Conjoined protractors
measure proclivity
in inverse parallels,
negating the subjugated need.
If only the conquerors
Had similar technology,
perhaps we’d not be buried
in the vast electric haze.
When thinking is a shock,
the system must shut down,
allowing present currents
to prevail unopposed.
And in unfettered quantities,
oppression can be static,
a blanket of false charges
like a constant grid
of automatic doom.
The bait shop’s been decorated
with cornstalks and old flags.
Another seasonal war appears.
The leaf wrencher attacks
the futile pushcart vendor.
The fatalistic pharmacist
overpacks his capsules.
Morning mists, like gray troops,
storm the flatlands.
The arc of the earth
and the edge of the sky
clash in thunderous combat.
A sad old woman finds her wave.
Tomorrow the sea will spit bones.
Showering stars are descending.
Each crater creates a new park.
It’s Meteor Town never ending.
A literal scream after dark.
O where are you now, Stephen Hawking?
The bodies are outlined in chalking.
Who’d guess that a rock
Big as this one could fly?
The townsfolk look up
And get ready to die.
It’s Meteor Town and its sad destiny.
A target for mountains of flying debris.
The chamber of commerce
Appeals to the nation:
“Come visit us,
Make suicide a vacation.”
Its Meteor Town
Where the theme song is “Taps.”
It’s marked not with “X,”
But a hole in most maps.
I remember eating supper
Off of father’s head.
Shallow dive syndrome
Had left his noggin
Flat as a table.
Even the egg rolls
Wouldn’t roll off.
Sometimes he’d cut his hair
In checkerboard pattern,
And let us kids play
Chess and “king me”
While he read his books.
Of course he dominated
Every headstand competition.
And sometimes at night,
When bending down to tuck me in,
I’d find a cup of hot milk
Perched soothingly atop him.
Please excuse
My imported furniture
If it shifts slightly
Toward the east
While we’re eating.
It’s always pining
For its homeland
Or fighting with the china.
One morning I awoke
To discover two chairs
Had made it halfway
To the airport.
Now I pile them
High at night
With heavy books,
Michener mostly,
With whom
They feel at ease.
