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lycanthrope
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The name without a name
The image which crowds itself
An apple wearing a hat where the face would be.
Pills like movie concession candies
Scooped into buckets
With shovels
And the unsteady tittering hands
And pimply adolescent unease
Of orderlies at a summer job.
Tarry shits,
The inability to stand,
Your most beloved childhood teacher
Caught in loops like a toy
Running low on batteries.
Welcome to the first day of class.
This all used to be orange groves.
My art professor had a crush on me
And I wonder what if.
Changing entire generations of diapers.
Firing a caregiver for drinking on the job.
Eyes filling with confusion, anger, flecked with
Blue Kindness.
I never liked our neighbor.
But you baked her pies four times a year.
Seeing her granddaughter swim for the first time.
Little eyes filling with wonder, flecked with hunger, crankiness,
They transfer info, like a USB dug
Out of an intergalactic trash heap
And jammed into a super computer
To save humanity's first drawing of a giraffe with the hopes of a spark that crosses generations
Of upgrades and degradation.
Mostly it's howling wind and fire
Like a Tokyo firestorm,
But there are moments where a little
Girl stands on a bridge in the midst of it
Whispering gran loves you.
Something must remain,
Eternal orange groves,
The bowels we once had dominion over will tire of rebellion
Retire to substrate and coffee grounds
And eyes will open once more
To a familiar phrase.
Welcome to your first day of class.
The medium of memory degrades
But the payload has been delivered.
And the mighty teacher puts down
The chalk
And asks for just one more sip
Of wine and water and children
Swimming.
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