Bless you, eternal anime

A dog in a clown collar, a nod to the mover
Photo by Kevin Jarrett on Unsplash
Bless you, eternal anime, episodes plentiful,
full of leveling-up until
opponents fall through the special move.

I, mover, large-eyed, bearing teeth,
spring to unleash the dogs
that are my sword
so the yelping can be carried
by the scruff of the neck.

I, mover, am not stilled
by defeats accumulated
through my quest,
though questioned  
by the defeated, fearing
large red shoes and frill.

Bless you, eternal anime,
I, mover, am large-eyed,
unleashing dogs that are my sword,
a special move.
I wear red shoes and frill,
a fool to the defeated,
carrying my enemies by the scruff
of their necks to leave at your feet.


There really are monsters under your bed and in the closet

Photo by NeONBRAND on Unsplash
There really are monsters
under your bed,
waiting to grab you
in the middle of the night
while you're sleeping.

There really are  monsters
who sometimes, 
when you're in bed staring 
at the ceiling,
stare at you from the closet
with glowing eyes.

There really are morlocks
who live in the sewers,
who reach out of manholes
by the crosswalk.

There really are gremlins
that chew the wires
inside our machines
and spit all over
the microchips.

There really are bigfoots
in the forest who go
into your cooler
to steal your beer.

There really are ghosts
in old houses that float,
waving their arms,
howling and opening
your cabinet doors
because opening cabinets
for the dead is interesting.

There really are demons
you see the moment
you're about to die
if you've done all the wrong
They crawl on the walls
and the floor toward you.
I've heard of one
that possesses the bodies of folks
behind the wheel of a car
so it can make them crash.
You'll never know when
they will visit.

There really are creepy bugs
and spiders with super long legs
that exist solely to hop on you
when you least expect it.

There really are reptiles
that pretend to be famous people,
wearing suits and crowns
and military clothing.

There are vampires 
determined to brood,
who in a hundred years
haven't learned to set up
their castle with electronic devices.

There's a spirit that laughs
when you try to wave sage at it.
It waits till you're done waving
the sage and have closed the door.
Minutes after, it farts,
unleashing a fart storm
unimaginable since times of old,
you scream,
but no one is there to save you
and the poison gas. green and brown,
fills the room.

Be wary human. Don't stray 
too far away from the fire,
don't look beyond
the glow of the flashlight,
don't close yours eyes.

The owl called Grand Father

An omniscient owl, a sublunary being with the characteristics of outer space
Photo by Dirk van Wolferen on Unsplash
In the gnarly tree is an owl called Grand Father
who can talk, though not everyone knows
he talks,
to most he's just known to follow folks
with his eyes, two suns eclipsed,
head rotating as they move along.
Rats, cats and dogs don't exist within his orbit,
His wings darkening midnight. 
He never asks who 
because because he already knows
the answer, relaying it to whoever's worthy,
his only companions the stars.


The cumulonimbus stands over you watching

Cumulonimbus, the thunderhead cloud, representing regretful moments hanging over you to rain down unexpectedly
Photo by Graeme Cross on Unsplash
Strain, climb up hills and trees, 
gain  followers,
construct a leaf pile in the shape of Machu Picchu,
the cumulonimbus stands above you watching
with photos you've long deleted,
bringing rain down to all in a moment proper,
on a day you've forgotten your umbrella
so your pants can stick to your legs 
and your feet can slosh in your shoes
and your eyes can become red, dripping
sky on your face, indistinguishable from tears,
because the grass must be fed,
damn your dignity.

Constancy of thought

Locks on a gate, symbolizing a strong love
Photo by Glenn Carstens-Peters on Unsplash
1. When friends and lovers walk with you
to run when battles come,
when bridges only hold you up
when you're a scrawny one,
Why bother? It's better 
to walk the earth alone,
Best get on a raft and
wish all the weak begone.

2. If you should get a confidant,
that blabs when you fall out,
If you put money in the bank,
but can't take money out,
you better be quiet
around the chatterbox,
Invest in a safe and
purchase a couple locks.

3. More prized than wealth and jewelry is
some constancy of thought,
not like fresh meat exposed to heat
that in a second rots,
but more like good seeds dug
into the fertile ground,
that with years an orchard
can in that place be found.

The anatomy of a tulip told by someone who knows nothing about flowers

A great number of tulips, used to convey an inconceivable variety yet, at the same time, finite.
Photo by Leonardo Iheme on Unsplash

Nurtured in quiet, the ripples in puddles tapped by falling bloom
prompt the opening in my forehead to accept white swirling
clouds descending from another plane so that my eyes glow with light
and I speak that light to you so that, if you understand,
you can speak your light to me,

Not with my own power do I speak it, my body's composition
incapable of traveling  a significant number of steps from its location 
to the sun,
 but I'll make an attempt to have my mindscape shaped and nurtured, consuming
murmurs of saints, looking at whales at length, smelling
the ocean at empty beaches, taking in the leaves rustling,
hearing a cello,
feeling dew touch my feet before the ground notices it's summer,
licking ice cream from a cone, I'll attempt to conceive past what I perceive
to see if anything exists beyond perception,

With that I ask, "Who goes there beyond the veil and why didn't you
answer when I called to you?,"
small as I am, I'm every bit a universe, don't you see?

Mornings, rotations, revolutions, both significant and insignificant alike,
we sit like dust mites under a couch to be vacuumed by greater forces,
despite the greatness of our minuteness, we  consider and have to feel
somehow thinking it matters to be loved,
the choice being to accept there's none, to be perpetually aware of space,
but struggle against space and elements,
crushing with their whelm,
because lunch must be eaten and errands run,
the list must be ticked until no ticking's left,
battling against tick tocks till tick tocks overtake me,
to be swirling dust inhaled and coughed out by rabbits, and beggars, and royals,
but unaware as I'm unaware now,
no different from a rock or a rocking chair or a basket,
impactful just the same,

a crowd roars in a stadium in the distance,
far more enlightened and present.

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.

Anyone can strike back

Man pulls back rubber band held by outstretched hands
Photo by Amirr Zolfaqari on Unsplash

Sometimes you're around people quick to yell
as though you were their child (of course, you're not),
They see your brow and still they cannot tell
how you capable of yelling you have got,
they punch, not thinking you can take a swing,
when bruised, they are confused, as though it were
your place to take the knocks from a born king
and not a consequence for them's deserved,
the frail can under duress  strike a blow,
the lame can swing a cane and bust a lip,
a coward only needs a chance to show
the moment's his though he is not equipped,
but barrel-chested fools on earth abound
for lanky men to bury in the ground.

The adequate, the pure AKA Let me be me

Snowy mountains, with bare parts peeking through
Photo by Norris Niman on Unsplash
I'm known to be the cocky type
and I concede that, sure,
but, being me, I'm certainly
the adequate, the pure.

Some argue I'm the prickly type,
some say I'm immature,
despite what other people say,
I'm adequate, I'm pure.

It's not to do with past mistakes,
for who's committed none?
Nor that I'm skilled (for every beast
there is a bigger one),
but who's to say which person's core
is formed from the divine?
I've yet to find the living saint
who is so qualified,
The pundits and the pastors preach
to purge me of my sin,
the drug stores try to sell me bleach
to lighten up my skin,
my casual speech is corrected
by folks illiterate,
and every woman, man, and enby
tries to change my fate.

Famous or obscure,
I'm adequate. I'm pure.
middling, rich, or poor,
I'm adequate, I'm pure,
Lively or demure,
I'm adequate, I'm pure,
In Rome or in Darfur