Glass Front

Seen in a series of reflective rectangles

Seven days a week:

A portion of the El, dirty peach

Single sidewalk crack, stepped on

Reversed decals: &SKOOB

                                  SDROCER

Remnant parking meters (2)

Asphalt, painted line

Cars, trucks (too numerous)

You

(head down, hands in pockets)

Slowing

(blinking, looking in)

Adjusting backpack

(frowning)

Reaching for the door

(hesitating)

Shaking head

(leaving the rectangle)

If I can bring myself to watch,

How can you not bring yourself to enter?

Secret Prayer

Dear All Things--

Please keep me safe

In the lockbox of my skull,

And money flowing

In my direction.

Please keep fur soft,

And chocolate delicious,

Also, please vouchsafe

My scribbles

To the ages,

Via unexpected critical

Re-evaluation.

Please be there.

Please.

And lastly, All Things,

Let no one hear this prayer--

But All Things.

And for fear of

Intellectual condescension,

Please quell

Any obvious tells

I may have acquired

That would betray

Me to the World

Because,

The best type of Religion

Should be

Must be

Secret Religion.

The Lidded Box

In the dusty, dim attic of my childhood home

Twixt the dressmaker's dummy and the sad garden gnome

Lies a large lidded box with hinges of brass

A doorway to Faerie, a friend from my past

For in that dear box, on those warm afternoons

I would play as a boy between cedar roughhewn

And concoct all manner of adventures therein

Adventures fantastic--as to make your head spin

That box became a carriage, which transported the king

To a palace of jadeite wherein mermaids would sing

Eerie hymns to the cryptic gods of the deep

The ones with long tentacles and rows of sharp teeth

That box became a cavern, as silent as the tomb

And in it slept a firedrake, which carried in its womb

An egg, that once quickened would bear such a beast

A monster made of flames that viewed humans as feast

But that was long ago, I'm now a father and wed

I now manicure a lawn and put my son to bed

There's no adventure for me as I hear my boy shout

"I hate you daddy, I hate you without a doubt!"

I won't bore you with details of how this situation arose

It suffices that to spite his face a man will cut off his nose

And a child unwanted grows bitter over time

Much like the specter of a rich man who dies in his prime

My wife has passed as well, an accident--or fate

Having bled out when a streetcar knocked her insensate

And so I alone am left to deal with this keening monster child

This me I never wanted, this document misfiled

I had forgotten my box, until one day, at the end of my rope

I said, "Use your imagination!" and my son replied "Nope!"

"Then let's us have an adventure!" I said to his sour face

"There's treasure to be found, and I know just the place!"

So off we went to seek out my (now abandoned) childhood home

And swiftly we found my box near the (now broken) garden gnome

"Looks like nothing," my brutish son, he said with a sneer,

"Why get inside," I beamed, "And then all will become clear!"

My son climbed inside the box and said, "Now what do I do?"

"Close your eyes," I whispered. "And then you will see it too."

And while his eyes were closed, I pounced from where I sat

Slamming shut my lidded box with a truly satisfying splat

The cries from inside the box soon became distant and faint

And I nailed the lid closed with the conscience of a saint,

I imagined my boy and the firedrake as the best of happy friends

And him in the king's carriage with all the honors that portends

As I exited that haunted house I whistled a jaunty tune

Wind moaned in accompaniment as clouds scudded past the moon

Yes, a lidded box is just a box, and you can fill it up with stuff

But it can also become a coffin--if you just wish hard enough.

Scritch...Scritch...Scritch...

Friedrichshain

"Betrothed of the Avern"

Monkey Deity

"I think they're in the trees," Candice says, dropping the heavy brown velvet curtain back over the mullioned window.

Seven cats lie in a knot next to my wheels. It's evening, and they all stare hungrily at the lone, quivering rabbit hunched in a wire cage near the bone-dry fifty-gallon Uniquarium. Behind the foggy, scratched glass, a plastic treasure chest overflowing with fake riches sits half submerged in aquamarine gravel. The rubber tubes of a lime-frosted filter unit dangle above it, the arms of a lifeless kraken.

The rabbit's name is Neko.

"We should call the township," Candice says.

The Satellite chimes softly, offering up an enticing stream of reality fare: My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancé. Who Wants to Marry My Dad? I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant. The Littlest Groom. 

I click on Extreme Celebrity Detox.

Something is making a skittering noise on the roof. Candice frowns. "Did you charge that thing up like I told you?" she says, nodding at my Hoveround Personal Mobility Vehicle.

"They won't come all the way out here for nothing," I say, dismissing her question. "It's just squirrels, anyway."

Candice once more raises the curtain and squints into the yard. "Squirrels, my ass."

***

All the cats have vanished. Their self-cleaning litter boxes emit a beach-fresh scent as they manicure the tumbling silica gel with a steady mechanical hum.

"They're building something," Candice says. "It's like a tower, I think."

The Satellite purrs: Toluca v DC United. Pohang Steelers v Umm Salal. CSKA Moscow v Manchester United. I click on Al Ittihad Jettah v Nagoya Grampus Eight.

The skittering on the roof has gotten more frantic.

"I'm going out there," Candice says, looking up at the ceiling. She's wearing green gardening overalls and is carrying a Techzilla XP model youth aluminum baseball bat.

Something is howling in the yard, hissing and spitting and screaming. The thumping of what sound like massive tympani drums reverberates through the foundation of the house. Sirens approach, wailing forlornly, and then recede into the distance.

"Don't be long," I say. "Dinner at six."

***

Candice has not returned. Dinner--chicken carbonara bread bowls and free chocolate lava cake--sits cooling on the coffee table. The delivery boy ran away before I could give him a tip. The noise from the roof has become thunderous. I've closed the chimney damper to minimize the racket.

I roll slowly across the den and take Neko out of his cage, setting him on my lap. The uncharged Hoveround barely responds and then creeps to a halt. The rabbit shivers in the hollow of my worn chinos. He looks at me as though he wishes to speak, but doesn't. His eyes are moist and shiny, like ripe, freshly washed black currants. Those eyes reflect a familiar weariness that weighs on me like a wooden yoke. This endless, pointless loop we've locked ourselves into.

World after world. Millennia after millennia.

The Satellite pulses in the heavy dark of the den, drawing my attention: Mahavir Hanuman. Love Monkey. Lancelot Link: Secret Chimp. BJ and the Bear. Mighty Joe Young. I know what it's trying to tell me. I click on Twelve Monkeys.

The noise on the roof has stopped. I hear the doorbell chime in the front hall and a faint breeze invades the room. A dozen silent, yellow spider monkeys--his ever-present entourage--precede my guest's entrance. They take up positions at various points around the room, scratching on the furniture, their eyes reflected white in the gloom.

"Is that all you can muster, Ravana?" the figure says as it stoops through the doorway, silk robes rustling. "A few cats and a woman?" The room is hung with deep shadows, but even from my seated position I can make out his ape-like features above the stiff cowl he wears. He sits with a sigh on the couch. "I think you're going soft, friend. Or perhaps you're getting tired of our little game?"

"No, it's you that's lost this time, Hanuman," I say, feeling a sneer creep across my face, the remote slick and sweaty in my shaking hand. "This world is different than the others. The rules have changed."

Neko growls a low, ominous rasp from my lap. Then, in a blur of claws, he launches himself at my enemy. The spider monkeys respond with lightning speed, leaping to their beleaguered master's defense. In the ensuing screeching chaos, I turn my attention back to the screen on the wall.

The Satellite begins to fill the room with a white-hot glow. The light is hard, angular, and chases the shadows from even the deepest corners of the room. I squint: The Day After Tomorrow. Deep Impact. Supernova. 2012. Planet of the Apes.

I click on Armageddon.