2nd Poetry Showcase for Aaron Wiegert

photo from pixabay

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. 

Wolfpack Contributor: Aaron Wiegert

A Fevers of the Mind Poetry Showcase for Aaron Wiegert





By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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