|A single rock
towers from the Antarctic frontier
nearly half the size of the world trade center,
which is probably an inept comparison,
(which, given the nature of the image,
will probably leave a scar); nonetheless,
there it is, standing
among a series of tooth-shaped pillars,
rising in the spirit of Grecian colonnades
or foreign travelers rising to board busses;
but, even in the midst of the Fenriskjeften,
the Jaws of Fenris, a certain unnamed
and essential move towards not naming exactly exists.
Fenris was a ferocious Norwegian wolf
whose ferocity itself stemmed from confusion—
the unavoidable politics of feeding chains.
In Australia, a parakeet bugles out
the beginning of Thursday
and something about Tasmanian collusion.
And now you see where we’re going.
We begin with wolf and end with a bird
(specifically, the budgerigar)
whose communications fill the air with traffic.
Over Montana an F-16 pilot scribbles a high-speed haiku
across the sky with two jet-hot cherry blossoms. Below
people are eating nearly-fresh clams
(probably from New Zealand),
pleased to see the pulse of the sky
light up like a hospital machine. An F-16, by the way,
because it’s the natural hybrid of bird
and wolf and I mention beer presently
for the simple purpose of raising ones glass.
What’s wrong with this planet
and its need to not know exactly?
What do the comets have to be angry about?
Black holes and satellites
and not being able to see Johnny Jump-Ups?
Even the moon herself is driven practically insane
by an operator of considerable steadfastness
and a predilection for orbicular patterns.
Meanwhile, seltzer bubbles make their way
up the sides of a one-liter,
rat-a-tat-tatting themselves to death
at the bottle’s mouth—romantics
or are these commissioned kamikazes?
Dear Mr. Jason Ott,
|Pieper sleeps with a gun next to her.
One in the chamber, six in the clip. Her
dad taught her, “shoot to kill,”
lest she be sued by her would-be assailant.
Her father’s the invisible man. She makes
up all kinds of stuff—like the look
on “the old man’s face” mornings
when ex-girlfriends kick down the old
back door. Her photo album
reads like x-rays or a really bad story—
all bones I tell her, just enough
to piss her off. No bones she says over and over
so I’ve taken up playing the oboe. Maybe
she’ll stop spitting at me. Sometimes
the music induces a little nudity
and and and you know, hope and that invisible
island made of splintered palm trees
and non-dimensional falling stars.
The other night (3am) I stealthily entered
Pieper’s backyard so as not to disturb
her wiry dogs, nor to call attention
to pupils large as nickels. I watched
her bed sheet writhe like a plate of worms—
she noticed my silhouette at the foot of the bed.
She hyperventilated and the three dogs,
two of which are terriers and you know
what a nuisance they can be, went apeshit.
She claims her inner body separated from the outer.
Last night she claims I attacked her
with my tongue. Maybe she’ll stop spitting at me.
It’s a violent canopy stands overhead.
We’re thinking of adopting a past,
Can you give us a hand?