Bohemian Avenue Homicide

The words on the local news
have lost all meaning:
The lady with a bleached, perfect smile,
a power suit, and big breasts
in a droll monotone relates death after death.
One story is of arson:
the death of a little girl.
Camera pans to her mother
reaching for the police officer�s pistol.

Revisiting Wormholes and Literature

His hand slipped through couch cushions;
it did not halt at fabric or metal. The portal
shimmered faintly: the Tangent path.
He found the Artifact nearby: a shotgun
with wear on the stock where knees clenched.
Paint was scuffed where toes thrilled the trigger twice.

He tossed Sparrow�s book on time travel: it was rubbish.
Instead took on a story of naivety and opium dens.
He laughed when Dorian stabbed Basil.
He tossed water on his face when Dorian
fell to meet Faust in hell.

When time reversed, he tapped the trigger
only once: he did not have Ernest�s poor aim.

Scarecrow Saw Love and Death in His Field

This harvest is a fake one.
I see the scarecrow with sullen eyes.
All around the carrion birds are calling;
everywhere the smokeclouds grow.

I pass the scarecrow with sullen eyes:
once he spoke to me of vultures who wear suits.
Everywhere the smokeclouds grow,
even doombirds will struggle in the dark.

Once he spoke to me of vultures who wear suits.
I saw his fear: a farmer�s desperate pitchfork.
Even doombirds will struggle in the dark.
The scarecrow loved to watch the crops rise from dust.

I saw his fear: a farmer�s desperate pitchfork.
In a chemical world metal spikes still kill.
The scarecrow loved to watch the crops rise from dust.
One day a hungry man ate and the scarecrow smiled.

Everywhere the smokeclouds grow,
all around the carrion birds are calling.
I see the scarecrow with sullen eyes.
This harvest is a fake one.

                                                                                                © Jeffrey Calhoun

Loch Raven Review Fall 2005 — Vol. I, No. 1
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