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The Big Weakness


Having eaten the all of the wildflowers
in the front lawn, 

a nausea that lends its self 
to affability, to dinner parties,

to remaining seated and
toasting to our gastronomical malady
with Pepto-Bismol cocktails.

a collective rumination just joined, 
a subsequent acid reflux that encourages
one to speak up. 

"Oh, an aster in my teeth?
Thank you.

Now what was I saying.
Yes!"

 


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block of green in the bend by the river 
in green, then rust, then white, then with 
some dread. 
Compounded, accumulated momentary awareness of the passing of things or another walk around the island. My favorite block of green. Better to not know what it is actually is and better off for reciting, "Oh, I just love this building," on every passing. 
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in the future everyone will live
like this. 

a vision, a visit from 
Saint Pepsi, 

found in the presence of
Best Buy Comrade

watching his Favorite
CNN anchors

to stay connected 
and alert. 

He loves them and 
they love him. 

He loves me too, 
Saint Pepsi. 

Just Ask 
Best Buy Comrade. 

They Know. 



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who did we think we were talking to
when as children we released balloons
on Sunday

And who did we actually reach.

a partially inflated balloon
having just peaked mid-thermosphere
rejoins the hopefuls.

Hopefuls who command respect and admiration
with the subversive, ever just departing
Helium-induced super-ego. 

Hopefuls with all hopes in the clouds, 
disposing of uplifting rubber spit sacks 
in other people's lawns

as a best case scenario. 

The reality, however. More absurd. 
They found You didn't they. My 
best friend. 

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Keep This Stub

This street, 
shrine, 
concrete bench, 
sewage pumping station, 
Stewart's. 
Events come, 
like drawing slips of paper
from an abandoned raffle. 
No one wanted the prize yet, 
how interesting to know who 
puts their names in; 
It was for a good cause,
you know. 
How interesting to find names
in foot prints in the snow. 
I forgot I bought those raffle tickets. 
How odd to find them here. 
How odd to share this prize: 
January. 


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radiant glow -
a tanning bed adjacent
to dreaming bed surrounded
by tawdry angel decor.

heavenly host.
my mother sees angels:
everywhere, in the woman
across the intersection
who tells her to make me
put on my seat belt on.

She obeys consideration,
reveres kindness, and finds
holy - recognition,

"I see that you are going
through a lot. I want you
to know that He never
gives us anything we
cannot handle."

Brought to her knees
by platitude, weeping
in a Walmart parking lot
because someone saw
halos under her eyes.





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2/3 of a cinder block
over my mother's
favorite cat that I ran
over on my way to
the public library.

To keep the neighbor's
dog from digging up the
shallow grave I dug in the
2/3 hard clay soil.

Finally, softer earth
for my mother's favorite
black cat. My grandmother
gives the eulogy, sings the
memory of his last day as
she saw it; it was good.

I plop the cinder block
down into the hole and
the Walmart bag
casket pops.
Pops like the cat's
little stomach when I found
him in the drive way covered
with flies. They were there for him.
Giving him kisses, taking him
home.

They weren't afraid to touch
him. I am no better than a fly.
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A Dream from November.


My Pappy speaks only sweetness and fear when he asks me, "Ryan Scott, who do you think God is?"

We sit together on the floor in the den. 
Ceramic logs in the gas fire place bake his heart.
I recall following the same smell from my bed where I woke
cold and alone during the ice storm of 1995.
I found my family gathered in the den talking
with reverent voices, their faces flickering.
I found them as if they had hid from me with
the distinct intention of giving me something to find.

Now, only Pappy's face is flickering.
The ceramic logs have burned black.
He looks to me and asks,
"Who do you think God is?"

An almost dawn in November of 2018, 
I woke and stared at the wall. 
"Do you know who I am?" 
The thought makes me cry. 
I feel a great alien-ness. 
A cold, indifferent
attachment
to my room;
this,
the hospital bed
in the scene
of my death.

There are no corridors emanating bread
to follow,
for reverent voices to echo down.
Just a window
beating back the first chill and soft light.
And a radiator that I forgot to turn on. 


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