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A neighbor wrings his hands over wrecked carpets,
a shame of ruin on his plowed driveway. Up and down
the block, pinhole leaks in plastic gather momentum
like an underground conspiracy.
We ignore the warnings, water the lawn instead,
do the dull washing up. So, when our pipes burst, mud
spreads in the water like a rumor. Gargoyle workmen
jack-hammer wounds into our basement, and the man
from public works scans the scene with cover- up eyes.
He stands where a sinkhole will someday swallow
the intersection, erasing memories of wet wool
and solder- stung air in favor of new worst cases,
where a future plumbed with copper only guarantees
the prescience of night-time clang.
artist Rene Andersson
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We must endure our thoughts all night, until
The bright obvious stands motionless in cold.
-Wallace Stevens, from "Man Carrying Thing"
The First
Here we find something over-sweet,
a soft mango less juicy than brown.
I watched a cat rot away
night after cool summer night
on the tracks by a parked rail car.
How zombie movies are hawked
is not thought fascinating often enough.
Is it just me? The realities are
an ash-filthy scrap of beige linoleum,
some stains still there,
getting darker. I become someone else
when the jasmine's used up,
less in control, yet still soon the punch slows
to this half-hearted rub of your weary shoulder.
I am blessed that these visions come slowly,
even the one of you. There are rented fences
round the bowling alley closed for years,
tall weeds.
The Second
Do you remember when he put on
the clown's nose? I remember too
him doubling up
in pain. You can't just go
on the strength of a good day.
But doesn't this show life,
it's greatest sign: the futile shuffle
towards, say, your brief time in the heartland,
Vegas meta-lights elastic like time,
this careful chronicle?
A good day, this,
and so, when all's said and done,
an eight-point-oh.
The Third
It hasn't happened yet,
but you know it will, with power,
the riff re-arriving, skull-crushing
after the middle part
of Whole Lotta Love. Sigourney Weaver's
mouth in deep space, desperate
after a space suit strip, pursed lips prepared
for battle. The zen of thinking
it's Low Yo Yo Stuff, the affability of this shade,
the bringdown of being trapped by zen and affability.
Hounded by every woman you knew,
and now it means nothing, even your failures
and dreams are ripples, before the breeze lets go.
Or the front porch with Lil Shtr licking herself clean?
doilies in the car, the family off to the beach?
No you don't, that's even worse.
You're nearly down to nothing now,
go for it, battle the green weeds around you,
the note paper.
Strip 'em down to ripples,
then nothing. Then make sure
nothing goes.
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Cheryl
Snell has work in the recent issues of Potomac Review, Flashpoint,
Pierian Springs, Eclectica, Red River Review, VLQ and other journals.
Her chapbook of poetry, Flower Half Blown, published in 2002 by
Finishing Line Press, was nominated for the Ohioana Book Award in
Poetry.
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John
Eivaz was born in New York and now lives in California. He is the editor
of MiPo~Print. In former internet incarnations he was a staff member of
Haiku Headlines, and the poetry and flash fiction editor of the Erotica
Readers and Writers Association. His poetry, fiction, smut and songs
have been presented both online and in print. He is trying to get away
from John Eivaz, hopelessly trying to do different things. He also works
in a winery.
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