ode to artemis

November 13, 2011
published in on the cusp's magazine "hunt" Autumn 2012

ode to artemis

lady artemis:

the wild beasts of today are no calydonian boars,

but pretty pop-culture vampires with shiny teeth,

fresh from makeup or their tiny diva dressing rooms. 

instead of the ceryneian hind, we have

werewolves with stars in their eyes brandishing

coca-cola logos that scream, “this is happiness, this is happiness!” 

ogres and giants still ravage innocent towns,

until they forget their next line, and the set lights go on,

and the director reminds them, “roar.  all you do is roar.” 

maiden huntress:

our hunters prance about in faux-metal armor,

casting their ragdoll eyes and sloppy smiles at anyone

who might be willing to take their picture. 

the orion of this age is some pre-teen one-hit wonder

actor/singer/pop-star who even has his own tv show

and always walks around with his hands ready on his hips,

frantically looking over his shoulder because he never knows

if he should strike a pose now, or now; like this, or no, like this.

dear sister:

today, all our girls are damsels who flounce and pout

and pine for some hero to complete them –

they fling themselves as shoddy sacrifices

upon any adonis look-alike with a tacky dollar-store costume

that’s already wearing away at the elbows and knees.

true goddess of the hunt:

the gods we worship are billionaire movie stars.  brand-name sponsors

serve as their blessed ambrosia, applause and canned laughter

their most sacred nectar.  their enormous faces expand

across mile-long billboards; their names transcend any natural death.

o, artemis, divine and perfect:

let us remember mortality. 

save us from this action-packed

comedy-horror-romance-adventure-thriller

sub-reality in which we now exist.

this pulse is just a reflex

September 28, 2011

published in Westminster College's journal "ellipsis" Spring 2012

this pulse is just a reflex

the man at the front of the room, the one with the funny legs,

crab-walks from side to side, his back to us, with stilted, aluminum steps,

scribbling the notation for conic sections and riemann sums, sketching

the curves of cosines with a lover’s care, but all we can see are his legs;

he stands on his heels so his knees don’t buckle

because his bones were twisted by blacksmiths, mistaken

for yet-to-be ironwork railing rungs that they attached

with ligaments made of copper, eggshell-thin.

outside my window, the distant whirr of cars on the highway

is the same sound as the soft hushing-rushing of felt against slate,

and if I shift my body, my joints all make small chalkboard sounds

as they click into place, imitating chiseled white ‘x’s and ‘y’s;

I am made of bronze or well-tempered tin,

my eyes forgotten in the midst of remedial metal

splints for arms and legs, smooth steel mechanisms for heart and hands,

and intricate clicking gears for the best of brains–

we might all be hephaestus’s automata, beautiful the way

calculus and clockwork are, and nothing more.