Sticks

For months, the boy piled

sticks in his front yard.

The neighborhood watched

as their young architect

stacked and stacked

over the months

until his pile of twigs grew

into a magnificent fort.

And after toiling

half a year, his structure

stood solid in the yard.

But not an hour after the boy

laid the last beam across

his roof, the neighborhood

raccoon snuck into the fort.

The bandit ferreted away the

stalks that underpinned the child's

structure, to build a shelter of his own.

And that night the evening winds blew in

to disassemble the little hut, leaving

the boy with a pile of kindling.

Cool

Air conditioner --

I would say it is the best

piece of modern tech.

Release

The circus freak piled

nickel upon nickel

into his nasal cavity.

With each new coin

his temples swelled,

and just from watching,

the onlookers felt an

uncomfortable pressure

pulsing in their eardrums.

Then, in an instant,

the circus man sneezed

and the crowd watched

awed, as they were

showered with thousands

of pennies.

Eggs

Don't fucking mention eggs

to me. If I hear one analogy

about baskets or hatching --

Here's the thing, about chickens.

Once they hatch, they are still just

baby chickens. They are walking

death-traps. How do any of them

ever survive? They are fuzzy balls

looking for something to crush them.

Why does anyone care about chickens

hatching, anyway?

I had an egg once. And as it grew

never once did

I count it as a chicken.

I watched it incubating.

Just stared at a single --

no... wait. Single

is a counting word --

just looked at a --

just watched the heated

box and its contents and

then

crack.

A beak, burst through

the flaky shell,

pawing about for

air.

Yes.

One chicken.

But as I stared,

the shell crumbled

away to show patches

of scale, and fangs

grinning

wide from a full-

lipped mouth.

The beak that I

had hopefully counted,

nothing more than

a quivering bone

spur -- stretching

and snapping from

my beast's elbow.

Good God --

what was

I waiting for?

untitled

Men and women
from the department of chastity
not knocking into one another.

Fun Stuff

Speaking of things that aren’t fun anymore

(except in that nostalgia sense where the fun

that used to be fun now just feels meta and sad),

what of swing sets, sidewalk sprints, scary stories,

she selling sea shells? I would gladly trade in sibilance,

the term, the act, the recognition that it’s something

more than the sound a snake says, if I could still enjoy

waiting to see how soon I lose my grip and/or nerve,

spending last bits of energy for a short-lived ambition,

leaning in closer to hear the scariest part I can’t not hear,

or marveling that try as I might my words come out wrong.

How convenient if I could still enjoy such things,

nevertheless routine.

Progress

When did it stop

being fun

to cross things

off a list?

What happened

to a sense

of accomplishment?

Where did I lose

interest

in making progress?

Admit

Go ahead. Keep dragging

yourself through

the sludge, over

walls, up mountains. Just

think how nice it will feel

when you finally admit

defeat.

Time Travel

Each morning I wake up

in the past. For moments

I feel myself surrounded

by things from years gone by.

But as my eyelids flick open,

I am snapped through a wormhole

and hurtled forward

to today.