You don’t have a clue, says the power drill to the canoe hanging from the rafters. Is life a contest everything plays by different rules for different prizes? You’re really worthless, aren’t you? barks the cherry tree covered with eponymous fruit to the wagon lying on its side. Unfair! Wasn’t that wagon not two days ago leading the parade, the puppy refusing to wear her hat? Can’t you just leave me alone? says the big picture of Marilyn Monroe behind her nonreflective glass. Is the universe infinity in ruckus and wrack? The third grader loose in dishwares, the geo-tech weeping on the beach. Mine, mine, says the squirrel to the transformer, unclear on the capacities of electricity. String of Christmas lights tangled with extension cords, can’t you work things out? The young couple takes a step toward the altar, increasing the magnetic force that sends ex-lovers whirling off into nether nebulae but attracting mothers-in-law. In one wing, the oxygen mask taken from the famous writer of terza rema glee while in another an infant arrives, loudly disappointed to have to do everything now himself, no longer able to breathe under water. Will we never see our dead friends again? A motorcycle roars on the terrible screw of the parking structure, lava heaves itself into the frigid strait.
All poetry is about hope.
A scarecrow walks into a bar.
An abandoned space station falls to earth.
When probing the monster’s brain,
you’re probably probing your own.
A beautiful woman becomes a ghost.
I hope I never miscalculate the dosage
that led to the infarction
of my lab rabbit again.
All poetry is a form of hope.
Not certain, just actual
like love and other traffic circles.
I cried on that airplane too,
midwest patchwork below
like a board game on which
mighty forces kick apart the avatars.
I always wanted to be the racecar
but usually ended up a thumbtack.
When I was young, sitting in a tree
counted as preparation and later
maybe a little whoopie in the morgue.
So go ahead, thaw the alien, break
the pentagram but watch out for
the institutional hood ornaments.
It’s not a museum, it’s a hive.
The blood may be fake
but the bleeding’s not.