Undaunted Children

Night, hum, home.
Outside, children
are instinctive.

They draw miniature
winks, pasta showers
with their fingers,

on concrete.
They learn quickly.
Thet don’t worry

about nostalgia,
they only care
about tickles

and eating
grapes off
of the sidewalk,

which fell out
of their hands

a minute ago,
but they believe

it’s ok and when
they see a mouse
on the street,

their faith
is most pure
before they learn
that it is something
to fear. Imagine

how much more
honest we’d be

if we didn’t learn
to fear.

 

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Fear Kit

After Lucie Brock-Broido’s “Gouldian Kit

Disrupt all your belongings,
a long bong without the green
globe on your fingertips.

Sometimes—you lick off
a glob because you want to have
earth within you, filled with ice.

Your self is lone, boneless.
Less blessed, more beg.

The urge is made
of cartilage.

The cage of you body
is a gate, gar propelling
toward fear.

Expose the drill, riot.
There will be
no threat
inside.

The Mandela Effect

The Mandela Effect

My brother,
as a small boy,
used to eat paper.

Crunch it up in
his mouth, fill
his jaw with napkins.

Once I remember
him eating a whole
stack of cold cuts,

Took out turkey from
Styrofoam package,
in one bite, swallowed

the whole thing
with his cheeks
all puffed up.

I guffawed, hysterical.
We were in the grocery
store, or at least, that what

I’ve determined in my
mind to be. Whether
this actually occurred

or not isn’t the point:
Mandela Effect
materializes at every

memory, whether
we decide to deny
it or not.

My sister used
to hide candy
in her underwear.

That was real; I
know it because
she knows

she did this too;
she would kill
me if she read this,

stuck in the child-
hood trauma of mis-
remembering.

Hell-bore

A fraction of deep-water
and a curious tremor
paws at the wet part

of weeping. The messenger
brought a gift today, fat
and warped, in a cart

with the words lakeshore
and dare, dill to make elk
fall into the lakeshore.

In fact, when I walked
towards the front of rattle-
swing sparrow, I took

off its jet hood. Grim reaper
stopped looking so dim,
grew inside of himself,

even became a little
dear. I switched the words
around in his rickshaw:

dare the lakeshore
to save short-lived herb,
delectable elk,

I couldn’t blame
him. He was a food
of beasts after all,

and always eating
off of another’s hunger.

Stolen Boar Roar

Silence exchanges discipline.
Men out in fields, with licenses
to steal.

They slice pine and hexes
with their axe, hang pigs

by the spine until they crack
like their hooves, sliding
the last of what they have

of their bodies, to die
in silence. Ice lines
the field. Last
man hangs on a cane,

disciplined in aging.
He hogs the space

to dine in, robs the boar’s
squeal as he sinks his
teeth into its thigh.