Again

December 2001 | back-issues, fiction, Michael W. Giberson

What if we daisy-cut
Bin Laden to bloody mush
And stuff his corpse

For John Swenning on the Occasion of His Retirement

December 2001 | back-issues, fiction, Michael W. Giberson

They say that to be a poet, or even to read poetry, one must be slightly insane.
Which is not to say that the poet, or the reader of poetry, is to blame

There is No One Such as I

December 2001 | back-issues, fiction, Michael W. Giberson

There is no one such as I…
God’s own juices flow here.
The plain upon which I falter is my hell…

Wall of Jars

November 2001 | back-issues, fiction, Michael W. Giberson

a hospital in
ho chi minh city
has a wall of jars

with pickled
fetuses aborted
(they say)
by agent orange

i feel a flicker
of glee
quick as lust

still killing the
murderous little bastards…

today I discovered
the beauty
of a boy in a
round wicker boat

Dog Talk

November 2001 | back-issues, fiction, Michael W. Giberson

When my dog talks to me
I know that he is discussing
Quantum Physics
From a different
Perspective…

When he dreams
I know that he does not exist
In this world
While he dreams…

His incisors
Are perfect utensils
For cutting meat…

He allows me
To take his temperature
Rectally…

When I sing
He harmonizes
In fellowship…

When I scratch his belly
He starts his motorcycle,
And I never ask,
“What’s in it for me?”…

Heisenberg

November 2001 | back-issues, fiction, Michael W. Giberson

God whirls around you
And you do not see him.

You are Heisenberg.

If God chose to
Appropriate your poems,

Your brittle images –
So lucid that they make

The back of my eyes ache –
Would be lost to me.

An entire universe would
Cease to exist.

You have prayers,
But God knows that

You are not yet ready for Him…