Failure at all Costs

We would make sure we'd fail. We took every precaution against success that we could. Since the age of one we have sucked at everything -- spoke gibberish until we were 12, kept breastfeed until we were 18, wore a diaper till were 24, slept in a crib till we were 30. Our school report cards sparkled with iridescent Fs, minuses studding them like diamonds. Employers paid us to not work for them, closed their blinds when we looked in their factory windows. Significant others wished we were insignificant; insignificant errors turned into significant problems. Heaven wouldn't let us in its pearly gate, hiding its angels from view inside blackened clouds. Hell didn't need one more screw-up on its solid gold road, doing paving work. We were disappointed, after all this effort, to discover we'd succeeded. You might've heard of us, the object lessons, the morals of this story, the hypothetical example that proves to be obvious after all.

Omnivore

I had a tooth ask me for breakfast yesterday. I said, toast and jam, coffee and laxatives, as usual. The mouth is a weird instrument. It plays beetles and worms when I'm asleep. I'm not surprised that bugs slip through the windows into my dreams. The eyes let it happen. Connected to the brain by delicate spider strands of bullets, they shoot nightmares into my lungs. Ten times a night I wake up out of breath, wondering if God has shut down existence forever. What would it be like to be inside a coffin, dead but alive, knowing there was no way out? I promise the tooth it will also eat dinner. Carnivores love their flesh, omnivores like me understand that they are that.

Hey, We're Getting Close

If Poetry Journal: I have accepted my submissions, designed most of the journal on Page Maker, and am waiting for contributors notes. I also need to send out proofs (.pdf files via e-mail.) early next week. Contributor's will each get a copy and my undying gratitude (worth very little on the open market). Blog: http://ifpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/

Withhold

As the last sunlight destroyed itself in the universe, I had a chance to debate with myself the meaning of the word "withhold." Experts told me that it's about keeping things from someone beautiful. What things, I asked, flowers, bananas, Chiclets, charm bracelets, children, life-saving medicines, love? They explained it was complete, that not even a smile should be given, so that the galaxy would collapse into a black hole named after your hate. I sat on the last comet zipping toward the last pinpoint of collapsed matter, and I remembered the park where we walked, its trees and ponds full of birds, and I crushed an ant in front of you, and you frowned. It's times like these that I wish I could have that ant back.

Freezing

The temperature inside your body must be zero degrees Celsius. You see me swimming in a quicksand lake, yelling "I'm dying! I'm not kidding! I'm dying!" and you quickly turn the corner to buy a newspaper from a blind man. Or you notice me being mugged by a fifty foot tall revolver, a bullet as large as my body, the trigger finger being rubbed by poison ivy, and you take a call on your cell phone instead. I can't cut you open to be sure, because that's against the law, I've heard, or acceptable only during surgery to replace malfunctioning organs. Perhaps I should hide in your closet with a surgical mask and a scalpel. When they find me over your form, frozen solid like a fudge pop, I will tell them I'm a professional who knew a blizzard was contained in you. I will them I had to be sure.

Turncoat

At last we found him, hiding inside the mirror.