The southern forest

Misty woods in the dark
Photo by Rosie Fraser on Unsplash

Found below the gnarled tree
are woods where few venture
due to disappearances,
save one or two teenagers
walking in with a baby and walking out with none,
and a baby might be fed  flesh by crows
 from carcasses
picked until the flesh becomes insufficient
and it must learn to hunt with others
from the wood, exposing itself to moonlight,

venturing out to little houses, stealing clothes
from empty ones, stealing people from the full,
and on such a night, a wife missing,
 someone furious lit
a flashlight and roused his neighbors,
who also lit flashlights and lanterns,

into  wood they went
till all  lights were extinguished,
quiet and swift,
and autumn howled as it always did,
without further interruption,

No one remaining in town said a word,
the moneyed had left
and the poor waited their turn,
tying bows to the gnarled tree
hearing fairies laughing behind them.

A gnarled tree reaches towards heaven and digs deeper

Gnarled tree
Photo by Lily Banse on Unsplash
In spite of lightning or fire, I'm not quite sure,
a tree journeys to clouds
to talk to the almighty, also digging deep 
to touch and talk with older trees,
its branches grazing the brick
of a little church, its whole body strangled `
by Christmas lights,
whether through lightning, no one is certain
why the burns,

Move it does regardless,
leaves cycling with earth's revolutions regardless,
defiant, having defeated axes and chainsaws,
the marks show and we call it ugly,
but birds favor it and  moss warms its thighs,
chirps interrupt  occasional worshippers
of daytime
  who, frustrated,  go elsewhere
and five folk  gather around it 
some evenings,

unconcerned with the posts on either side,
like an an angel of brown, black, green and gold
it spreads its limbs out to capture air uplifting,
fairies play below it while you're not looking,
with pipes and lutes, enjoying 
 familiar hissing permeating its presence,

when there's a death in  town, it's decorated
with a  bow,
it bears unidentifiable fruit we
are too afraid to eat,
it sits close between two rivers,
each with a bridge, one in the east
the other in the west, to the north is a wide
green field and to the south is a forest 
few people go into
because the few who go in don't come out,

a branch once fell and killed a man,
but no one minded because the populace
disliked him,

aunties say it was a man who was cursed
for being unfaithful,
not the dead guy, but the tree,
but chances are the man cheated too,

a couple of boys tried nailing a basketball hoop
to it, but the nails wouldn't penetrate,
they'd keep bending,

a dog once urinated on the tree
 and was found littering the ground in pieces,
blood trailing southward,

the young trees bow towards it
as if straining to hear commands,

not sure if by fire, the tree was burned,
but likely the arsonist is  fertilizer.

Fruit wars: The battle for pineapple island

Apples on top of grapes in a bowl
Photo by Yoksel 🌿 Zok on Unsplash

The grapes were ready with their machine guns,
shooting into the air while screaming,
riding mopeds,
rousing themselves up,
Apple looked at them
from a distance with binoculars.
They're coming.
He calculated, considered,
strategized, consulted Granny Smith,
launched a raspberry grenade,
an explosion of flavor.
Apple, the cannibal, sipped the results,
having wine the evening
of his victory.

Big-headed, green alien with large black eye and grim bearing in a car.

So I set your spaceship on fire because you had the nerve to abduct me during the pandemic

There are probably a number of approaches, applied in different combinations,
first in steel and iron, then in gold and silver, later in satins,
dotting them on the canvas, straightening your afro with your free hand,
thinking how things might be terrifying on a spaceship, but also a little liberating,
the possibility of boredom vanishes instantly. You hope the aliens are stupid
enough to give you the wheel so you can test the limitations of their FTL tech.
Who is this strange human
and why does their leisurewear look so comfortable? 

"It can't be helped", you yell out, laughing, slippers swishing, running
from the four foot minions. 

Sometimes, when you look up at a shooting star, think, for a second
that it could be you setting someone's spaceship on fire,
bringing humanity to the cosmos.

What if Salvador Dali’s face is normal and you’re the weirdo: A poem about perspective and how we take our uniqueness for granted

First, I must say I don't care much for defending the guy's face,
but chances are you were wrong all along 
and the swimsuit magazines show the face of Salvador Dali on the cover
to say, "See. We're normal."
Salvador's face is normal and you're a weirdo,
he has a curly mustache and he makes googly eyes,
Little children will play in front of his paintings
and be shushed by their parents for years.
Monitor with a Youtube menu on the screen.

The marvelous microchip: Random collected thoughts in singsong form about computer-related things

Isn't it funny you're all the way where you are
reading me through something brought about by ones and zeros,
that the glow is comforting, I bet, said the screen,
I'm kind of okay with clacking keys,
fitting with my nervous temperament.
If I type quickly enough I can hear cheering.
My glowing clock says 1am. The f**k,
why am I still typing?

HUHUHUH, LOOK AT ALL THIS COOL SH**  on the internet,
says my reptile brain.
I slither. Something about me is cyberpunk.
Not true says my natural-looking hair
anyway, it's time to eat cheesy snacks
and type some more.

Here's the marvelous microchip,
Man looking into the distance over hills

I suppose there are studies on sights seen by nocturnal humans

I know we're in some way or form asking who does to the doer,
but can we at least consider if any doing should be done, 
eliminating action where better inaction,
with stillness poised for better acting?
We haven't decided on what to do'
in this case or that case
but rather the convenient case for the moment;
is the doer convenient for the moment or should they be done?
No one has decided.


Do you want to go into the future. A futuristic poem by Blerdinator X.

Do you want to travel on a spaceship?
Interstellar type,
is it interesting?

I like dancing to robot music.
Magical, with laser arms. 
This is Blerdinator X.

Posting bored on the internet.
We still have cheesy snacks in the future.

Pass the remote.
I Sip my coffee in the future.


Hi, so who likes drinking lemondade? I Do. A Poem.

I like reds and yellows.
I like all flavors of tart.
Incomprehensible, I king of the lemons.
Here, I write to you
a sip of the
at the same time sweet drink.

I king of the lemons.

Man in starry campground, emitting the infinity sign

Death of the person begets the soul: How personalities fail where good ideas do not

It's something you wonder, if I'm good or bad,

worth knowing or better left ignored,

that you seek out my true name,

who simply does and is known for doing,

obscure, beyond consideration,

so most fathom the red carpets,

shouting slogans, well-worn phrases,

fashionable philosophies,

fighting for people they've never met

or perhaps met in part, but never knowing,

assuming a soul connection's made

at tiresome brunches,

continuous jet-setting,

hands shaken till the automated

movement ceases registering

so much so that you begin to wonder

if you exist outside of the papers,

if you exist outside of the screen,

if you exist outside of your occupation

through possession of your own person

or if you'd rather be a personality.

I don't know if, when the driver drives me,

I am more than the walker,

I don't know if, when when in my hovel,

my shielded body surpasses those

of the houseless.

Sleep evades me

and the moon looks down disappointed

at my lack of ambition,

reflecting on my past days,

lighting well-paved roads and driveways,

clean houses with granite kitchen counters,

closets the size of bedrooms

of boys sleeping under tin roofs;

the bugs surround them;

the ants climb up their cracked concrete


carrying the feast too small

for the animal's stomach.

When palms wake them

with susurrations

because they've ignored 4 o' clock roosters,

know that I am already awake,

my eyes dotted by white squares,

lines lining my eyelids,

my lips chapped, thirsting for lord-knows-what,

nerves pulsing.

Being who I am disappointed me, at first,

but the oceans surpass me in profundity.

I saw whales rise, blowing out air

and not one of them asked for my name

and title (don't they know

who I am?)

I labor in need of laboring

for my life's sake,

no different than the dog sniffing

about the cafeteria, relying

on the charity of my betters.

I labor knowing my labor will cease,

my name on the paper finally,

survived by the genes

seeking further propagation,

growth then decay, then growth,

surrounded by uncountable stars;

we so feebly try to capture them all,

to spread them over a canvas,

to mount them on a wall,

to show them to friends,

plants lining our windows (don't they know

they're our decoration?);

They vainly reach towards the sun through blinded

windows, at the mercy of their use

for conversation, then they brown

and are replaced by others.