Friday, June 27, 2014
“How much will it cost to mount this moose head?”
“It’s kinda small, it won’t cost that much.”
“What do you mean, ‘It’s kinda small?’”
“Oh, it’s nice looking and all, good rack, full lips.”
“But it’s not worth mounting?”
“I’ll mount the entire animal if you like.”
“You’ve been spoiled by big trophies.”
“At least mine’s respectable.”
“You could say that.”
“I’ll engrave it on the antlers.”
“Maybe I’ll go to another taxidermist.”
“It makes no difference to me.”
“Someone will eventually tell you to stuff it.”
Thursday, June 12, 2014
(For Brother Scribe)
He never saw the sign instructing him
to turn. His friend warned it would be white,
barely discernible from the blossoming
Sego Lily. For twelve misdirected miles,
dust billowed behind him before he
doubled back to a steeper road, the soft
sand whispering like a prayer.
This time he took the road anyway,
promised himself a dozen more
before giving up his god-forsaken search.
When a bell tolled from behind a curtain
of pines, he stopped to listen. Yes,
it sounded like it came from up ahead,
and when it ceased an echo remained,
as if it might be a calling.
Friday, June 6, 2014
Against the north side of the house
an interstate of spider webs
stretching from Duluth to Tijuana.
Spray the siding with a garden hose
and tiny windshields glisten, headlights
flicker like candles on a birthday cake.
Commerce 24/7, spiders in transit
on a network of silk roads, spiders
bedded down, sleeping off the bottle buzz,
spiders with their cell phones set to vibrate
in the corners of murky truck stops
smoking cigarettes, fattening up for the long haul
across a winged and reckless continent.