THE POETRY CHALLENGE
Who writes THE BEST POETRY
in America today?
(c) copyright 2007, David B. Axelrod
|
THE POETRY CHALLENGE Who writes THE BEST POETRY in America today?
(c) copyright 2007, David B. Axelrod |
|
|
Boy Attacked by Killer Chicken Loses Pecker
A boy with a glandular disorder grows taller than God. "You've done it now," he shouts at the Deity, gazing down at God's balding head. "A mere boy and I'm already taller than my Father." God laments. "You made me, didn't you?" the boy insists. "You're a big boy, now," God says, "fix yourself." "If I could to that," and the boy cries, "I would be like God, knowing the secrets of life and death." "Yes, of course, we couldn't have that, could we?" says God. "I don't imagine you'd consider just kneeling before me so you'd appear shorter?" "Not on your life," says the boy. "It's bad enough to grow up and see the defects of one's parents; it's another thing to grovel and kneel." "Besides," the boy points out, "I'm still growing. I'm so tall, now, if I kneeled I'd look you in the eye and that's not decent. You are the Deity, after all." "I'm glad you still know your place," God says. "And what is that?" the boy inquires. "A mere speck in our vast universe," God replies. "Well," says the boy, "You'd better expand the universe because my head just bumped the end of it."
A lonely man leave his window open and his light on. Soon, his room is filled with moths--hairy brown, delicate white, tints of tan and yellow. "Now I have friends," he says, "even if they are only the souls of the dead passing on to heaven or hell." He deals a had of gin, pours drinks, serves pretzels. Aside from their dust, he finds them agreeable. "I hope you don't think of this a purgatory," he says. "No, not at all," a Virgin Tiger Moth replies, "I think of this as a last fling before the flame." "Excuse me," the man informs his mothy friends, "I must go potty." But when he returns he catches an Eight-spotted Forester peeking at the cards. "Really," the man shouts, "If you are going to be my friends, couldn't you at least try to transcend the caterpillar."
A man installs bottles in his chest. "I will be father and mother to my son," he says. To fill the bottles he must lie on his back and pour, then screw on the nipples. "This is demeaning," he complains, "flat on my back like a woman. I'll have to teach my son to use a glass. Then he can drink with all the other boys. But then, I'll have all those glasses to wash. Unless I buy throw- aways--the kind with the screw-off tops. Less trouble than sterilizing too. Maybe flip-top cans? My boy could practice eye- and-hand coordination whenever he's hungry. Now, there 's a real boy," the father says, sipping beer with his son. The baby burps.
Once having read that knowing the name of something makes it less fearsome--even a friend--he went at it, naming things. "Here is my 'zitzbee,'" he said, pointing to a protuberance between his seeing holes (which he had not yet named). "Here is my 'mimna'" he asserted, displaying a grasper at the end of his "frompas," from which extended five "mimnums." But suddenly and without warning, a creature unknown to him leaped up and nipped him on an-as-yet unmentionable part: "Proving once again," he cried, "that the things we don't know can hurt us."
The goldfish goes mad. Actually it is white carp with a patch of gold. Close inspection reveals a small lump on its head. It leaps out of the tank whenever it can. "It got the lump when it landed. Allow me to adjust it," says the fish chiropractor. "A brain tumor," says the fish neurosurgeon. "It may be a sign of some deeper problem," says the fish psychiatrist. The fish is placed in an observation tank but it leaps from the rounded porthole. Thereafter it is kept in restraints. Soon it lolls on its side, listless, only to resume its thrashing if anyone comes too close. A fish court is convened to consider the question: "Is the fish capable of caring for itself or must a guardian be appointed?" The fish judge calls upon an ichthyologist to testify. "Is the fish crazy?" the judge asks, his large jaw gaping. "Crazy, yes, but from captivity," the ichthyologist replies, whereupon the judge orders the fish flushed down the toilet to set it free.
Ù BOY ATTACKED BY KILLER CHICKEN, LOSES PECKER A boy is attacked by a killer chicken on his father's farm. At first he responds to treatment but he lapses into a coma when a nurse mistakenly brings him eggs for breakfast. "He has multiple lacerations of the groin area," says his doctor, "and his pecker is just plain gone." "I'd give anything to see my boy restored to normal," the father says as he keeps a bedside vigil by his son. "It was self-defense," feminists protest. "The boy made improper advances toward the chicken. When she refused his bestial affections, he tried to force himself on her." Marching outside the hospital they carry placards: "DOWN WITH PIGS, UP WITH CHICKS," "POLICE PLAY FOWL! A cop called to the scene of the chicken attack retorts, "She had him like you'd pull a worm from the ground when I got there. It was awful! Blood everywhere! Then, when I told her to drop it, she pulled even harder," he says stretching his own hands at least four feet apart. "I had no choice but to barbecue the chick on the spot." What the boy was doing with his pants down in the chicken coop may never be known as his brain is too scrambled to question him. Preliminary results of an autopsy conducted on the chicken indicate she may have died from multiple injuries to her egg pouch caused by the penetration of a large blunt object. Or she could have died from a 44-caliber bullet which ripped her plucking head right off. The world was becoming plastic. Bird watchers found their jobs easier--plastic finches never flew away. Their taped bird called were easier to classify and there was no worry of endangered species. Botanists found plastic trees structurally stronger. Homeowners, already delighted with plastic grass, were pleased that they had no leaves to rake. Soon, plastic dogs were perfected--a vast improvement, guaranteed not to bite, unless programmed to. And their mating habits would no longer scare old maids and children. There was, of course, a short-lived anti- plastic protest but it was beaten back (with plastic clubs) and the movement was quickly laminated into the histories. Fast-food families welcomed plastic food, which made up in added vitamins what it lacked in taste or texture. Its consumption solved the sewerage problems of the world--plastic feces could be reprocessed, as edible as new. Plastic never dies. As a petrochemical, the cost was high, but what price immortality? The last remaining rose was put on view (the animals had long since disappeared). On its petals, a single plastic beetle did what it was taught to do. "Yellow goblins are gobbling up our children," a father tells a mother. "No need to worry, dear," she reassures, "This is the first day of school." "But mother," he insists, "the monster has opened its folding jaw and sucked them in." "Posh," mother scolds. "Today they will receive the cumulative wisdom a local school board can bestow." "But mother," the father gasps, "now the monster is trudging off on terrible black feet with our sweethearts screaming from its pores." "No, no," mother chastises, "this is as it should be. School must devour every one of their own thoughts so that they can become strong men and women and send their own young darlings off to school." "Too late," father sighs, "the monster has digested them."
|
