Fall 2009, #16
       "Woodchuck vs. the Hank Williams Zombie"


     by Brooks Johnson

Human beings bathing, each in each
the careful pluckings of rhetorical questions noticeably absent
How is this possible on the cliffedge of sleep
in an ark of bones, organs, and electricity?
shimmering disappearances, dodging whereabouts from our cornices
sewn in the sum total, velocities narrow: a fisherman
untangles a buoyed net in Versilla as much as he always has.
a radio alarm clock in a room
(stiltedly: in a room?)
not so far from some river
some saliva
the alarm clock hissing (midnight) bits of voices between stations
‘raw vanilla’ one says.

Last week Linda crashlanded out side my apartment in a red dodge neon. Since then, tally marks and scrawled percentages in the thousands cling like lichens on the sidewalks, fenceposts, the wind, birds nests, flowerpots, chainlink, telephone poles, the patterned alley debris, cat skeletons, gravel patches, old dolls half-melded with the wet asphalt, spent fireworks, the hollyhocks, accordion music from somewhere vaguely east, the notions we share about full moons, the oceans of non-presence form tide pools of Idontknowwhat after the rain