Livia
Sweet Livia in her chambers studied hard
Canidia’s Poison Handbook for the Wife
where hellebore and hemlock came five-starred—
each cut through inner workings like a knife.
Beguiling souls to take a careless nip
of aconite or Circe’s herb delight
required great expertise. By craftsmanship,
by coax and coo, Livia earned the right
to reach the pantheon. But Oh, the scars!
She left too many Romans out of breath
for putting Empress up amongst the stars.
And now—well deified beyond her death
despite her schemes, her tricks, her razzmatazz—
she has whatever hell she thinks she has.
Canine Typing
“The quick red fox jumps over the
lazy brown dog.”
- Old typing manual
The fox was sleek and red and quick with feet
and tricks when she was younger, kicking up
her heels at every chance she got. This fleet,
outrageous, saucy flitter, since she was a pup,
had lived the high life—much higher than, say,
dog…poor Missy meditates a lot. She’s lax
and overfed and fixed, not fit for play
or hunting down small prey. There is no wax,
just wane in Missy’s life. But one spring day
the aging, heedless, graying vixen limps
along the path behind the old café,
behind the garbage cans where, we might glimpse,
our lazy Missy naps—or strictly speaking,
waits with one eye closed and one eye peeking.
Aliens Report on Crop Circles
They work at night by lamplight or by moon.
By always turning left with plank and rope,
they bend tall corn to earth to draft each rune
through interlocking curvatures. They lope
until they grace the field with magic script.
Beyond destructive beauty, what’s their game?
It’s clear they frame their text for those equipped
to view it from the sky – what they proclaim
and whom they claim it to, we cannot say.
Two codgers crushing cornstalks! We confess,
they have us stumped – it isn’t child’s play
to decipher circles. We can only guess
what yarns, what tales of victories and scars,
what humbug lies they try to tell the stars.
Why We Messed with Hansel's Breadcrumbs
Our magic forest bears a tragic scene -
black witchcraft turns stray souls to birds for fun.
These peacocks, crows, and ducks did not convene
by choice. Her cackledom is overrun
with emus, loons, and cockatoos who dupe
and lure lost birders, lovers … anyone
to help us end this hex. Our frantic whoops
and squawks can’t kill or maim or even stun -
recruitment is our only hope to break
these spells. To waste that hag! Last night, sly wrens
and sparrows choked down musty crumbs to fake
new prospects deep into the woods where tens
of thousands twitter – finches, coots, and grouse –
as two small forms draw near the dreaded house.
Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus
Bombastus von Hohenheim
(Paracelsus)*
Who murdered
Paracelsus in the bar?
Who knocked the honored doctor down the stair
to crack his skull? The doc - launched though the air
above conventional descent, cigar
in hand, still chugging vodka like a czar,
still crass and arrogant - had spiel to spare
despite his sudden flight from here to there.
This highest priest of booze and cinnabar
did not fare well. Bones crumbled from the fall.
Small wonder we remember him bizarre.
But who would have the moxie, spunk, and gall
to fell our cocky, cranky superstar?
Why, it could be just anyone at all
who murdered the good doctor in the bar.
* German-Swiss alchemist and physician. 1493 – 1541.
Smelling Trouble
Pinocchio, fed up with being bad,
was sick of being just a stick of wood.
Each cat or fox who prowled the neighborhood
with dark intent thought, "What a likely lad!"
And Twig was easy prey. His noggin
had
a gnarly knot (the cricket understood)
and limbic hurly burly gnawed for good
by tiny teeth. Delinquent and a cad,
he was inclined to fib and steal and cheat.
"I always lie!" he sobbed while sniffing glue.
His beak, unsure to stay or to accrete,
began to tremble, rumble,
quiver, grumble,
smolder, quake—
then blew
to oaken smithereens. Talk about
your shocks!
Twig became the poster boy of paradox.
Soria Moria and the Devil Return to
San Diego
“Burlesque dancer Soria Moria and
friend, circa 1949.”
- Photo caption,
Historical societies display
old photos like this one of Satan’s taut
and tawny partner in a dance. They sway
seduction (not romance), a thought once bought
by sailors from burlesque down by the bay.
A manikin is all Soria brought
to act as demon escort, yet her play
of fingers in suggestive ways once got
the City Fathers judging her techniques.
They caught her show a dozen times in all;
then jailed her to curtail the naughty peeks.
Times change, for now the devil and his moll—
no longer threats to cause our sinful fall—
politely prance forever on the wall.
The Paradox of the Wobbling Egg
Behold the hard-boiled Easter egg, dyed red
and cobalt blue, spun hard upon its side.
The tiny coffin twirls - its hues collide
and blur into confusion. But, instead
of smoothly whirling like a spool, its thread
of execution swings it with a tide
reborn of deft imbalance - swings it wide
into a wobble - raises it from dead
to standing upon end! Amazing sign!
I’m told it’s sacrilege to analyze
an icon’s tears or faces seen in pine
bark or strange auras pulsing from the skies.
Will you and I be blessed for what we’ve done
if we leave ordinary eggs unspun?
Women Reaching for the Moon *
One woman, flared in tangerine, can fly.
The other’s earthbound, distant, plain, and dark.
Above them, streaking in a counter-arc,
a comet tries to warn them what’s too high.
But look! They grasp analogy. They spy
a silver rim, a sightless eye unblinking -
see triangled spangles brightly linking
out across the gray and blue-milk sky.
Two phantoms stretch above their motherlands
where, strained by wondrous lunacy, they try
to guide the nascent moon across the sky
within the crescent cradles of their hands.
