The Wrong Fold: Evolution’s Next Story

The perforation waiting

to tear

lay below that faux fold--

that unmeant crease

on the face of this billed life

as if

that was where it would happen

where it would grate and grind and slip

then shudder and gag up a small tsunami

racing unseen in watery clarity

until

it reaches the outcroppings of misgiving

where it wells and smashes,

a rearing wall of muddy words

making garbage of everything

washing it away, stupefied.

It happens but not here

not at that design juncture

where what we owe,

tears away from what we are.

It happens where

your feet touch the floor where 

your head indents the pillow where

crumbs drop from the table.

It drains only to return

to swallow that smudge of humanity on the beach

recumbent and bracing

giggling at the expenditure of impersonal vengeance

to bring one to heel

to toss one like a fur seal

in the mouth of a killer whale

The sheer ridiculous destruction,

nature’s wastrel laughing last:

“I did not expect this” the tune

driven from the mouth

exiled into a very short prayer

that begins :

“No, not like this”

 and ends 

“Please, not in this.”  

Snow on the Roof

it clings and tides, a hybrid storm

spread by howls and snarls in sheaths of allknowing scatter--

a spoiled child on the brink of tantrum, a brain

once bright and bossy, the sun backs away

the froth and flailing curlscold neural sunlight

wind-rowed in high banks of stutter and stammer

the chemical storm stops

worn

we watch from windows deep set

cataracted in milky grief and bleary awe.

The lattice work snaps back in place, each flake

they say the hand of god retired and painting

he admires his handiwork and decides he needs

some praise . . .

Our eyes blink and offer a prayer

that runs down one cheek scavenging

hope in clear cold space

as a local galaxy races away.

© Copyright, 2014, Steven Joyce.
All Rights Reserved.