A Weed
Though progress does attempt to prevent
A plant from feeling the warmth of the day,
One small weed crawls through the sidewalk cement,
Forking between two slabs of my pathway.
I pass it, startled by the protrusion,
Impressed that it had learned how to survive.
It seems to thrive despite its seclusion—
Despite all the pollutions that deprive
It. Secondhand water quenches its thirst.
Garbage cloisters in the cracks that surround
It. Yet, the weed does not appear coerced
By the filth that litters the paltry ground.
Somewhere beside the congested gridlock
Of traffic, this plant stands—in the sidewalk.
I stare at the weed for a moment to
Wonder why no one had plucked it before.
It was not something I had sought to do,
But I pondered about what it lived for—
Why it challenged the street with sturdy roots
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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The Choking
Somewhere
Between
My throat and my heart,
I choke
On my voice.
I gag,
Coughing curdles of coagulated blood,
Dry tears dripping from my dehydrated eyes,
Heaving ev'rything I try to digest,
Spitting words—
Hoping they learn how to speak.
I wipe the drool from my face.
So sick, I spittle my word vomit
After gorging and gorging on a linguistic feast—
Tossed word salad.
I just want
To speak.
I just want
To mean something
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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Pigs
Spending their entire lives
in small, metal cages; growing
fat on the cornmeal and
corn syrup that sustains them;
being unable to fit where
fate has housed them,
the pigs stare at the ground,
gazing into the dirt
that softens beneath their feet—
their cloven hooves digging,
mud clumping,
in the earth.
Then, one day, while
they are daydreaming,
pondering about a
better life, wondering
what it would be like
to feast—feral curiosity beaming
through the resignation that
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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Lag
Lag, lag, lag.
All I want to do
is relax and make
myself acquainted
with my new friends
by shooting
them in the
head with a Spartan
laser, but
lag, lag, lag.
Time cuts, I retrace my steps
involuntarily, a jerking
motion pulls me back three
seconds ago, flipping over
myself— I snap
here. Wait.
Why am I here?
Why did I edge myself
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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A Day at the Office (Minimum Wage)
I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
And then I folded a pair of pants,
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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At the Supermarket
At the supermarket,
The produce is stacked to the ceiling
And the fresh fruit
Is at the bottom.
You may feel pings
Of in di gestion
After eating
The ones
The The
theXXXXX1XXXXX1s
at
the
top
of the heap.
At the supermarket,
Boxes are placed neatly in rows,
Perhaps even single file,
Marching in procession
Into consuming hands.
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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A Bird on the Road
I watched as a baby bird fell from a tree,
Trying to flap its youthful wings,
So that it may fly so elegantly.
Perhaps like his soaring father
Or perhaps like his gliding mother
Or perhaps just to feel
The wind coursing
In between his new
Feathers.
The bird landed on an empty street on the other side
Of the library parking lot where I was.
I watched it stumble up, struggling
To stand on its barely-born feet.
I heard it chirping—as if to call
For someone someplace, distant,
Someone who had left it
Not so long ago
On the road.
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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From the Ten, Laminated Minutes of the Early Morning
I found my body
Rubbing up against a coral reef,
My skin peeling off like cheese
In an aluminum grater,
Leaving little red holes, or
Empty pockets of air
That resemble little red holes
Where my flesh once was,
And I feel myself
Looking at myself
And I turn away from what I see,
But I'm not sure that's me—
How can I see myself?
How can I see myself?
I look back,
And nothing is there.
I thought I was there,
But now there is an empty space
Where I was lying down,
Submerging a thin stratum
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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A Wash of Pixels
I waited to see my dreams
Pigment reality, but the inverse
Occurred and all there was
Was a blue-blinking screen flickering
Underneath my eye-lids,
Transmuting my perceptions
Into the to-be-reset cartridges
That are somewhere inside my pupils.
I did not witness a muddy water
Color, but a wash of pixels
That seem to twinkle on the
Black background of my thoughts;
A periphery that cascades
Like a warping sun glare
Spread over an aluminum sky with
Melting manipulating oil splatter
Clouds leaking down the horizon.
The concepts eliding from my intuition
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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Apathy of Optimism
I
The apathy of optimism cannibalizes
Us—it forces us to artuate our own
And each others' limbs in order to smile—
To smile for no reason.
We are instructed to compose ourselves,
To keep from corroding our attitudes
Because we will disturb each other
(Besides complaints are annoying) .
We compile lists of positivity
That promote our passivity
And repress our aggressions,
So that we may use our frustrations
In the work force—
As something healthy,
A productive outlet for our energy.
II
We must not be overcome by the influenza
Of our asymmetrical responsibilities,
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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