from The Grave of the Great Alley of Clarity Cats by Mike Giardina
When he says mushrooms
Eating off the dirt-road, backing over stolen-bike,
arms-reach track-marks, it’s a hop—
a hop to the flaking lake log—
long legs sturdy over the slip-spot.
I think, “these roads are dirtied by nature,“
while swatting at sweat and red ants.
Through the thicket, thick chunky peanuts
thin the sweet valium capstun.
Swedish Red-Eye is belly forward, back arched,
talking nature.
Writer is on his back, his inch-long-ash-trail
burns upwards.
Shorty takes the pen when the sturdy hand goes still,
and he drum taps the cap,
stunned in the moment, yells, “We are our fathers.”
Stuck on the sunspot, Writer watches hookah-coals
burning under his eyelids.
Red-Eye jumps the lake-washed circle-stones
and explains the Tao: the unproduced Producer of all that is.
Shorty’s sight is gone, glasses gone,
reality good as gone. He yells,
“We are our fathers. We are our fathers. We are our fathers.”
Writer wanders off to the sunspot,
averting his eyes to the ice-blue,
following the red ants into the air
until they fly like quicker rainbows,
though just as elusive,
these comfort-trails and nausea-pearls.
We are our fathers. All one energy.
But it makes no sense.
We are our fathers. I love life. Woo-Doggy!
All one energy. But it makes no sense.
We all should die. I’m going to die… if I don’t.
We are our fathers. I love life. Woo-Doggy!
We are our fathers.
Writer begins to see the rat-scuttle for what it is:
a bug-scare, a fly on the palm,
palm into the jagged-wall kind of crawl.
The day-night distinction becomes monotonous.
The food-fear, for the first time, a lonely childhood memory
without warrant.
And today’s stress?
The stress, stress, stress?
A shallow pool.
And even in the cap-calm,
even in the stem-shine,
even in the nature-show—
here where the communication breaks down—
Hi. Hello?
We are our fathers. Are you okay?
We-are-our-fathers!
The stress—
We all should die—
festers—
I love life—
boils: making it clear.
Communication boils into a steam that rises above eyesight.
If only in this moment, reality is merely subject.