What birds think of you

The content of the woods when you stop to listen
is you     listening      stopped

not that the birds do   stop   
not that the birds        mind

the contents of their minds for some minutes
look through you at worried mud

after all
              the content of the ground beneath
your feet carpets their dreams too

and you     leaning into the cut smell   of chlorophyll         
sprawled buzzing in            a heat wave of blankets

why can't you sleep


Sweating below zero

Through cracks in an outer pane woods glow
these echo what we leave in other people
when they die your eyes don't belong to you
when you talk to yourself you talk to them

You pedal for an hour but you're still home
the view changes even if you blink
and will continue to even if you get away
your breath stares back at you on glass

Moons drip over a desperation of sleeping roots
you fill it on nights that thin your time
owls listen for the crackle of fear in snow
before you go to where other people wait


Lake affect

Waking, Lake Erie piles up in her window. The cold green water swirls old shipwrecks open for her dream-gummed eyes to allow her dead husband to rise like white rocks from the waves. Algae blooms and a coal-colored pollen falls over all the rust. The face from her doll head cake turns on a scratched-in smile so that we may better see the chorus drowning with their hands tied. When we die we become the smell of liquor.

You who suffocate on your hunger, you who choke me up on the cold green cemetery lawn, how did the germs grow so fast to choke your heart?

On the form a blank hungers for his date of birth. His dead wife watches from her window as the shipyard rusts into the Black River, chocolate taste of lead on her tongue. Egrets reel. These days when I mow the cold cemetery lawn her mother's bitter lips tin an August morning surly with clouds. What you can do with a white bandana, with the smell of liquor, is near grace and almost grateful for how it coats everything, the cars, the lawns. Real egrets. Instead of going to you become. She is waiting for Lake Erie to fill her with ceaseless motion. She is suffocating with her mouth choked up on mercury and tin. The minnows' silver eyes dream in gum.

I towel the germs off and when she lifts me white from the tub spill them on the floor like a smear of cake.




The blizzard of '77

Ripples on the surface of the Black River chart the rise and fall of good times for egrets. With the frame smudged around her and with her face pinched to show her mother what she's made she holds the doll head cake out from the front of her body as if to hold it any closer would invite her mother's criticism. You pass through dusk with fireflies scintillating like airborn embers around you. Germs coat the windshields, the sidewalks, the lawn slashing the windows in the wood-paneling in the Blizzard of '77. In the back of your throat a small doll with her mother's face mutters crests into the troughs where egrets wheel and swoop.

War ripples across the continent, staining the Black River water the color of dead minnows floating belly-up against the splashed wings of egrets. Snug within the safety of the frame your father's smile points to the pins in his lapel. But no-one asked her to prom. Your white bandana makes you one of the good guys. On Marshall Avenue the grass sparks with flint light and the Blizzard of '77 plows your heart under, where a bag of warm takeout begins to think. I mow your lawn these days a hundred miles from the nearest pile of slag. In summer children climb to the top and launch empires into cold green waves. The Black River cups in their hand only the unlovely boats. Egrets repeat themselves in the sugar crinoline of her doll head cake and your heart coats the back of your throat like plastic. I'm porcelain. Ask your father to mow the lawn on Kentucky Avenue before these lengths of shadow choke him out into the cold green waves of derelict mustang grape. Have him look you in the face.

Germs scintillate like a porcelain dusk of misremembered fireflies that land on your arms and your shoulders and climb down your throat to choke your heart up. I dream in your ashes, another empire impaled on her mother's criticism. We're all scared.



The calligraphy of great lakes

In print you make your mark with my voice on hold
curved     the way my bones point in your direction

I wish I had listened to the roses     papering their season
in a room of no walls     you open every window
     to hear me tell it     from the street where our bikes

propellor     Are you trying to teach me     how to fly
or swim against your body slipping into spills greedy
      the light strained through     to colors      and so sinking

the sky can be worn like a hat     flotation device
toughening the sugar that clings to your fingers

     My breath the flavor of paper     in the sun’s plastic
streets where you lead me blind through the trees of your mark    



Count Chocula

With pollen in part as your throat, sprung cotton
among shag of light, at in instant oxidized, toxic
flavors of childhood’s improbably tomorrow

Their vehicles were trapped in what could carry
in legs, dried and picked off protein birds dare
colluding with information as murmurs as blue

The water invasion will vanish nights off
everyone waits to come out, carry dead out
to fields forever talking, long without breath

Imagine a wafer infestation of the host
resurrected, useless terms, tasting like
on the head of a pint, shrubs of printed word

Imagine the light vampire like your father’s
shame you could smell on the seats on hot
summer days catch the arrogance of dusk

In Choreographed Shoes

LeT


the








                                                HEAT




                         ::::::::::::
          in




##########
##########OVERGROUND
##########
##########UNDERGROUND





                                                     a new space for listening


gra
gra
gra
gra
grad
gradual                              removal                                of 
                                          the                  
                                          swing


((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((
what
a
way
to((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((move it


                                        LEG UP
                                       [mouth down]
                                        LEG UP
                                       [month down]



'''''''''''''''and i have seen it!!!!!!!!!!!!!''''''''''''''''''''''''''





.o.h..h.o.w..b.e.a.u.t.i.f.u.l..i.t..w.a.s..



look (sound of nothing)
 
Montevideo (in outline) (or stereo)


                                                       L
                                                       I
                                                       F
                                                       T


*with
*your
am
am
am
am am am am am am am am am am am
am am am am am am am am am am am 
am am am am am am am am am am am 

                    AMPLIFICATION 



condense                                     into 



ra##############
ra##############
ra##############
ra##############



                                   the carousel in 
                                   coloured
                                   red
                                                           now 
 Out [there] going [zoom]


as
seen 
within 
as

                           ...........planetscape


                   so touch

[a[n[d


                         FEEL


0000000000000000000000000000000000

such---------------------------------------------------
----------------------------------+
                                            +
                                           +
                                         +
0
   0
          0
                  0
                          0

tight

                           collision 


name?                                            [given]
source?                                       [given]

armistice 
step
lean
step

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a shackle 
 
Petrichor [has] [as] a name


                                                   sleeping in the
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''SHADE''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''


the ■
millennium                                 after 


                              the sight of


.......................APES



grovel
grovel




                                               i think i'll
go back up 
the                                         building

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////



it was//////////////////////////////////////////////////////
;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
cooler
;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
in 
#############################################
##############################################
there




●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●THAT'S
●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●WHAT
●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●THIS
●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●WAS
●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●ABOUT
                                             
                               
                                                         ! (also pronounced PING!)   
The Piano Listens


a solution 

))))))))))))))))))))))))))to
((((((((((((((((((((((((an



                         ////////ANSWER

ON THE


shu
                                  (on the)
shu
                                  (on the)
shu


                 ++
                 ++
                 ++
                 ++


MELTDOWN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


mumma...
mumma...
mummmmmmmmmmmmmmm...



[i think (i know) 

]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]

this fish                                       has been 


.........................seen here


###################################before


                               YES?

Nathan Anderson is a poet from Mongarlowe, Australia. He is the author of numerous books and of the C22 experimental writing collective. You can find him here or on Twitter @NJApoetry.

Insta Inertia 

By Taylor Dibbert

He’s still,

Holding on to,

His Instagram account,

Hasn’t opened it,

In years,

Not sure,

What the,

Password is,

Doesn’t matter,

No chance of,

Him checking,

This year,

No chance of,

Him posting,

Ever again,

Then why even have,

The account,

His friend asks,

He breathes in calmly,

Thinks for a moment,

And then explains,

There are so many,

Great photos,

Of my dog London,

On there,

I’d hate,

To lose them.

Taylor Dibbert is a widely published writer, journalist, and poet. He’s author of the Peace Corps memoir “Fiesta of Sunset,” and the forthcoming poetry collection “Home Again.”

Strandgallier

            I wanted to buy a new strandgallier, as my old and trusty one was on its last legs. The shop my father had bought it from just before I was born, Lindemann’s, was long gone, and I couldn’t think of anywhere nearby that might carry them, so I decided to look online. No luck on Amazon, so I tried Ebay. Surely someone must be selling a strandgallier on Ebay. Even a used one in good to excellent condition would do, but there were none to be found on Ebay, used or new. Then I thought maybe Google Shopping might yield results from some further flung corners of the internet. I typed “strandgallier” in the search box but got no exact match, which is not to say I got no results. The first match was a Strandberg Boden Masvidalien NX 6 Cosmo, an electric guitar. Kind of amusing to see an electric guitar when what you’re looking for is a strandgallier. But an even bigger stretch was the Safavieh BCH1000D Bandelier Bench. Did the search algorithm think my typing was slurred? What good is a search engine that conflates strandgallier with bandelier? And I certainly wasn’t looking for a Stranda Descender Split 22/23 Splitboard. I haven’t the slightest idea what a splitboard is. I just wanted a simple, garden-variety strandgallier.

            Could they be discontinued? It happens all too often. A great product that fits your need to a T (or is it tee or tea?) just goes the way of the dodo. Nobody steps in to make a replacement, perhaps because it’s too much of a niche product.

            I just might need to find a repair shop, I surmised. There are people who can repair anything, right?

            So I searched for “strandgallier repair,” but got no satisfaction. There was a tweet from a cake baker praising the customer service at the Aldi UK in Banbury, where “After delayed mother & baby delivery a poor henpecked CSA helped me find the products I wanted!” Surely, “henpecked” is not the word she was looking for, or was the poor CSA complaining about the trouble and strife while servicing the woman? Maybe “harried” is what she meant to say. And fat lot of good a GORE-TEX repair shop would do me either.

            This was all taking too much time, so I decided to give up, for the time being. My strandgallier may be on its last legs, but it still does the job, albeit with lots of crunching and wheezing sounds. So I guess I’ll just live with the noise until it breaks down completely, and then I’ll worry about repairs. Who knows, it’s been going for almost 67 years, it may even outlive me, in which case my nephew Danny, to whom I’ve bequeathed it in my will, will have to deal with it.

A Dry One

            It was pouring rain, and the gift was getting drenched. The stupid man hadn’t brought an umbrella, even though there was heavy rain in the forecast, and anyone could have seen the dark, ominous clouds just by looking out the window.

            It was an anniversary gift for Delilah, his wife. They had been married 25 years, a milestone, though he couldn’t remember which metal. They’d had their ups and downs, sure, but what couple doesn’t? Michael had his share of affairs over the years, a whole string of them, but they were mere diversions. Delilah, on the other hand, was only unfaithful with one other man, Michael’s cousin William; they had met at Michael and Delilah’s wedding and first slept together the following weekend, when she had snuck out under subterfuge. The affair was still going on, all these years later, and Michael still hadn’t a clue.

            When Michael presented her with the anniversary gift, Delilah was appalled by the soaking piece of crap. What kind of gift was that for a 25th anniversary? Or any anniversary, for that matter.

            So she walked out on Michael and moved in with William, who had a dry one.

These pieces will appear in Things, Peter Cherches’ new chapbook from Bamboo Dart Press, on April 15.

Metallica

I went to the coffee shop and as usual ordered two iced hazelnut coffees with milk. When I went to pay, the cashier who is my buddy lowered her voice and said, “I have a question to ask you.” I thought she was going to ask me to something serious. Then she said, “Does your office give out Metallica tickets? They cost $800!” I said I would check but had no intention of following through because I already knew the answer. The next time I saw her at the register I said, “My company is too small and doesn’t give out tickets. My father used to get baseball tickets but now he is retired.” She light up and said, “Thank you for checking! Tickets cost $900!” I keep going to the coffee shop to order my two iced hazelnut coffees with milk. The cashier is still my buddy even though I can’t help her get Metallica tickets.

Slack Bot

I often get a chuckle out of the Slack bot. When a manager posts on Slack, the bot says “head honcho” or “small business tyrant.” This morning, one of the writers on a different team said he was going on vacation. His manager wished him well and the bot slyly responded, “never heard of her.” Nobody ever acknowledges the bot’s posts, so they hang there like taunts for a belly laugh.

Funny Bone

Growing up, my older brother was the funny one. He didn’t tell jokes so much as making wisecracks that often involved farts. I was the serious one who had no idea how to make people laugh. When I grew up, I wrote serious memoirs about war and trauma. Then I discovered my funny bone through poetry. I read my humorous poems at open mic poetry events. It was delightful to hear people laugh at my lighthearted, little poems.

Karol Nielsen is the author of two memoirs, including Black Elephants, and three poetry chapbooks. Her first memoir was shortlisted for the William Saroyan International Prize for Writing. Her full-length poetry collection was a finalist for the Colorado Prize for Poetry. One of her poems was a finalist for the Ruth Stone Poetry Prize.

Unchained Emotions

The year was 2089, and the world in which Azila was growing up was evolving astronomically. The city was bustling with self-driving cars and holographic billboards that projected advertisements in every direction.

A towering network of skyscrapers loomed above, connected by high-speed trains that glided silently through the air. But despite all the technological advances, one thing remained the same: emotions were still seen as a threat.

In a society plagued by chaos and uncertainty, the government sought to find a way to maintain control over the masses. The answer they found lay in the control of human emotions. By regulating the emotions of the people, the government could effectively suppress unrest, rebellion, and any actions that may threaten the stability of the state.

The government’s quest for control over the emotions of the masses took a sinister turn with the development of an airborne medication called M1-55 that altered the genetic makeup of the masses. M1-55 was designed to make people naturally prone to emotional control, without the need for drugs or any other form of artificial regulation.

As the medication spread through the air, it seeped into the bodies of countless individuals, altering their DNA and making them susceptible to emotional suppression. The consequences of the government’s actions were devastating. With subsequent generations growing up with an innate inclination towards emotional suppression, the people became increasingly docile and submissive, unable to express themselves fully or connect with others on a deep, emotional level.

The government succeeded in creating a population that was easy to control, but at what cost? The very essence of humanity had been compromised, leaving a society that was devoid of true emotion, creativity, and spontaneity.

Azila was among the recent generations but she had always known she was different from the others; it wasn’t until she started working for the government that she realized just how unique her ability to feel emotions was.

As an agent in the government’s Department of Emotion Control, she was responsible for monitoring and reporting any individuals who showed signs of emotional behavior. But instead of feeling proud of her work, she felt like a fraud and was suffocated by the constant pressure to suppress her own emotions.

Azila’s struggle with her emotions was a constant battle, and she often found herself turning to emotion-suppressing drugs which had been banned by the government. The pills were hard to come by and extremely addictive, but they gave her a sense of control over her emotions that she couldn’t feasibly achieve on her own.

One day, while sitting at a cafe with her friend Jax, Azila pulled out a small bottle of pills and began to fidget with it nervously.

“What’s that?” Jax asked, his eyes darting to the bottle.

Azila hesitated for a moment, then decided to come clean. “It’s a suppressant,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jax’s eyes widened in surprise as he managed to mumble. “What? Azila, you know how dangerous those are. Why are you taking them?”

Azila shrugged, feeling defensive. “It’s the only way I can keep my emotions in check. You know what it’s like to feel too much, Jax. It’s overwhelming.”

Jax shook his head. “That’s not living, Azila. You can’t keep taking those pills. You’re better than that.”

Azila rolled her eyes, feeling frustrated. “It’s easy for you to say that, Jax. You don’t know what it’s like to have emotions that won’t go away.”

Jax leaned forward, his expression serious. “I know it’s hard, Azila. But taking those pills won’t solve anything. You have to face your emotions head-on, even if it’s scary. That’s the only way you’ll ever be truly free.”

Azila frowned, feeling conflicted. Jax was right – she knew that. But the idea of facing her emotions without the aid of drugs was daunting. What if she couldn’t handle it?

“I don’t know, Jax,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just…it’s hard.”

Jax reached across the table and took her hand. “I know it’s hard, Azila. But you don’t have to face it alone. I’m here for you, no matter what.”

Azila felt a warm sense of gratitude wash over her. Jax was right – she didn’t have to face her emotions alone. With a deep breath, she tucked the pill bottle away in her pocket and looked at Jax with a determined glint in her eye. “Okay,” she said, nodding.

Their conversation was just one of many that Azila has had with her close friends on her journey to break free from the chains of emotion suppression.

One day, while on an undercover routine surveillance mission, Azila stumbled upon a group of rebels who were discussing the government’s strict control over emotions. The group was made up of people from all walks of life – engineers, artists, even scientists – all united by a common cause. Azila was hesitant at first, but as she patiently listened to their stories and witnessed their passion, she knew she had to join them.

She had always felt a sense of unease in a society where emotions were tightly regulated. Haven witnessed firsthand how the government’s drugs had numbed the populace, turning them into docile, compliant drones. But when she heard the rebels’ heartfelt concerns for emotional suppression, her sense of unease turned to outrage. It was then that she made a decision that would change her life forever – to become a double agent, working for both the rebels and the government.

In secret meetings with the rebels, Azila heard stories from people who had been rounded up, detained, and experimented upon for expressing their emotions. She even heard of the government’s attempts to further brainwash the populace, using media propaganda to reinforce the message that emotions were dangerous and needed to be suppressed. Azila was moved by the rebels’ passionate speeches and their commitment to overthrowing the oppressive regime.

But in the numerous meetings, she had with her colleagues at the office, Azila also listened to their side of the story. They spoke of the need for stability and order, the dangers of uncontrolled emotions, and the threat of rebellion. Azila began to see that the government genuinely believed that emotional suppression was necessary for the greater good.

Despite the conflict between the rebels and the government, Azila saw that both sides had valid concerns. She knew that a compromise needed to be reached, but how? As she continued to work as a double agent, she became increasingly convinced that the only way to create a society that allowed for emotional freedom was to find a way to bridge the gap between the rebels and the government.

Azila knew that her actions were dangerous and that her loyalties were constantly in question. But she remained committed to the cause of emotional freedom, working tirelessly to find a solution that would benefit all. She had become a true believer, a double agent for a higher cause, and the fate of the nation hung in the balance of her actions.

As Azila continued her work as a double agent, she realized that she needed a new way to fight the menace securely and effectually. She knew that the government was monitoring all channels of communication and that the rebels’ communication channels were also compromised. It was then that she came up with an idea – an anonymous, encrypted podcast and live video streaming channel where she could share her message with the world.

Azila worked tirelessly underground to set up the platform for a while, using her skills as a hacker to create an untraceable network that could not be detected by the government’s surveillance. She used her connections with both the rebels and the government to gather information and build a network of supporters.

In her podcast, Azila spoke out against the government’s policies of emotional suppression, calling on the people to rise and demand their right to emotional freedom. She shared stories of people who had been silenced or detained for expressing their emotions, and she encouraged her listeners to share their own stories.

Azila knew that she was walking a dangerous path. She had to be careful not to reveal her true identity, as she could face severe punishment if she was caught. She continued to work as a double agent, passing on information to both the rebels and the government, all while spreading her message of emotional freedom through her anonymous platform.

As the word spread, Azila’s podcast and live video streaming channel began to gain traction. People from all over the country tuned in to hear her message, sharing their own stories and bitter experiences. As the movement for emotional freedom continued to grow, the government became increasingly nervous.

Azila’s message of emotional freedom was spreading like wildfire. People from all over the country were tuning in to her podcast and live video streaming platform, and the movement for emotional freedom was gaining momentum. People who had never felt anything other than a numb emptiness were starting to experience their emotions again, and they were visibly fuming.

The government was caught off guard by the sudden uprising. They had never expected the people to rise against them in mass, and they were unprepared for the backlash. For weeks, protests and riots erupted across the country, as the people demanded their right to emotional freedom.

At first, the government resisted, using force to try and quell the uprising. But as the movement grew stronger, they began to listen. They heard the stories of people who had been silenced and oppressed, and they began to understand the depth of their pain.

Finally, after months of pressure, the government gave in. They initiated better ways to handle the problem, including the use of therapy and counseling to help people regain control of their emotions. They began to listen to the complaints of the masses, and they worked to address the root causes of the emotional suppression.

Azila watched in amazement as her message of emotional freedom brought about real change. She had never imagined that she could make such a difference, and she was filled with hope for the future. She knew that there was still a long way to go, but she was proud to have played a part in the movement that had changed the world.

Despite her pivotal role in the uprising, Azila remained anonymous. Nobody knew that she was the mastermind behind the movement or that she had been working as a double agent. She didn’t receive any accolades or public recognition for her efforts, but that didn’t matter to her. What was important to her was the knowledge that she had stood up for what she believed in and had fought against oppression.

Azila was content with the knowledge that she had made a difference. She had helped to bring about a new era of emotional freedom and had given the people a voice that they had been denied for too long. She had risked everything to fight for what she believed in, and she was proud of what she had achieved. Even without public recognition, she knew that her efforts had not gone unnoticed, and that was enough for her.