Writing, Poetry, Short Stories, Reviews, Art Contests
You’re Lookin’ at Country
No one knew the flame that would burn from the slight sparkle of her flowing dress and big hair Across the lead-in she boomed like Jack’s beanstalk from a bed of coal She gutshot you, as you sit weighing heartbreak like it hid beneath the longneck’s label She came from a time when stars announced themselves in rhinestone letters on a fretboard Peanuts on the floor, here comes a feeling so big you can’t keep it to yourself 2nd Poetry Showcase for Aaron Wiegert
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
Let the Sound Come to You
There was a boy nearing graduation, With great acceleration, college on the horizon, First in his family to --he was pulled from one side Of the gravel, down into the ditch & never made curfew. Mom and dad cried and tried to find Meaning and with an open heart They gave the body of his car To the graduating class. The mangled frame sat on the back Of a flatbed’s slow tow around the town, In the homecoming parade, as boys and girls Hammered the broken body without the joy Or excitement of tires or glass Or an engine’s rush of gas. Candy was tossed to the children, The football game was lost or won, But the blind eyes of spraypainted metal still Lets the sound come to you. More Than a Carnivore Could Bear (as told by my grandma about her husband's childhood) He had a dog, part-wolf, Whose hunger was epic, As his family had little to eat. It had been weeks Since they had meat, More than a carnivore could bear. So they collected wages To calm their craving. Upon the block, his family watched The Butcher stuff hot dogs, And decided on one each. Mother carried the paper package In her coat, and unwrapped It in the kitchen. Imagine Part-Wolf’s suspicion At the scent of fresh meat. Mother took the plate away. Her trip to the hot plate Was smooth, so much that She slid and the meat flew Up and into the eye Of Part-Wolf’s teeth, Snap and swallow, before A scrum or tug-of-war. So went The meat drought, Along with the Depression, Until it didn’t matter What dog they ate. Climb the Heights We were just Impossible Obstacles Standing, watching either end Of the Valley Of a barren marriage. And in the Valley, walls so tall Only a whisper of dreams Could climb the heights To pass where escape lies As a basin, Lush with sap sweet Water, if only enough to skim, In this impossible proportion To the dry, flat clime Where time pulses like the night sweats Of a neon saint with a circus in tow Medics and Missing House Numbers The passage of choice is a memory mirrored, Not a hallway necessity like a locked firehose cabinet. I regret not having a pass but had to see The red lights on the ceiling that are still squealing. Smash glass? No, sir. It’s no funhouse really, Just an extinguisher taking advantage Of the frame’s weak woodgrain. I don’t know What you found, I can’t attest to that anymore Than the worm tracks on autopsied back fat. The distance between alone and together? The greater the better, bigger pills with more color. How can you swallow a photograph taken At the moment of decision? There’s no map To get back, even to itself– useless. Yes, there was a camera but don’t mind the process, Exposure and acid and… Relief in the form of a Note: There’s no need for numbers in real life. There, Did you hear that? The sirens have been lost for hours, Spaced out, in motion like an excellent illusion, even If it’s too good to be true, just know there’s no framework For feeling, true for daily dosage, one by one I’ve watched the house numbers fall as the ambulance Drones around in concentric circles and I can still see you. The Corpse Flower The Botanical Center is a replica of the terrestrial, Feeling lunar, artificial, a big bubble off the freeway. The attraction was the bloom of the Corpse Flower, A giant, imported and set far enough away To be bothered by only a live feed camera. We paid admission and waited days, Married all the while. Standing on a footbridge in a controlled Climate, I felt like an astronaut On a movie set. While away, we checked in on the live stream, Awaiting the hamburger-scented bloom. Can a camera capture other senses? We watched in case her jaws would fall open Like the maw of a busted melon. With uncertainty, time grew slow and meaning swelled. Attention to the plant became a sheen To preserve the moisture of memory, Like the head of a room-centered bust. And the live stream crept as though our watching Would beckon a gardener, to unmask this plant And reveal the great flower’s teeth. It wasn’t to be. Pictures were taken to preserve the day And populate dating profiles, there was great momentum For leaving, then there was the gift shop But I only wanted to put my face to the bloom, And Inhale the scent of our abortion’s birth.
Fevers of the Mind 