Preservation
a maintenance day today
boil some eggs, check the mail
check the suicidal thoughts
let them see the snow falling outside
it’s soft, it’s cool and white
somewhere a princess dreams of cashews
drink a little coffee, dear
it’s warm and froth the milk first
you like it that way
I flip open the laptop
no emails, no rejection letters
burn my fingers peeling eggs
the oven is electric, not gas
no help there
just maintain, hold on a little longer
and your bride will carry you
through open doorways
maintain, goddamnit you idiot
you can get a job tomorrow
but no one is calling you back
you’re experienced
but your experience sucked
they don’t want you stocking their cans
you can’t mop their floors
or teach their daughters how to limbo
manage a warehouse? you can’t
even manage your own mind
a maintenance day today
no ups and no downs
try to get outside
a little fresh air, exercise
the snow is a fairy tale
read a book that isn’t Dostoevsky
not Steinbeck either
does someone always have to die?
yes, someone always has to die
but it won’t be me today.
Swan Song
to tears, I am tragically bored
the spines creased, the birds
alone in their forests whistle
sweet little songs to warn the others:
this is my spot, my tree, my world
you’d better stay away. the tunes
we hear are pretty to hear, but
to the other swallows they are
death on the wind. and so I sit
mind dulled against the broken
warnings, the rejections and confused
successes: my song is not a forecast
but a whimper; defeat, from ash to oak,
across the burning countryside.
skyliner
the border between insanity and sky
is lined with doughy promises
glimpsed drafts of long forgotten poesy
come, inky gloom of dartlike daytime
strength in silence does not
in our time hold a candle
to the senseless violet mouth
ever running, crossing the line, the
line, a lone wit left in the dark.
Beginning
the end is easy, a bang
or a whisper
a simple horn blown or bestial sigh, but
the beginning, once you decide
which is which, is the sharp eye
the oily dew under the slug
stuck between sea and seasons
it’s a laughing across the coals
a trick of the light, now smoke in your eye
a promise rarely kept
and even more
rarely made at all.
Daily Lazarus
I’m amazed
at the ability
of corpses—
they stack freight
file paperwork
unload trucks
load trucks
empty recycling bins.
they listen to managers
take public abuse
are grateful for a 10 minute break.
they manage to smile
speak politely
go on
relatively happy.
that the dead continue
doing their work
day after day after day is
a twisted miracle.
*****
Peter Kahn lives in southeastern Wisconsin, where he writes and fishes, generally getting skunked doing either one. Poems of his have appeared most recently in California Quarterly and his story “Evolutionary Reject” will appear in the upcoming “Front Range Review.”