Josh Huber
April 2015, Issue 1
The Poet to Himself
I’m worried about you. Already
the perhaps-poems wriggle holes through your
brain. Soon, your mind will be just a wrinkled
fruit—seedless apple birthing not-even-air,
So, just humor me. Imagine you link
up with a second chance, and instead write
nothing; imagine, a rusted wheel
barrow bent with soggy chickens; imagine,
the subway maelstrom of faces, the moon’s pale
yawning visage, the blind hermaphrodite
prophet with dirt-tickling tits, mythic heroes
plunking cow gut strings the puddle-wonder-
ful world, and the word rich spring—and you stay
silent, not one single impulse to say
a damn thing.
the perhaps-poems wriggle holes through your
brain. Soon, your mind will be just a wrinkled
fruit—seedless apple birthing not-even-air,
So, just humor me. Imagine you link
up with a second chance, and instead write
nothing; imagine, a rusted wheel
barrow bent with soggy chickens; imagine,
the subway maelstrom of faces, the moon’s pale
yawning visage, the blind hermaphrodite
prophet with dirt-tickling tits, mythic heroes
plunking cow gut strings the puddle-wonder-
ful world, and the word rich spring—and you stay
silent, not one single impulse to say
a damn thing.
Chaplain Billy Prepares a Sermon
Where are all the old dreams we piled
one upon another in child-
hood? Does no one keep them?
Mercy
is the only thing holding us
together. Yet we are destroyed
by severity. No one
exists to be a prophet:
nakedly walking in the cool
of morning. No one is left
to carve a poem out of his life.
No one promises new life
anymore and means the splendid
suffering, which leaves a body
with no good options. Is this
really all there is to un-
being: a simple spring morning
where I do not see the birds,
do not hear the sky?
one upon another in child-
hood? Does no one keep them?
Mercy
is the only thing holding us
together. Yet we are destroyed
by severity. No one
exists to be a prophet:
nakedly walking in the cool
of morning. No one is left
to carve a poem out of his life.
No one promises new life
anymore and means the splendid
suffering, which leaves a body
with no good options. Is this
really all there is to un-
being: a simple spring morning
where I do not see the birds,
do not hear the sky?
Before Poetry, I
remove all clothing.
Run through the forest’s chattering
leaves and wild flowers. Find the lake—
face first prepared for baptism.
Swim to the other side, where
there is nothing but trees nursing a large silence,
some curious cardinals slicing the brush, and lazing
vultures sepulchrally spreading the shimmer
of their sun black wings. When
the unseen fish begin to nibble, I
have no choice; I swim back.
Run through the forest’s chattering
leaves and wild flowers. Find the lake—
face first prepared for baptism.
Swim to the other side, where
there is nothing but trees nursing a large silence,
some curious cardinals slicing the brush, and lazing
vultures sepulchrally spreading the shimmer
of their sun black wings. When
the unseen fish begin to nibble, I
have no choice; I swim back.
Chaplain Billy Files an Incident Report At the V.A. Hospice
Jack, that incorrigible old reprobate, keeps
believing he can walk
again to the bathroom--
the dirty tile slicking with forehead
like a fountain. Dementia,
you sloppy bitch, stop
leaving your teet-starved
pups littered on the floor—their bright
bold faces lapping, blank eyes
lapping, soft pink scalps bare lapping—red
lapping into morning.
believing he can walk
again to the bathroom--
the dirty tile slicking with forehead
like a fountain. Dementia,
you sloppy bitch, stop
leaving your teet-starved
pups littered on the floor—their bright
bold faces lapping, blank eyes
lapping, soft pink scalps bare lapping—red
lapping into morning.
I won't ask for a miracle
that’s far too sentimental.
But I’d appreciate a nudge
of light where it has
no business being.
But I’d appreciate a nudge
of light where it has
no business being.