Trophy
Psychedelia visits now like cicadas
or fascism, about every decade or so,
and with noise, in this case the Stones.
It comes with properties, qualities
I remember nostalgically. The ravenous,
voracious eyes wanting to devour
everything in their proximity, rearrange it,
make it fit in the frame by cutting from the
middle, as though that will make sense of it.
Hands realizing their handiness,
empty except for fingers and hand,
craving touch, anything, another hand.
I try to write, the end of every word,
every sentence, becomes the beginning,
reroutes and vice-versa.
I cut my finger attempting to cook,
it screams at me, and then slowly like
maple syrup begins to bleed.
Mortality always comes up, and it’s all right.
I’m resigned to it, it’s part of the room.
Like the taxidermy, staring, you imagine
a smile, the antlers twitch, there’s a wink,
this could be you: if you are not shot
between the eyes, if there is someone
proud you are dead, wants to pay to have
you stuffed, and arranged on the walk-by,
if your death is worthy of trophy.
Craig Kirchner is retired and living in Jacksonville, FL because that’s where his granddaughters are. He loves the aesthetics of writing, has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels, and has been nominated three times for a Pushcart. Craig’s writing has been published in Chiron Review, Gargoyle Magazine, Main Street Rag, The Wise Owl, The Wilderness House, and dozens of others. He houses 500 books in his office and about 400 poems on a laptop; these words help keep him straight. More about Craig can be found on Bluesky, and there is an interview up at Spillwords.