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





A Fevers of the Mind Poetry Showcase for Aaron Wiegert

brown train rail near green trees during daytime

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. 

Wolfpack Contributor: Aaron Wiegert






%d bloggers like this: