Posts for June 27, 2017


Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Chihuahua

The alarm bell rings. 
blankets rustle
but the Chihuahua
remains burrowed.    

Breakfast must
be served immediately
upon request.
Or the Chihuahua
might starve.  

Big brown eyes,
the Chihuahua prances,
tail wagging,
as he runs outside.  

Stretched on the loveseat, 
the Chihuahua
has settled in
for the day  

The Chihuahua guards
his food
from the Maltese
and cats.  

The Chihuahua searches
through the blankets, 
comes out with a
stuffed raccoon.  

the Chihuahua
as he goes under
the bed
carrying the raccoon  

Time for
the Chihuahua
to eat

Open wide, Chihuahua.
Pill and eye drops.    

The Chihuahua
gets a

It’s time for a walk
but the Chihuahua
refuses to wear
his harness.  

The Chihuahua
stops to smell
the fire hydrant.  

In bed,
the Chihuahua
snuggles with his raccoon,
and burrows under the blanket.     

-Maggie Brewer 


#D58952 ( 213, 137, 82)

we were called over
to order
once the window had been raised–

my friend had not been
to the Freezer Fresh yet
during her work travels to my town
whereas my world was incomplete
without it; I was
aghast that no other townsfolk
had recommended the staple
and so I aimed to fix that

she was the one to recommend ice cream
on her dime, erh her work’s dime,
after our rural version of the epic
Battle of the Sexes tennis match
where she was Billy Jean King
and I was the other guy
but also the gay one of the two
and also the winner

while we played and reminisced about
our separate lives ancillary to one another
that played out in separate trajectories 
after befriending during a summer camp
having shared a rather intense time together
but mostly just picked up right where we left off

and so, when called to take
our order, I resorted to my usual choice
of a strawberry milkshake
while she picked reeses, perhaps
my least favorite of the milkshakes
but a popular choice regardless

and it was funny that, to order
we had to step around a puddle where
the ice cream baked in the afternoon sun
from a fallen swirl cone, a classic,
blending together just below the window
a mixture of vanilla and chocolate
both distinct, but obviously joined
in some way where
the whole
was also its parts

I had the urge to dip my finger down onto pavement
and press where the two types joined
to taste that liminal space and see if it was indeed
chocolate or vanilla
or if it could be that something new
when you taste the two at the same time

instead I photographed it to post
and demarcate this day, this time
this swirl
then paid for us since she didn’t have 
cash and we sat behind the building
slurping and swapping stories
and enjoying the loss of my distinct identity
for a short while


spare parts

Today I calmly discussed
the removal of body parts.

Parts perhaps no longer needed,
parts that might turn against me,

Or just lay quietly within,
withering into darkness.

Which fate is more probable?
We will ask the geneticist.

We roll the dice for luck,
avoiding all complications.


My Conversation

My conversation at the gym
With my english professor
Lasted longer 
Than my workout

Either indicative
Or formulative
I told him that
The navy may not be an option

Because it is a different time
And a different person


Wasted Time

I’ve been spending a lot of time recently getting glimpses at the adolescence I could have had if I had gotten a little less horrible a little faster. 

There’s something disgusting about realizing how much time you wasted on people so inconsequential you can barely bring to mind their last names.

I know very well that I have about ten years left to have these friends, not these in particular but the kind who aren’t awful.

I am also very aware that every second I spend on yet another person who will be steeped in the irrelevance of my past is a moment closer to death.

I won’t waste any more time.


Crumbling Monuments To Corporate Control

Capitalism is
extermination dressed up
in a suit and tie
A grotesque swine, found
digging in pits of profit
wallowing in greed
These filthy beasts feed
on the bones of every city
wrought with avarice
Austerity strikes
a match, which burns the ladder
out of poverty
Cadavers lay bare
in crumbling monuments
to corporate control 

Photograph of my DADA piece


A wonder

A bear may make a waffle
in itself a marvelous thing
that may prove the source of enchantment
in hidden nature seen

Let us cook with skill
let us explore with love
mystery exists in the woods
before it exists on the stove


Three Beauties

Cream lazes its curly way over ice
Laces up the coffee, loosens, eases on.

Evening gold backlights the backyard–
All the greens become look-through stencil.

Sun behind trees waving west of the window
Nature’s summer blockbuster plays on the plain grey wall.


The Battlefield

She surveys the land –
a 40-year-old body trapped
between lushness and desolation.
Her scars, the stories of skirmishes.  

A six year old child mercilessly covered in pox –
her mother cooled and calmed the bout
with cotton balls and calamine kisses,
but itchy hands unearthed a solitary scab.  

Rage marred her next. At 23,
life with a sadist turned strife.
A rifle butt slammed against her temple.
She didn’t know how to fight back… yet.
The marking above her eye
a reminder never to surrender.  

Silver streaks flare across her hips and breasts –
a constant conflict with weight,
but the birth of her son at 28
stretched her beauty and confidence.  

Stitch lines along her leg hide titanium.
Her bionic ankle created at 35 when
a hiking trip in El Salvador turned quest.
Cold weather reminds her to give thanks
for machete wielding friends
who sacrificed trees, shirts, and sweat
to carry her to healing.  

The real damage lays unseen,
the infighting between mind and heart.
Her romantic, idealistic nature
in direct confrontation
with a cynical, negative world
surrounding her on all sides.

But she readies for an uprising,
no treason to be committed
against herself. 



Park hits the overpass
hits Almann hits Francis:
nobody goes that way,
even in the daytime.
The air had chilled.
The expressway never far off
echoed against the nothingness
of blocks of industry
quiet for the night.
I turned my music louder,
Mother of Pearl, he sang,
having a place in your heart makes
me feel more real. I
put my arm out the window
felt the cold on my skin
and remembered you
tilting your head
not drunk
and smiling at me
like you might have been
talking about the revolution
talking about hope
and I knew
the word embarrassment
had changed its scope.
What I wouldn’t do
if you just asked.