Daily Archives: February 8, 2017

If Wishes Were Fishes

Wouldn’t it be nice to be 
as inert as a stone right now?
Shiny with minerals and perhaps
a semi-precious crystal or two
in your surface, insensate
and immune to the world’s 
barrage of little needles? 

Wouldn’t it be nice to be
as brilliant and short-lived
as a trout or even minnow right now?
Flashing through water 
in the sunlight filtering down
as you crossed the bed of the 
last clean stream on earth?

Wouldn’t it be nice to be
utterly unable to understand 
human speech right now?
To be able to stand mute and
unknowing as orders were read
and as the bullets came tearing
across the air into your chest?

Wouldn’t it be nice
not to be here as ourselves 
at all, prone to all the danger and ache
that comes from knowing 
where we are and who we are
and what we are capable of feeling
as we triumph or fail?  

Wouldn’t it be nice
to have the time
to pretend
these things
could possibly be true?
Wouldn’t we all love

this moment to be without torches
or a need for them except
to light a path into
the beauty of a night
we could enter without fear
of a nightmare coming alive?

What we would give for that.

What we will have to give
for that

is a promise to never be
dead as stone, dumb as fish;
silent, unknowing victims
of terror. A promise to see
and be our full selves
as the torches illuminate
that which squats ominously 
in the dark beyond.


His Type

He’s a  
shitty video,
bad zine,
faded heavy knit,
square bottomed
necktie
of a man. 

He is a 
wrong turn onto 
a short dock and 
an unwillingness to
brake before he goes off
the end into water
too shallow to allow a 
dramatic, tragic
denouement.

He is a
bankroll fat with 
singles and
not even a twenty
on top to 
cover.  

He’s a pool shark
with a warped stick, 
big talk small walk,
too quick to back off
when rocked back by
one well-chalked bank shot —
no game for the long haul,
no words for the laugh
from the watchers lounging
against the far wall —

you know the type
and you know how they all
fall, after a while. Later
we’ll make jokes about him

but while he’s here 
you steam and stew and 
think about how sweet a single 
slap behind his neck
might be, even though you know
that’s not worth all the trouble
likely to come from
all that whining
and tattle tale talk
afterward.