The car was approaching
a stop sign
when I heard the “Whack!”
Had a rock just materialized
underneath my car?
Then, the gasps of shock
from my younger siblings:
Omigoshyouhitacat!
But cats don’t make sounds
like rocks when they hit
the underside of a car,
do they?
Must’ve been a hard skull…
I hadn’t even seen a cat
anywhere near the road.
After I came to a full stop,
I was able to look to my right
and witness the macabre
spectacle before my eyes.
A grayish orange cat
was attempting to leap
over a chain-link fence
that stood two feet
from the roadway.
The cat would’ve had
no problems doing so,
except for the fact
that my car (read: I)
had cracked its back.
The lower half of its body
flopped uselessly in the air
with each violent effort
to clear the fence.
The two hind limbs
reminded me of the legs
of an invalid in a wheelchair:
so much dead weight.
The only force
the cat could muster
was purely from its front legs
coupled with sheer will.
The sight produced
writhing maggots
in my stomach.
It was as if
the cat wanted to run
as far away from me as it could.
From my vantage point, though,
the cat obviously had no chance
of leaping over
the four-foot high fence.
Each time it flung
its body upward,
the back feet only came
a few inches off the ground.
The situation only became worse
as my younger sister
rolled down the rear window.
Suddenly I could hear
the rage that accompanied
the cat’s sickening acrobatic display.
Hissing crackled through the air,
aimed at me.
All I could think was,
“I didn’t even see you, cat!
It’s not my fault!”
I wanted to shout
those words to the cat
and relieve myself
of any guilt
or responsibility in the matter.
I wanted it to stop
trying to jump over
an impossible obstacle.
But that cat looked at me,
as if sensing my thoughts,
spat back
and leaped four feet three inches,
clearing the fence and landing
in a yard in which it undoubtedly died,
hours later.
I have no idea how long
it took for that cat
to succumb to the pain,
because I was already late
getting to church
and couldn’t waste any more time
with things I couldn’t control.
Maybe it survived.
After all, it cleared that fence…
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The Spanish Steps
I know nothing about this monument.
This is Italy, but apparently
the steps habla español.
This tourist book tells me
that John Keats wrote poetry near here;
I would’ve written a poem as I sit here too,
but Keats was a poet.
He allowed the Roman scenery
to absorb his last few moments,
to soak up his life.
From these steps, I imagine
a strong wind kicking up,
lifting Keats up
and carrying him west
into the countryside
and then farther out
to the Mediterranean.
He waves as he floats swiftly
above his good friend Percy Shelley,
who is trawling the depths
of the sea for inspiration.
Percy waves also,
but not as a greeting:
His boat is sinking
and he’s trying to alert Keats.
Soon he is swallowing too much seawater
And needs help.
Keats can’t come down, though,
the wind is controlling his voyage,
so he watches as Shelley sinks like a rock.
Besides, he couldn’t deny his friend the pleasure
of sharing his same fate:
lungs filling with fluid;
expiring in the middle of conjuring
the perfect iamb.
This is Italy, but apparently
the steps habla español.
This tourist book tells me
that John Keats wrote poetry near here;
I would’ve written a poem as I sit here too,
but Keats was a poet.
He allowed the Roman scenery
to absorb his last few moments,
to soak up his life.
From these steps, I imagine
a strong wind kicking up,
lifting Keats up
and carrying him west
into the countryside
and then farther out
to the Mediterranean.
He waves as he floats swiftly
above his good friend Percy Shelley,
who is trawling the depths
of the sea for inspiration.
Percy waves also,
but not as a greeting:
His boat is sinking
and he’s trying to alert Keats.
Soon he is swallowing too much seawater
And needs help.
Keats can’t come down, though,
the wind is controlling his voyage,
so he watches as Shelley sinks like a rock.
Besides, he couldn’t deny his friend the pleasure
of sharing his same fate:
lungs filling with fluid;
expiring in the middle of conjuring
the perfect iamb.
Monday, June 15, 2009
A Cry For Help
Today I followed my dog out into the forest just outside my house.
She had been frequenting a specific area among the trees, spending more time than usual out there, and I wanted to know why.
I imagined a dead deer, half torn apart in those woods, that she may have been eating.
That thought made me sick, so I followed her, to dispel my fears.
After entering a thick copse, I lost sight of my dog, and called her name.
A high-pitched bugle answered my call, and I knew, my dog was not the animal answering.
I neared the hillside where the eerie cry came from, but I couldn’t see any animals, just trees, rocks and bushes.
I crept closer. The weird call sounded once again, and it seemed that it came from the earth.
As I swept a branch from my path, I finally saw where the sound was coming from.
A fawn, no bigger than my 20-pound dog, was lying on its side among sharp rocks and rotting branches.
The little thing looked dead, but it opened its mouth slightly and let out its bugling cry for help again.
I got closer to inspect the animal, to assess the situation.
It looked crushed, as if a stone had rolled down onto its soft newborn body.
It didn’t move, but its eyes slowly rolled in agony.
Its small chest rose and fell quickly, with a panic quality.
My dog arrived and observed the fawn cautiously, taking small steps closer.
I told her to stay back.
I had the feeling that the death, which clouded the fawn’s eyes, was contagious and if my dog got too close…
I thought of a gun. I don’t own a gun.
I was torn between the decision of allowing the fawn to suffer and putting it out of its misery.
Leaving the animal there would weigh upon my conscience: how would I like to lie on the ground, unable to move, waiting for the pain to stop?
Putting it out of its misery meant doing it without a gun, and that could get messy and ugly.
I wondered how many times I would have to bring a rock down on its head until the fawn’s brain stopped telling its heart to beat.
I had a shovel; I could try and bring it down hard enough to sever the neck.
But what if I didn’t hit it straight on?
I really didn’t want to try more than once with a shovel.
The thoughts that I entertained, or rather suffered, scared me.
I was frightened of the power I was considering: killing another living thing that was bigger than an insect.
The frightened look in the fawn’s eyes reflected in mine, and I grabbed my dog and ran up the hill to clear my head and come up with a better plan than rock bashing or shovel chopping.
Actually, I ran to the house to try and make the fawn someone else’s problem.
My father was sitting in the front room as I entered.
I said there was a baby deer down the hill and that it was crying out and that I wanted to do something to stop its suffering.
He told me to leave it be.
I couldn’t. I needed to rid my mind of the thought of taking the deer’s life into my hands.
I half hoped my father would go out there and do something, but I knew whatever he would do would probably be much more brutal than what I would do.
Perhaps he would simply use his boot heel.
I couldn’t stand the thoughts, and then my father suggested calling Wildlife Resources.
Yes, I thought, the Wildlife Resources employees are professionals in these matters. They would know how to humanely end an animal’s life.
I called Wildlife Resources. The office hours ended at 6 pm.
It was 7:56 pm.
I wasn’t going to wait until the next day to do something, allowing the fawn to cry out to deaf ears all that time.
Still not knowing what to do, I went back outside.
I was hoping that I could do something to get the deer on its feet, if that were possible.
I was hoping for a miracle.
As I neared the fawn, I was struck by the stillness.
Its chest was not moving; its eyes were fixed.
Right then and there I thanked God that I did not have to torture myself any further.
The fawn was spared the horrid thoughts that slowly dissipated within my mind.
I ran back to the house and told my father that the tiny deer was already gone.
But I still couldn’t just leave that fawn out there exposed, even though it couldn’t suffer anymore.
I recruited my younger brother and we both walked outside with shovels in our hands.
The ground was hard and full of jagged rocks, but we dug a grave just deep enough to place the fawn’s body in.
I kept expecting the chest to suddenly start rising and falling again as we lowered it into the earth.
We pushed the limbs close to the fawn’s body, so it looked like it was sleeping, snuggled up to its mother.
As I buried the baby deer in soil, the last thing I saw was its head, with one eye staring out at me, and it seemed it was still wildly seeking help.
Sometimes there are coyotes and cougars that roam the forests outside my house, so we placed large rocks on top of the soil over the fawn, and then placed large rotting branches over the rocks, protecting it from more suffering that it would not feel anyway.
I don’t know why, but I just kept thinking that I would hope somebody would at least do that for me, if I had died out there in the woods, after crying out for help and finally receiving it.
She had been frequenting a specific area among the trees, spending more time than usual out there, and I wanted to know why.
I imagined a dead deer, half torn apart in those woods, that she may have been eating.
That thought made me sick, so I followed her, to dispel my fears.
After entering a thick copse, I lost sight of my dog, and called her name.
A high-pitched bugle answered my call, and I knew, my dog was not the animal answering.
I neared the hillside where the eerie cry came from, but I couldn’t see any animals, just trees, rocks and bushes.
I crept closer. The weird call sounded once again, and it seemed that it came from the earth.
As I swept a branch from my path, I finally saw where the sound was coming from.
A fawn, no bigger than my 20-pound dog, was lying on its side among sharp rocks and rotting branches.
The little thing looked dead, but it opened its mouth slightly and let out its bugling cry for help again.
I got closer to inspect the animal, to assess the situation.
It looked crushed, as if a stone had rolled down onto its soft newborn body.
It didn’t move, but its eyes slowly rolled in agony.
Its small chest rose and fell quickly, with a panic quality.
My dog arrived and observed the fawn cautiously, taking small steps closer.
I told her to stay back.
I had the feeling that the death, which clouded the fawn’s eyes, was contagious and if my dog got too close…
I thought of a gun. I don’t own a gun.
I was torn between the decision of allowing the fawn to suffer and putting it out of its misery.
Leaving the animal there would weigh upon my conscience: how would I like to lie on the ground, unable to move, waiting for the pain to stop?
Putting it out of its misery meant doing it without a gun, and that could get messy and ugly.
I wondered how many times I would have to bring a rock down on its head until the fawn’s brain stopped telling its heart to beat.
I had a shovel; I could try and bring it down hard enough to sever the neck.
But what if I didn’t hit it straight on?
I really didn’t want to try more than once with a shovel.
The thoughts that I entertained, or rather suffered, scared me.
I was frightened of the power I was considering: killing another living thing that was bigger than an insect.
The frightened look in the fawn’s eyes reflected in mine, and I grabbed my dog and ran up the hill to clear my head and come up with a better plan than rock bashing or shovel chopping.
Actually, I ran to the house to try and make the fawn someone else’s problem.
My father was sitting in the front room as I entered.
I said there was a baby deer down the hill and that it was crying out and that I wanted to do something to stop its suffering.
He told me to leave it be.
I couldn’t. I needed to rid my mind of the thought of taking the deer’s life into my hands.
I half hoped my father would go out there and do something, but I knew whatever he would do would probably be much more brutal than what I would do.
Perhaps he would simply use his boot heel.
I couldn’t stand the thoughts, and then my father suggested calling Wildlife Resources.
Yes, I thought, the Wildlife Resources employees are professionals in these matters. They would know how to humanely end an animal’s life.
I called Wildlife Resources. The office hours ended at 6 pm.
It was 7:56 pm.
I wasn’t going to wait until the next day to do something, allowing the fawn to cry out to deaf ears all that time.
Still not knowing what to do, I went back outside.
I was hoping that I could do something to get the deer on its feet, if that were possible.
I was hoping for a miracle.
As I neared the fawn, I was struck by the stillness.
Its chest was not moving; its eyes were fixed.
Right then and there I thanked God that I did not have to torture myself any further.
The fawn was spared the horrid thoughts that slowly dissipated within my mind.
I ran back to the house and told my father that the tiny deer was already gone.
But I still couldn’t just leave that fawn out there exposed, even though it couldn’t suffer anymore.
I recruited my younger brother and we both walked outside with shovels in our hands.
The ground was hard and full of jagged rocks, but we dug a grave just deep enough to place the fawn’s body in.
I kept expecting the chest to suddenly start rising and falling again as we lowered it into the earth.
We pushed the limbs close to the fawn’s body, so it looked like it was sleeping, snuggled up to its mother.
As I buried the baby deer in soil, the last thing I saw was its head, with one eye staring out at me, and it seemed it was still wildly seeking help.
Sometimes there are coyotes and cougars that roam the forests outside my house, so we placed large rocks on top of the soil over the fawn, and then placed large rotting branches over the rocks, protecting it from more suffering that it would not feel anyway.
I don’t know why, but I just kept thinking that I would hope somebody would at least do that for me, if I had died out there in the woods, after crying out for help and finally receiving it.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Daddy Long Legs
The spider’s jaws kept working
While eight string-like (thread-like) legs
Wriggled on the sidewalk,
Unaware that they were not
Connected to the main body anymore.
I didn’t even think about
Looking into its eyes.
They were so small.
When I slapped my dog’s back-end
For digging a hole,
She looked up at me
And our eyes connected.
I hate smacking my dog.
Sometimes, though, the communication
Between us is non-existent
And my dog suffers for it.
She knows why she dug a hole.
I don’t.
Humans think themselves so smart.
Those spider legs knew why
They wriggled.
While eight string-like (thread-like) legs
Wriggled on the sidewalk,
Unaware that they were not
Connected to the main body anymore.
I didn’t even think about
Looking into its eyes.
They were so small.
When I slapped my dog’s back-end
For digging a hole,
She looked up at me
And our eyes connected.
I hate smacking my dog.
Sometimes, though, the communication
Between us is non-existent
And my dog suffers for it.
She knows why she dug a hole.
I don’t.
Humans think themselves so smart.
Those spider legs knew why
They wriggled.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Rubik's Ice Cube
Put this one together:
The words stick fast.
My eyes communicate volumes,
But nobody looks up,
Let alone in the eyes anymore.
There is a pool in a garden
That once narrated
Beautiful, enchanting tales
Of a bird that died instantaneously
When the pen finally touched the paper:
Fairies reeking of lips held together for too long;
Dragons provoking silver shades into yellow.
They soothe me to chloroform sleep.
The earth rolls over
Often in anguish,
Forgetful of what she was,
Or is, and could be fighting for.
Black knights of the twilight hour
Disregard how the minutes fall away,
Unchecked like the singing cicada
(The only thing I can create
With origami paper).
No, let’s not talk of Time’s icy glaciers.
This lightens things up:
I fall apart, again.
The words stick fast.
My eyes communicate volumes,
But nobody looks up,
Let alone in the eyes anymore.
There is a pool in a garden
That once narrated
Beautiful, enchanting tales
Of a bird that died instantaneously
When the pen finally touched the paper:
Fairies reeking of lips held together for too long;
Dragons provoking silver shades into yellow.
They soothe me to chloroform sleep.
The earth rolls over
Often in anguish,
Forgetful of what she was,
Or is, and could be fighting for.
Black knights of the twilight hour
Disregard how the minutes fall away,
Unchecked like the singing cicada
(The only thing I can create
With origami paper).
No, let’s not talk of Time’s icy glaciers.
This lightens things up:
I fall apart, again.
A Winter Afternoon
I allow the book in my hands
to fall softly into my lap
and close.
Mrs. Roth snores lightly
with her lips slightly parted,
giving the wheeze of death
room to breathe.
She stopped listening
two hours ago,
but I continued to read.
The snow outside the window
flutters down to cover the green
grass that strives to withstand
the cold.
A clock on the bright white wall
separates my thoughts into
little ticks and bigger tocks.
A drop of sweat caresses
my brow. The heat is stifling
but Mrs. Roth fears
the thought of freezing
to death.
to fall softly into my lap
and close.
Mrs. Roth snores lightly
with her lips slightly parted,
giving the wheeze of death
room to breathe.
She stopped listening
two hours ago,
but I continued to read.
The snow outside the window
flutters down to cover the green
grass that strives to withstand
the cold.
A clock on the bright white wall
separates my thoughts into
little ticks and bigger tocks.
A drop of sweat caresses
my brow. The heat is stifling
but Mrs. Roth fears
the thought of freezing
to death.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Letter to a Congressman or House Representative (Preferably Republican)
One evening as I walked off the dance floor with my lovely wife, another young couple stopped us. The guy said, “Hey, I just wanted to tell you that it was a real pleasure to dance near you. You have great rhythm!” (It is possible that he said we “good rhythm,” but at any rate he enjoyed our dancing skills.) That comment gave me a little more confidence than I already had about my sense of rhythm.
I’ve always felt that I have good rhythm. My friend Kyle and I would make our own rock music for hours on end. Kyle played the guitar and I beat-boxed (beat-boxing is using the mouth to create a drum-like sound). As the “percussionist,” I had to keep the rhythm going so the music sounded good. Every now and then I would mess up because my tongue would become tired, but people enjoyed listening to us nonetheless. It felt good when people smiled and bounced their bodies in time to Kyle’s guitar and my mouth-made beats.
I repeat, I’ve been confident that I have better rhythm than the average person. Until about three months ago. That was when my wife and I bought Guitar Hero: World Tour for the Xbox360 video game console. World Tour incorporates guitar, drums and vocals and gives the participants fleeting inspirational thoughts, like, “I should start my own band! I just killed that song on easy!” Within five minutes of attempting to play the drums, though, I lost all of the confidence I ever had that my rhythm was in any way good.
I would like to charge anybody involved with the development of Guitar Hero with the crime of stripping people of their rhythmical confidence. And while I’m at it with the accusations, Guitar Hero’s developers are also guilty of creating hallucinogenic effects within the minds of all those who play the game. When a song comes on the radio, no matter what song, I see circles of red, yellow, orange and sometimes blue and green scrolling from the top to bottom of my mind’s eye. The circles correspond to the different drumbeats in the song. I almost forgot about the horrid purple strip that randomly mixes with the colored circles. When that *?!@ing purple strip invades my mind, my calf starts to cramp up.
The makers of Guitar Hero have a lot to answer for. And I’ve only really addressed the drumming. I don’t think my high blood pressure can take it if I begin ranting about what the guitar does to my pinky finger or how the microphone makes me feel like I need to strain my voice on the songs sung by women (or Tokio Hotel).
I hope there is a Congressman or House Representative out there who is willing to aid me in my fight against the oppressive minds behind Guitar Hero. And once we’ve banished its evil from the earth, I’ve got more plans to clean up the video game industry. I’ve got the Wii in my crosshairs. I’ve heard rumors that some of the Wii games require the players to actually use their arm and leg muscles to get results out of the games!
I’ve always felt that I have good rhythm. My friend Kyle and I would make our own rock music for hours on end. Kyle played the guitar and I beat-boxed (beat-boxing is using the mouth to create a drum-like sound). As the “percussionist,” I had to keep the rhythm going so the music sounded good. Every now and then I would mess up because my tongue would become tired, but people enjoyed listening to us nonetheless. It felt good when people smiled and bounced their bodies in time to Kyle’s guitar and my mouth-made beats.
I repeat, I’ve been confident that I have better rhythm than the average person. Until about three months ago. That was when my wife and I bought Guitar Hero: World Tour for the Xbox360 video game console. World Tour incorporates guitar, drums and vocals and gives the participants fleeting inspirational thoughts, like, “I should start my own band! I just killed that song on easy!” Within five minutes of attempting to play the drums, though, I lost all of the confidence I ever had that my rhythm was in any way good.
I would like to charge anybody involved with the development of Guitar Hero with the crime of stripping people of their rhythmical confidence. And while I’m at it with the accusations, Guitar Hero’s developers are also guilty of creating hallucinogenic effects within the minds of all those who play the game. When a song comes on the radio, no matter what song, I see circles of red, yellow, orange and sometimes blue and green scrolling from the top to bottom of my mind’s eye. The circles correspond to the different drumbeats in the song. I almost forgot about the horrid purple strip that randomly mixes with the colored circles. When that *?!@ing purple strip invades my mind, my calf starts to cramp up.
The makers of Guitar Hero have a lot to answer for. And I’ve only really addressed the drumming. I don’t think my high blood pressure can take it if I begin ranting about what the guitar does to my pinky finger or how the microphone makes me feel like I need to strain my voice on the songs sung by women (or Tokio Hotel).
I hope there is a Congressman or House Representative out there who is willing to aid me in my fight against the oppressive minds behind Guitar Hero. And once we’ve banished its evil from the earth, I’ve got more plans to clean up the video game industry. I’ve got the Wii in my crosshairs. I’ve heard rumors that some of the Wii games require the players to actually use their arm and leg muscles to get results out of the games!
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