Screen Door Heart
This morning the wind kicked up a tiny Funnel of dust against our trailer’s steps To slam, shake my screen door heart, all I’ve got to work with, a sieve for the honey Drip of yes, we need money and a lifetime Of I-don’t-have-time-fors, the question is Never: What have I done? We’re only human, flesh to face humiliation, I think you know, as I do, that amidst chaos Any decision beats none at all, and it can’t Be just you, yourself to blame in a world That isn’t a vacuum or crumby carpet to Be cleaned, it’s just a bad break or clump Of hair, cat poop, or dead rat who moved Inside because my own domestic presence Is obese, declawed, blind. Circumstance can turn a daily checklist into A hit list, or even worse, a bucket list With no time to spare, preservation is Worthless, atrocities abound, too late, How far along are we in our decision Not to have another crushing defeat At our doorstep? At times there are only bad choices, then There’s no other way but another, and Another, like a scrapyard of fatally crashed Cars painted in shades not made in a fistful Of decades, another and again, Like a stone path smiley face Around an unmarked grave. Even Junkies Could Afford Good Taste For Allen Ginsberg & William S. Burroughs They’re so lost they’ve best been Forgotten For everyone’s sake Especially necessary if making hope The grandeur of memory centered, staged like an outdoor family Photo, don’t confuse though Remember it was a time when even junkies could afford good taste, a gilded mirror announcing a kitchen or common room division Life was as has been a diversion then and now but neither Requires narration, theme song or introduction The passing was pure Reminding us of the linear nature In which we live as always Face to the window like a flower licking passion’s fire, A benevolent sentient creature central to creation We Are All Ghosts Imagine a feather in weight and in texture, slicing a living heart that oozes what is empirically Pure Happiness (kind of a mess). Staring into the lamplight’s reflection in the dark window, I see the iceberg of time: Cool, blue, deep and pure. There’s a place far back in my head that beams Relaxation, a dim lit tall glass reflection, no longer alone, calm as meditation, Maybe a ghost, passive with no agenda, gradually approaching, he is me arriving to a seat so plush it reels like angelic fuzz, Alone its own importance, a symbol of purpose and intent, And the movement within the lampshade is exact: An acceptance, this feeling, this ache, This peace curated by self alone. And I awaken to a woman singing in my kitchen, an unfamiliar old world melody, like a bird I went to talk with her about the unlocked door Not being an invitation, but she continued singing and I went back to sleep. She hasn’t returned but the door has been bolted and We are our best selves when we’re unknown Death of an Old Robot I am the audience and the film itself, A dual role with overwrought expectations. Face to face with this crappy old robot, A cheap 80s looking head, more brakelights than flesh, And no way it could be mistaken for a human, But the fact finders found that it is indeed my father. No drama, it was just is: Two orange eyes hidden in lightless amber reflectionless reflectors The lights came on like exorcism, And the head moved. I saw no weapons or chance of aggression Or self defense, The creaky blabbery awkwardness ignited like a Babylonian curse, In the mode of an all trash talk jive The spirit was analog, Ghost in the machine, I grabbed the vacuum hose, serving as arms and neck, And crushed it like a rodless back, choking animations, Power felt like the death of three PCs and a Mac, This is the milestone at 35 years old That should have been apparent Lab Leak We knew it was bad. Tests confirmed a backlog experiment …something escaped And spun off like a sitcom in silence Peppering the forest with the harsh truths of creation A synthesis of zoology and particle acceleration, Remember the graphs? We sunk like eyes from the sun and took up a fierce front Like masks of a sullen owl Acting quickly to keep ahead of questions Of treason and madness We built or story To blend two brutal maxims 1. Blame the passive with what’s affecting them and 2. Never let a crisis go to waste All we had were our reputations to provide for our families, pay the rent So we went with a ‘fish market’ plot to incite basic race misunderstanding, a cartoon really Because what happens once death tolls rival world wars? On our hands…no, it wasn’t our problem, regardless of where funding came from, The middle of a pandemic is no time To begin taking care of yourself. A Fevers of the Mind Poetry Showcase for Aaron Wiegert
Fevers of the Mind 