Enola Gay

     At first glance, the scene looks peaceful: a placid pond shimmering in a verdant meadow. But on closer inspection you can see that the air is swarming, the water teeming with acts of violence. The general squats on his round flat dais, croaking orders into the spiky microphone of a floating blossom. All around, segmented biplanes buzz on transparent wings. Dive-bombing damselflies are picked off one by one by a snipe hidden in the reeds. Mosquito larvae hang suspended just beneath the surface, wriggling with impatience, eager to unsheathe their bayonets and join the fray. In the depths far below them, an armored submersible lurks in the thick gloom, waiting to rise from below to snatch another bobbing frigate from the duckling armada. The pacifist fish hope that if they remain motionless they will evade the piercing shell of the egret torpedo. Fascinated by the skirmish, you lean forward and slip on the muddy embankment. The explosion of your body smacking the water causes a brief cease-fire, as the battalions scramble to escape the resulting tidal wave that pummels the shore, casting the water striders into the grass and flooding the muskrats from their trenches. Sadly, the impact is not enough to end the battle for domination of this tiny body of water, this strategically useless puddle, and the tiny creatures are soon back at work, doing their best to annihilate one another here in these wetlands of mass destruction. 

Grail

A McDonald’s take-out bag has hurled its guts,

strewing its contents like the innards of a squashed rabbit

across the sidewalk. Its wadded paper organs mingle 
with scattered fries and condiment packets.  
When we were young, my brother and I,
having finished our Happy Meals and already bored 
with the apathetic prizes that came inside

would squeeze all those little bladders flat,
mixing their contents together in a paper cup:
mustard, mayonnaise, "fancy" ketchup, 
stirring in a splash of cola, plopping in the pickles plucked 
from our flaccid cheeseburgers. Then, giggling like mad scientists, 
we’d dare one another to swallow the concoction. 
 I would give anything to sample one of those noxious cocktails again,

just so I could watch my brother break into paroxysms of hilarity, 
so I could once again listen to him cackle 
at the way my face contorted with disgust,
even as I declared the stuff delicious.

I'm certain that a single taste 
would transport me back to my childhood

more efficiently than a nibble of Proustian pastry ever could. 
Although I'm not sure I could bring myself 
to actually swallow the questionable digestif,
nostalgia goads me to revisit that moment
where nausea gives way to anticipation
as I smack my lips and pass my brother the chalice.  

Manna

         The angels are gobbling their steak rare, worrying the meat like wolves then gulping it down without chewing since, after all, they don't have any teeth. They dab the corners of their mouths with napkins made of stitched-together foreskins. They wiggle their toes in delight beneath the tablecloth, occasionally kicking the cherub-crabs that scuttle about their feet, clicking at the bits they drop. They flick peas at one another across the table with their spoons, dip their paws in fingerbowls filled with holy water. They guzzle soda pop to fuel their belching contests, hoping to catch the attention of any saintly agents who might happen to be in the vicinity and who could stop by to listen and nod in approval, perhaps even offer them a contract. They slurp oysters from the shell, as well as the occasional fetus. They gorge at the golden trough, trying to sate their eternal appetites. Occasionally one eats so much it bursts, its guts raining down upon the earth, where we sinners snatch it up, a bucket of chum tossed out over the deep.

Rothko Soliloquy

The actor portraying Mark Rothko
in the local production of a play about the artist
is being given a private tour of the gallery
by the head curator of the museum.
Both men are pale, portly, and bald.
The curator pontificates
about brush strokes and layering;
in one scene, the actor and his assistant
(a convenient prop fabricated by the playwright)
paint a canvas solid red, but not before
discussing at great length the various permutations
and implications, and variations, both physical and metaphoric,
of that grisly color. The actor peers closely
at the paintings, backs up, strokes his chin.
The curator stands with his arms crossed,
his voice deep and authoritative.
The master instructing his pupil,
unlocking the artist's secrets:
There's a little bit of white in there.
He preferred dime-store brushes to expensive ones.
Notice the scumbling around the edges.
...as the apprentice murmurs I see and interesting.
Once onstage, he will bellow and bark lines
from a script that reads like an undergrad dissertation, 
salted with every imaginable cliche
of the volatile, egotistic stereotype of the Artist.
Nietzsche's name will be spat across the stage,
the words Dionysian and Apollonian will be hurled about 
to reassure the audience that they are witnessing a work
of great seriousness, that they have come to this theater
not to be entertained but to be inspired, 
lifted into the heights of intellectual nirvana.

When the two substantial gentlemen have strutted off,
each going his separate way, I secure the gallery doors
and flip the breakers to shut off the lights.
And there they hang, those luminous creatures,
those butchered slabs of beef,
their crimson hides turned to bruises in the dark,
longing perhaps to share their sublime grace,
but nevertheless treasuring the silence.

Mugshots

A shingle, glittering gray
and rough as sandpaper,

peeled from the roof
by the wind and slapped

at the feet of a chalk outline
of a child's shadow 

traced on the pavement
beside a black Tbird 

with its hood propped,
engine ticking in the sun.

The Pride of the Wolverines

        After the parade, the street is littered with porcupine quills scattered like pick-up sticks across the asphalt. City workers pull on thick gloves to remove the splintery sawhorses that block the traffic. The crowd has dispersed rather suddenly A small child squats amongst the popped ballonskins and silly string, spelling out his name in quills. He tugs at his mother's hand but she is busy texting a message to her sister. That's nice, Honey, she says, never taking her eyes off the little screen. The plod of an exhumed Sousa march still echoes lethargically between the buildings as the last band staggers around the corner and collapses. 
     Thirty years pass. The porcupines have conquered the nation. In the basement of an abandoned Woolworth's on the outskirts of Detroit, the son stretches his arm through the bars and gently bumps the stump of his wrist against his mother's. He nudges his bowl of pine needle soup toward her, urging her to eat. The swill is congealed and cold, but still it's sustenance, and they take turns bending low and slurping from the bowl without a word.

Cleave

An early spring storm brought down 
one of the big elms on the corner. 
A woman was trapped beneath it briefly, 
cradled between its branches but
swiftly rescued without a scratch. 
The upper limbs of the tree, not yet budding, 
came to rest against the old stone church 
across the street, shattering one 
of the stained glass windows. 
A single squirrel darted up and down 
the trunk for a while 
before finally disappearing 
through the narrow aperture 
into the building. 
I stood there thinking about you 

as city workers set flares in the road 
and strung up a web of yellow caution tape. 
Rainwater filled the hole where the roots had been. 
Soon the chainsaws would start up, 
followed by the grind and munch 
of the woodchipper reducing 
the toppled giant to sawdust 
as inside the church, a small furry creature 
darted beneath the pews, its tiny heart 
pounding wildly in the dark.