Not the brightest of men, I have walked into walls, Chasing pleasant illusions, Elusive pleasures
But even I, Tiny bean brain that I may be, Have enough sense To stand back from the flames, To stay clear of fires that Rage beyond my control
Red, blustery, passionate, These rueful waves of the sun Crackle against the marbled rings Of Kronos’ cold steel slave rings
The hard master yields nothing easily
I can summon enough sense To feed myself when my bones Become brittle with hunger
But I cannot make a meal Out of the dust and dry reeds Of another’s feverish pangs
There is no sustenance in another’s Temporary fits of dissatisfied craving, The ghoulish haunting caused by Dwelling in the discontent of A desiccated shell, which they are Reluctant to abandon
When war swings its broadsword At the throat of its enemy with full vigor
And the enemy, Equally skilled in the art of slaughter, Parries with a great sword In just the knick of time, At a perfect right angle, There will inevitably come A clanging sound most awful
Sparks will pour off steel weaponry Sweat and cruel words will fly, And the thirst of demons is slaked With someone’s blood
The only question is, “Who’s blood?”
The answer is always the name of Someone stupid enough To stand too close to the fray
Such a someone does not Keep their name very long
The surgical procedures Of iron, hatred, and discontent Removes the name like a tumor, Placing it in a small wooden box and Burying it in the yard, like a dead bird, A former family pet who Gave up the ghost
Except, that the bird was well-loved, and Grieved for after its passing
The name of the fool who stands Between plumes of martial fire And the incontinence of the unhappy Is quite unceremoniously Peeled from the imbecile’s face and Dropped in a shallow grave With all the careful consideration A person observes when tossing A banana peel into the garbage
A miserly liver of life, Who cherishes comfort above all else, Will angrily slit the throat Of one who offers them a cup of wine, When the skinflint is busy Swearing to the deliciousness Of the sand in their parched throat
A plate of fresh fruit and venison Is smacked hastily from the hand, When offered to the prisoner Who enthusiastically requests A second helping of gravel and worms
No, it is far wiser to step back
Stay clear of one who is firmly committed To the cause of consistency, Merely for convenience’s sake
Let the dice, lightning bolts, and swords Fall where they may; So long as it is not upon your neck
tainted allegories and flawless renderings of the invisible
dry beans pour out of sacks onto tables of diamond and ivory
an abacus of emeralds, strung on strands of horsehair
a tiny pewter coin sits atop a scale of solid silver resting on a column of solid gold
pristine smudges of chocolate on acrylic peanut butter tapestries
buckets full of comets kicked over and showers of sparks falling on the floor
it’s enough to fill the silos of the universe top to bottom
but is it enough?
each individual grain of sand grates against another; all are dutifully counted
the hourglass is emptied of all its inexorable empires
excuses are forged from breath, and hammered into the sacred elixir of nothingness
there is no motion in this river’s torrent
the asphalt streets stole it all, sold it to capricious eels who swim in desperate candlelight
germinating helixes bristling thorn vines
funneling promising poisons into the infant mouths of ageless behemoths who rule small places
culmination is the beginning of the termination of endings and the siphoning off of all the intermittent middle bits, the ones that, as an afterthought, we tacked onto the ends in carefully coordinated haste
the endeavor, doomed from the outset
thank goodness we never embarked upon the journey and that we saw it through all the way to the end
we can scarcely contain ourselves from raving about what raucous ecstatic bliss it was, from the pistol start to the razored end
steal the serpent’s fangs
replace its venom with politesse and useless smalltalk
watch giddily as it pathetically gnaws and gums unproductively at its prey
we dare not speak of our elusive mysteries, not to the droll, sour, uninitiated brood, lest they discover our secret formula of beginning in the middle and ending at the front part of the second third half of each hind quarter, but only on Thursdays, except on leap years of an august May
the excitement would surely be too much for their frail constitutions, and over dead, they would drop down, into new incarnations of ceaseless wonder
and when, if so, would any of it ever cease?
take care, that none of this ever occurs, except for those precious few times that it unavoidably does not
dial back the wilting clock and try not to try again
Author’s Note: This piece is supposed to be humorous. There were genuine tragedies that occurred during the ice storms. Tens of thousands lost power, and there were a few fatalities. The homeless suffered greatly.
However, this is NOT about any of those serious situations. This is NOT meant to be disrespectful in any way toward the (thankfully) few instances where people were seriously harmed.
Instead, this piece is merely poking fun at the rest of us, the bulk of us, who were merely required to be patient while the storm passed; something that modern Americans find virtually impossible to do.
they fell like flies during those six terrible decades that began in mid January of 2024, in Portland, Oregon
so much collateral damage such tremendous loss of life
well… normal, everyday life
so much loss of… balance
power was wrested from the hands of those who were so accustomed to having power… in their homes chariots lost all control, crashing into each other like rams; suicide bombers, without any allegiances, taking out street signs, and Toyotas
actually, it wasn’t quite six decades, I guess it was more like six years?
but that hardly matters
when such senseless devastation falls on a place, the clock itself is killed in action
no one even recalls what started the wars
one day, it was brother and sister, neighbor and friend and the next, it was bedlam, chaos
colorless blood ran freely in the streets and froze into gruesome, solid, white sheets of gore; winter’s guts
it all happened so fast, there was no time to question why, how, or when
there was only enough time to react, to fight for one’s life, flailing on the battlefield, in mortal combat, man against nature, warrior against warrior, chariot against chariot
no wonder it felt like such an eternity
it is easy to understand how we thought it was six years
although, I was just reminded, it was only six months, not six years
still, it’s reasonable to assume that it would be simply impossible for so much carnage to occur in only six months
so many frozen toes, cold fingers, and other numb appendages
brave combatants, slugging it out in the trenches, trying to catch one of the few buses that were still running
the psychological impact, the mental anguish of having to leave fallen comrades behind
“Man down!”
war is truly hell
so many work hours… gone, forever
never to be made up through overtime
so many delivery orders that never arrived
there are no memorials in the town square, commemorating the fallen heroes
there are only pools of slush and tears
and the slow efforts of healing struggling to bloom, like the first buds of a spring that has yet to arrive
healing the wounds of the body is easy
hot baths, warm meals, cups of cocoa, and bandages for all the minor cuts, sustained out on those unforgiving, frozen killing fields
many battlegrounds have yet to be cleared
Burlington, Thorburn, Burnside, and 72nd Street, all littered with destroyed vehicles, fallen trees and power lines
all icy remembrances of the horrors of this past six weeks of war
the human body is amazingly resilient
the physical frame can regenerate lost tissue, skin that was mercilessly ripped from innocent flesh, as brave soldiers engaged in the fray, a torturous melee against the territory itself, and every previously mobile thing that had suddenly become a permanent fixture of the terrain
yes, the body bounces back quickly
the healing of the mind, however, this is a slower, more subtle, and more painful process
one must confront the awful memories, the flashbacks, the nightmares, of waking up and realizing that there would be yet another morning of snow and freezing rain, and temperatures that only rarely and briefly climbed above freezing
even now, Portlanders are struggling to come to grips with all of it, the mindless, opaque fog of war
some are still huddled in corners, entirely overdressed, certain this is only a brief ceasefire, terrified that, at any moment, the temperature will drop by thirty degrees, and the flurries will begin anew
these snow-shocked veterans of the Oregon ice wars are suffering terribly, post-traumatic stress disorder, mild head injuries, scraped elbows and skinned knees, all these poor limbs, slammed down hard onto the slab of the division of wartime; somewhere down on SE Division Street
these wounds are not only of the body
these wounds run deep into the collective psyche of all who were here and bore witness to the atrocities
humiliation tortures, crimes against humanity, or at least against the ego, forced participation in farcical ice follies, persecution techniques of the enemy, methods that most definitely do not conform to the Geneva Conventions
the victims will have to face that long road toward reopening all the roads;
reconstruction could take days
everyone will have to agree to lay down their arms, so they can take off their heavy coats
they will need to let go of their grievances against the inconveniences of such widespread conflict
they’ll have to band together, setting aside their differences, and their snow shovels
they must remove the war spikes from their winter boots, and finally come together to heal; probably over a cappuccino, or possibly an imported lager
because, while the bitter memories are still all too fresh, and the bruises on everyone’s tailbones are still quite tender, we must accept that now, the war is, in fact, over
it is time to forgive, to put aside our petty differences
it matters not, which side of the Max Line you were on, when the hostilities first began
now, there are no more white, frozen lines of scrimmage
or, at least, any that remain should be gone by tomorrow
it is time for Portlanders, and indeed, all Oregonians to remember that they are kin
never mind that each is as different from the next as frozen night is from snowy day, that no one can agree on the right wine to serve with which dish, or which aperitifs and canapés to serve with brunch
still, they must strive to remember that they all live together, in the great State of Oregon!
let there be peace now and forever
sit, side by side, at the fireplace, share your stories with one another
help one another work through the trauma and heartbreak of the ice wars
maybe don’t sit by an actual fire, like, in the actual fireplace; I mean it’s like fifty degrees out, now… so, maybe just a nice sweater, and a scarf or something
but, you know… some tea, or coffee, and the love of your fellow citizens, citizens of this great territory, all of who lost so much in these horrendous six weeks of…
come to think of it…
it really was, now that I think about it, only about six days, or something like that
but, anyway…
whatever
it was a grim, burdensome trial by fire, you know, that weird, burning sensation that you get, when the only exposed parts of your skin are being dragged by gravity across the white, rock hard and razor sharp wasteland, somewhere along the front lines of César Chávez
it’s so weird that you’d feel heat, being raked over ice like that…
but I digress
the message here is unity, peace, healing, and starting anew
let the insufferable nightmares of those six awful days begin to recede days of ice, calamity, the inability to receive any type of deliveries
let these horrors finally be buried in the past
it is now time to bury the ice scraper
to begin treating one another as neighbors, once again
the war is over
well, don’t actually bury the ice scraper, because we could potentially get another brief cold snap at some point, but you understand the metaphor
go now
go in peace
there are restaurants to eat at, coffee shops, where baristas will serve you hot beverages,
there will be packages waiting at your doorsteps when you arrive home from work
and, all will once again be rational and sane, just as it was
there’s a little too much play in this troglodyte toggle switch; it’s randomly going on and off, and that could mean that no one at all is going to get hurt
I went halfway around the world, just to change your mind, turn it all around, and go the rest of the way homeless
I stopped being witty and cute about five and a half hours before I ever got started
horrific crash, a dust bunny in the corner slammed into me, head on, and I nearly died
when I say that I’ll wake up again tomorrow and carry on as usual, no one ever takes these threats of self-harm seriously
a good scouring scourge is a healthy part of any unbalanced individual’s therapy; I recommend you go on Tuesdays, between the hours of midnight and fathomless apathy; ask for Tomás
embracing the barn owl’s lofty promise was always a noble goal; if we’re talking about the goal that is that precious few inches of golden airspace between your drunk friend’s fingers, in which they present you the priceless opportunity to hit your paper football through it
back into the lab, to draw up new schematics for sucker punch melody grinders and rambunctious shades of taupe
the widget blueprints were leaked; the balloon factory obviously has a mole
every single bit of this was somehow even better than the other one that you weren’t paying attention to, either
the pretzel grenades will make short work of our adversaries; short work that will malinger through the frenzied millennia
even now, in this early phase of the campaign, our garden gnome mercenaries are gathering reconnaissance and torturing the water hose for useful information about that twig over by the fence
let’s synchronize our watches we’ll reconvene at eleven hundred hours to plan our assault on that blueberry cheesecake
to imply that there’s some potentially better use of our time and energy is an offense punishable by not being offered a slice of cheesecake
that’ll teach those bastards
in the meantime, I have hired a new duende, and we can trust that all the the arrangements will be handled appropriately
our schemes of passive conquest, followed by a bit of relaxing seppuku are quite safe within its capable, razored claws
tonight’s humiliation is the epitome of postmodern junkyard chic; I like mine sautéed with garlic, onion, mandrake root, capsicum, wolfsbane, and a pinch of dill
de rigueur new wave infatuation folds up nicely, and tucks away neatly into the furnace
these feral scarecrows wander through the violet patch, looking for windbreakers, opium, and elusive moments of quiet, inspired slaughter
once, the roads all lay wide open before us, turning in hundreds of different directions, taking people on magical journeys to numberless destinations, along magnificent trails of gorgeous scenery
yes, there were always a few dead ends, here and there, but one could always turn around
you could backtrack, without experiencing too much anxiety over lost time
you’d happen upon interesting choices, unmarked intersections, where there was no signage to help you navigate your way
it was all up to you
choose your own adventure, twist-a-plot, flip a coin, “eeny, meanie, miney, moe; my mother told me this way… and you… are… not… it”
and so, you’d set down a path, with guesses, hopes, and fears, but no real way of knowing what was up ahead
it was all an exciting gamble
you might meet your death but, you might find treasure, fame, or perhaps, unravel a mystery
“once there was a way to get back homeward.”
see? Paul knew the deal.
but now, the roads have all narrowed
many of them, if not most, are blocked off ||||| completely impassible
storms have knocked down trees, barring the way
some roads are blocked by protesters
many streets are just too full of potholes
you can’t drive down them without wrecking your vehicle
all the roads, even the dirt ones, are littered with toll booths, every half a mile
insane fees extracted like teeth
the “protection money” extortions of gangsters looks like chump change in comparison; third-graders, threatening to beat you up for your milk money
half the available highways have fallen too far into disrepair; you can’t walk down them, for fear of stepping in a hole, breaking your ankle
of the remaining roads, those still open and drivable, the traffic is maddening
each thoroughfare congested with vehicles, all belching exhaust, and piloted by madmen, caught up in the throes of full blown road rage
too many cars, even though the travelers on all of these roads already know…
there’s nothing at the end of any of these highways; nothing they’d actually want, anyway
the obsession is no longer “where are we going?”
it’s now “how long can we keep driving, before we run out of gas?”
we no longer worry about how long it will take us to get there, because we know…
there’s nowhere to go
now, we just try to lose ourselves in the experience of the drive, desperately trying to forget why we ever got into the vehicle in the first place
we no longer ask ourselves why we even have a vehicle
such questions would only cause us to think about what is at the end of these endless roundabouts, and dirt paths, running through fruitless orchards, as far as the eye can see
asphalt and concrete conveyor belts, mindlessly herding us through the turnstiles and metal guide-rails of urban slaughterhouses
what was so important? that we had to build these heartless machines?
pay all these tolls?
deal with all these crazy people, rudely plowing ahead in all these ugly boxes?
and, more importantly, if whatever it was…
isn’t even there, anymore…
then, why the hell are we still out here?
why are we still on these
tacky footpaths, made of gauche steppingstones, leading only to the madhouses
these dry, dead riverbeds where five out of every ten tankers are beached, or rudderless
three more of them are sinking
and one more has been pulled over, by the police
only one out of every ten vessels on our peculiar, asphalt rivers is in good working condition, and sailing on nicely
and, even that one still lacks any sense of where it’s headed
what fever is this, that overtakes us, compelling us to pursue these
godforsaken freeways of the damned
infinite trails of tamed wilderness that lead to absolutely nowhere
Kevin Trent Boswell 