the toads do not dive
they plop into the scummy pond
pale green bellies floating beneath them
like airbags
they paddle and back-stroke
through the weedy water
as slow as inflatable boats
when i visit them
i turn into a kid
lobbing pebbles into the spawny drink
to watch them scatter
they remind me of fat men
hastily departing a swimming pool
it is a joke i prank them with
i keep doing this
until they turn to glare at me
heads half-submerged
eyes bulging with indignation
once it began to rain heavily
raindrops crashed into the pond
like exploding peanut shells
.
the toads commenced to croak in unison
the noise almost drowning-out
the sound of the pelting rain
no doubt they were bidding me
to go drown somewhere
Like a slow-moving westbound wagon train in 1887,
filled with brave souls departing a land of nightmares; or like
a 13-year-old in no-man's-land looking at 18 and wishing he could
push a button capable of fast-forwarding at least 5 years; Or like
a lazy and lonely Sunday afternoon without scenes or sounds.
Yes, it felt like the sands of time in the hourglass were made of snails.
It was a time and place never loved by me, but it was where my story
began. It was the blessed home of the privileged few and the very rich.
It was the unfortunate abode of the underprivileged and the very poor.
It was a piece of American geography that never felt like home to me.
My best dream was that time would grow wings faster and fly me away.
My primary goal was to depart, not be from there, and never return.
the toads do not dive
they plop into the scummy pond
pale green bellies floating beneath them
like airbags
they paddle and back-stroke
through the weedy water
as slow as inflatable boats
when i visit them
i turn into a kid
lobbing pebbles into the spawny drink
to watch them scatter
they remind me of fat men
hastily departing a swimming pool
it is a joke i prank them with
i keep doing this
until they turn to glare at me
heads half-submerged
eyes bulging with indignation
once it began to rain heavily
raindrops crashed into the pond
like exploding peanut shells
.
the toads commenced to croak in unison
the noise almost drowning-out
the sound of the pelting rain
no doubt they were bidding me
to go drown somewhere
A closed fist. A pair of eyes pressed shut. A teardrop trickling down. A mouth wide open. A shrill shriek piercing multiple eardrums.
An open palm. A pair of eyes unfurling to see their first light. A shrill wail.
A soul departing a realm. A soul taking its place.
He relied much on ‘expert’ opinions,
doctrine and dogma
as if assumptions and conjecture
were an undeniable truth.
‘Settled science’ was accepted confidently,
blind faith and an irrational rationalism;
the hand-me-down punditry of pundits
silenced his every doubt.
Against all odds
conspiracies conspired -
unauthorized books read to him,
even under his closed eyes.
One night he flew awake
like a bird departing a nest of fire.
All that he had known as true
were revealed as a script
written by a Satan that did not exist.
His hollow tree sprouted leaf,
incredulity flourished,
a belief system faltered, staggered dazed
into a ditch he had labored upon for many a year.
He became a heresy unto himself:
the beloved of God.
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