by Charles Cantrell

My finger is air, and my brain
is Jello, which is why I cannot pull
the trigger to shoot a pregnant sow
in thorny underbrush. Did the moon
or the stars make me feel this way?
Or some Freudian stuff about manhood
misunderstood? Or my reading of Kant
and others on morality? I’m not sure.
I’d like to think hogs have souls, and yet,
and why am I out here in the woods
in the first place, except for a chance
to see if I have the guts or not?

Who will care if I kill a wild pig?
My thumb is ice, my eye is locked shut.
My hunter pal is mad, but guesses
I am a pussy. So we don’t drag a 200–pound sow
through the trees, and we’ll eat no ham.
And soon, all things being even, a piglet
will slip alive to the earth — a creature
with feelings, with a soul or not,
free to run and eat and fight and fuck
its way toward its own eternity.

by Charles Cantrell

We blended ingredients
for cornmeal mix. While reading
Crane at lunch, I wondered,
when he leaped from the Orizaba
and waved, Goodbye, everybody,
was that a joke he didn’t swim back from?

I got fired for being late from lunch
too many times. Got a new job
at a doll factory, gluing hair
to scalps. I still enjoyed Crane
at lunch. His puzzling images
still excited me — like Where icy
and bright dungeons lift swimmers
their lost morning eyes.

Walking home one night, I passed
a pile of junked doll parts: broken arms,
over–glued scalps, drilled–wrong eye sockets.
Does the world mutilate us,
or do we mutilate the world?

by Neeli Cherkovski

I dunno he said
As a blanket of fog
Crossed from the lower slope
Of Russian Hill
I dunno but there’s
Nowhere left to go
We’ve stolen all there is
To steal and broken
All our promises

He was a regular at
Franks Extra Bar
One of those hard–drinkers
Who seemed in charge
He drank whiskey
And would launch into
Memories of the old
Times working on
The Embarcadero
Joining the strikes
Saying fuck you to
A phalanx of cops

It was a real city
He said
I mean none of this
Smooth talking and
Stuff about caring

He would grip
His glass of whisky
In strong old hands
And remember

Now he is with
The children of the sun
Way past the Sierra
Nevada Mountains,
High above the deer
And elk, Franks closed
Long ago, young men
With Uber accounts
File–in to a power lunch
Of Italian food
And fine wine

I forgot his name
Maybe Bill or Roy
Or it could be Bob
he would hate to see
The shadow of the beast
On Columbus and
Broadway in his old
workingman’s town

by Neeli Cherkovski

I Want to be a Dead Poet
     for Senol Erdogan

I want to be a dead poet
alive beyond life
sitting at a corner table
in our neighborhood café
like Paul Verlaine
sipping absinthe on a warm
and rapturous summer’s day

I want to walk with Dante
on his journey through hell
we stop for a picnic with Mrs. Satan
who brings fried chicken
and potato salad, a cold cruel wind
climbs Tamalpais as we eat

I want to be a dead poet
and learn how to speak the great
languages of the world
from Urdu to Bangla
a man of mountain words
and desert commas
a brick man and a birch poet

are the trees violent
or violet today?
do you find
a distant planet
where violins fall
like rain?

I’m tired of being an old man
feet ache, knees weak
they are taking away my license
to drive

rain threatens our beloved town
I’ll stand, arms outspread

I want to be a dead poet

now it is 5 am
I grow frailer by the minute
yet life is good
I love breathing
every minute counts
love is a pain in the ass
but we fall for it

we look like reindeer
and our hearts beat like
hedgehogs

oh to be a dead poet
beloved in eternity

last week I walked
with my partner
in the deer park
we fed rabbits and
waved to the baboons

I saw two doves
eating sugar from
the hands of Gautama

next week I’ll climb
the mountain
to probe sturdy junipers
where snow is like ash
purple lichen clinches
obdurate rock

I would become sainted
and wear a name–tag
at the literary convention

I want to be a dead poet
because nothing else matters

life depends on such a state

I’ll count butterflies
in the world to come
eat sounds of drummers
until stones are lit
like Roman candles

I want to take one last drive
on Funston Beach
stroll the cliff with Orion
who carries our planet

I need you, your love, your
poisoned brain, skeleton
keys and dust
of Oklahoma clinging
to my skin

I want to be a dead poet
and drink till my eyes spin

in a favorite dive
with Jack and Jill
far into the night

I hope to meet you on a
star when winter dies
in my arms and you are witness
to a descending goddess,
our ancient and inhuman sun
rising and sleeping for
billions of years, tickling our
cemetery dreams

trees giggle
flowers wear party hats —
death is proud and primitive
my dogs will wag their tails
when I’m dead, Comet, Cosmo,
Orion, come along, jump
into my arms, bring
a weapon of leaves scattered
on the grass

I want to sing for cosmic rust
and ride a comet into the heart
of our lonely bed
where, propped by a pillow,
I’ll be eager to sleep