Terry Severhill*

We started on Wednesday
It was cold
But the foreperson was hot
Got laid off for looking
Shit that ain’t no way to treat a veteran
No I’m not going to tell you all about that time
When the billie bongs nearly trashed the gray house
Used to be off white n a fore that kinda yeller
They was just doing their thing all
Limpy and crusted over on they heads
Had chiggers and all kinda stuff
Next thing I knows I gots to run after them
I didn’t have no gun or nuttin so I pick me up a rat from the alley
The rat is all like “put me the fuck down dude”
But I just squeezed him harder and ran faster
When I almost caught up I haul off n throw that
Ratty hard. I mean those billie bongs knew what hit them
After all them rats is all soft and a sqiushy like
All natural and can’t hurt no one.
The billy bongs slowed down to discuss whether that rat was ripe enough
To eat raw or it they should cook it
First they had to catch it
Cause it bit billie in the bong area
That was the break I needed
Needed cause my arm hadn’t healed up proper like
I was at the deli or the gun store as I like to call it
How do you go into a place filled with lube jelli and rags n vats of ???
They said I could eat it
Oh hell no I ain’t going to try anything, first in line or not
Still can’t gets the taste of burnt socks and rubber outta my mouth
I noed that the sar-gentle man was not going to let me just up n walk
Shit the billi bongs were still milling bout the place and
When they gets a thought into their heads they just don’t wanna let it go
Not that I blames them oh no they has nuf trouble jess thinking one thought
Soes they wanna keep any they ketch
Sees they hang out round doors and setch cuz people just leaves em their.
Thoughts thet is.
You knoed what I mean like the time you gone and
Walked into the kitchen n forgot what n the hell am I doing here??
Soes I just got me a nuther beer n went back to the livn room and
Damn I was gonna call me a pizza.

Where do photons go to get some sleep?
Away from all that light?
Where are the “W”-rays, the “Z”-rays?
How come the “Xs” get to have all the fun?
When gravity waves… should we wave back?
How many PhD physicists does it take to change a light bulb??
“Oh, that’s a problem for a psychologist,” was their reply.
(And the bulb has to really want to change).
What is a gathering of “scientists,” who ignore some facts
but endorse the findings of others who ignore facts, called…?
A Consensus.
Who warmed up the earth?
You know, way back when the earth was covered in ice?
As in the last Ice Age?
(I’m melting!)
How did that happen?
Perhaps from Humans or,
maybe Neanderthals,
hugging to stay warm?

Down at the check point they
search us for paper, pencils or pens.
They insist that we leave words,
punctuation and yes our ideas at home.
Safely kept under lock and key. Only
they insist that we give them the key.
Both keys. Sad, but most see no harm
in this. Ideas are dangerous. Ideas should
only be in the hands of those trained in a
rigorous course of socially accepted norms.
Except those whose ideas are an anathema
to those living here. Those go to the head
of the line. And who pays for “free” thinking?
If thinking outside the lines is for-bidden,
why do some want to celebrate those who
color outside the lines? Why is there no
consistency? Please don’t repeat these thoughts.
I still am able to print, with hoarded construction
paper and crayons. I can recall, with fond
memories the click clack and smell of
mimeograph ink and the rocking machine.

What can be said or written that
could ever comfort the dead or
the mother holding onto, clinging
to the barest shadow of faith that
her beloved may escape that
which stalks us all? Forever is an
awfully long time yet it seems not
long enough to grieve to release
all hope. Remembering is not life,
not reanimation, still she will go
through the motions, repeating
prayers, rituals and random
conjurings in faint hope that her
faith, her will, can evoke a
different outcome. So it is, so it
has always been. We should feel a
connection to our shared past but
we don’t. Hundreds of thousands
of years, thousands of
generations. Bones laid to rest
with furs, flowers, stone tools,
jewelry, food stuff all bear mute
testimony to our shared hope,
shared failure. Amen.

The ice cream cone perched precariously near the edge of the bench.
It didn’t have the look or feel of an abandoned thing.
Around the corner the old woman lay with her treasures, her home.
The cone was starting to drip over its waffled surface.
Her bottle, wrapped in brown paper was carefully perched in the nest of her arm.
Drool was dripping down her waffled face.
She had the look of something long ago abandoned.
Around the corner, someone had rescued the cone.
It was in the sun.
She lay in the shadowed alley.
Dreamless.