Autonal II

(i salvaged some images from a poem i posted under "experiment of sound" on TPS--i liked them and i didnt want them wasted on that poem)

Autonal II

I crush
elder bones
like decayed

leaves
to an iron
heel--

the day's
tread halts
beneath it.

The swift
of my hand
is Inertia--

look,
look here
upon it:

watch
the Rose
implode;

watch
the Scythe
drip death

into
the cracks
of my palm.

Wake me
or
not:

My snore
crumbles
towers--

And my morning
breath
is Chernobyl sour.

work not in progress, in egress, or rogaine

if i go out and observe a fern,
helpless meal for a snail,
holding out a frond rolled like a fist--
impotent protestation

maybe i will become a poet
like mary oliver, and people
will implore me to read in public forums
and local bookstores
and publishers will plead.

then how would i write on this machine?

(after listening to oliver reading oliver in my car all week. hmm)

Shoes, a Fight, a Rake, and Some Kid With Blocks

Today, New York was fire-bombed
by the flames of ten thousand Nike's.

A policeman beat down a king
because a queen wanted to remarry.

Love, sick of standing aside,
decided to fight and lost to Fear.

A woman drove by in a minivan. Her children were laughing.

Disappointed with the falling leaves,
a man tried to throw his rake at the sun.
When it stuck back in the ground,
he told people it fell from heaven.

I saw a group of people worshiping the rake
through a window at my optometrist's office.
I looked down and saw a child playing with blocks.
The lead-based letters spelled out one word:

"Death"

No one noticed and I wasn't surprised.


-Brad McKenzie