PATIENT BOB HAS CLEANED THE PREVIOUS RESIDUE of wanton puppy escapades away. Augie Doggie sleeps soundly in the parlor; the quiet, profound.
BBZZZZZ . . .a distant chainsaw din rips through the silence, yanking Augie from slumber land, setting off a chain of barking.
Not much smell: pollen, sweetness.
The buzzing mass hovers under the ceiling, crosses the room. Augie follows, jumping, barking. Catches the curtains under paw, they fall. The smidgen moves faster, looping, banging against the walls. Augie knocks pictures off the walls. Bob arrives home, out flies the buzzer. Augie sits, decompresses. Bob’s brow furrows. He sighs.
AUGIE DOGGIE IS SPIC AND SPAN, back on farm patrol duty. The mud snorters, ground scratchers, and grass munchers appear safe, so Augie heads indoors for a sweep. Passing the living room, Augie freezes when a ping-pong-sized shadow flits, then vanishes. A few growl-barks sound; sniff sniff, the game is afoot!
The menacing, inch-long tuft of fur streaks under the bar cabinet, so does Augie’s head whose larger back-end follows shortly acting as a lever to topple the bar, the various spirits and crystal glasses crash to the floor.
The vole odor gone, Augie prances proudly onward.
Waddling down from the
temperate firs netted with
red-brown moss, the red
bear-cat outfoxes the snow
leopard tracking the cuteness.
From foothill forests
of the Himalayan range,
pandas eat bamboo,
the reason for the false thumb:
like giant pandas
of no close relationship;
just the same food source.
The Himalayan Mountains
plowed by crashing India,
tall as gravity
allows: a postcard bleakness
frames the red panda,
a musteloid related
to weasels, skunks and raccoons.
It twitters and tweets
at dusk and into the night,
cleaning like a cat
before marking on patrol.
A cornered fire fox stands tall.
The sense of smell sits
on the margin of memory,
connections that conjure
the relics and records
collecting layers of
dust, darkening buddhi.
Evolving volatiles that
whiff of chocolate or coffee,
waft from the timeworn
tomes drafting whilom tense:
measures that manufacture
the mind from milestones.
NO MATTER THE SIZE , power source or brand, flashlights die swiftly in the hands of Kerri. No viable theory has explained this unreasonable phenomenon that seems to violate Newtonian law.
The first flashlight to expire in her early-aged, energy-draining hands did so after clearing it of Christmas wrapping; in went the batteries which promptly ceased functioning five minutes later, the next set, the same, exchanging the gift the day after changed nothing.
Then came the night when the car quit on the country lane, “Crap!” The 1100 lumens found the defective fuse; then darkness rushed into the car.
Shades of former selves in the caverns below
mill around the Lethe and the Styx, abstract.
Coda for the ages of man from Shakespeare
settle in ebbing.
Metabolic failings announce onsetting
aging filching life from the cells and tissues:
fading sight, and silence replaced with phantom
chirping of crickets.
Souvenirs of memory counter symptoms,
leading one to question the worth of life;
databases adding up bits of self-hood—
proof of existence
more alive than life, that is only machine:
longing spirit acting despite the laws of
thermodynamics, that slow the spinning gears
toward a standstill.
Torsion from the torque
and elasticity from wire
are the forces uncorked,
with friction as a biter;
orders pages like a binder,
slid easily between loops:
outer: major; inner: minor—
a bit of elegance in these swoops,
which makes the jagged ends–brutes.
With a minimal design
no one has improved this Gem
clip with parallel sides,
bestowing order when papers whelm.
Six-Million clips made it to film—
victims of the Holocaust.
War worn resistance on lapels
to ward against civil loss:
a symbol for personnel
bound together against hell.
The uses for this implement
multiply; when it is unbent.