serenity
If the geodes that are her eyes lose their yolks
Each tree will die in an explosion of jokes