Squirrel Ballet – A poem.

Tonight, the moon is a plastic bag
caught in the grasping willow
where the squirrels sit, eating their winter-stored
Planter’s peanuts and almonds. Casting
shells into the oil-rainbow puddle and divining
that the broken colors mean
Frank will get laid tonight, but only
if he can manage to tame his bushy tail
because she likes her men neat and clean.
Which is strange for a squirrel.
But Frank tries to conquer the fur
with both paws and his teeth because he
is incredibly horny after a winter of watching
pay-per-view porn through a stranger’s window.

Frank repels down the tree,
trying to hide the nervous chattering
amidst cheers from his friends. This time,
he’ll get Suzanne in the oak across
the way. Straightening his bowtie,
he darts into the road to win his girl.

Car. And the squirrels scurry, momentarily
losing their minds and running back and forth
and back and forth across the road before
flying up the willow and cussing so loud
they sound like they are shivering
the way their teeth chatter. There is a soft squelch
but the cars keep driving, offering a silent apology
through the whisk, whisk of Frank’s tail brushing the road
where it clings, dangerously and gracefully,
to the all-weather tread of the tire.

A small, red stained bowtie flutters
against the oak’s trunk, where Suzanne
sits in silence.

JKolasch

The Games We Play with Gods – A poem.

This is the beginning, in which
we see ourselves revealed—
shallow husks of skin that drift
through the blackest ocean,
pricked by the needles of gods.
Light bleeds through, tiny slivers
remind us of magic, and we gasp at shapes,
name them after dragons,
twins, and the mundane we know.

This is the beginning, in which
heaven enthralls us—
forget about husbands and wives,
waste away chasing stars.

Old eyes fail, and through
shaped and polished glass
we throw ourselves into the sky—
feel the drift and pull of planets
pass so close our fingers brush them.
Gods remain out of grasping hands,
still we try to climb into heaven.
Chasing prey we’ve never seen.

In time we puncture the black—
lights from our own needles.
Flames as long as rivers
smear the sky and blind us—
drifting in the dark, we are enveloped
in nothing.

JKolasch

In the Face of God – A poem.

Death is a sparrow windowing—
streak-free shine of feathers
and pulp.
We can only watch
the life tick-tick from its tiny
body. Shivers as eyes go dark.

Where is your god,
they ask.

Where is yours—
when children bulge their bellies
and suffocate on flies.
When bombers tear holes
in asphalt and flesh—
and flee.

Death is a fist bleeding—
mirrors stick like spines
and line
white knuckles clenched
at nothing.

Where is your god,
they ask.

Where is yours—
when homeless skeletons
freeze to the gutters and everyone
still walks.

Death is not the absence—
be humanity and hold the sparrow,
hold the fist.
Be there, when they ask—
where is your god.

JKolasch

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