Ralph Monday- Three Poems

Revising the World Through Pixels

A computer is not the place to find self, it is not

the eye of god, but is a virtual place that entered

long enough, coughs up narcissism in online

searches, a social medium where the high school

sweetheart returns cooing pursed lip kisses

while you dissected the frog in biology class

with instruments sharp enough to pierce a

witch’s black heart, the blood oozing out as a

curious plume where the smell can’t be sucked

away by ventilators. Or Miss Lawson, the hot

young typing teacher who wore tight skirts,

tighter sweaters so that her breasts strained

out like zoo beasts bursting through bars,

rumored to be having an affair with the principal.

At least that is what the acne faced girl said,

the one who wrecked the Drivers Ed car

while you read a science fiction pulp in the

backseat about bug eyed monsters gobbling

up young teachers in tight skirts and tight

sweaters. Said this to the principal when he

picked us up to drive us back to school,

and he never replied but sat with a face

used at blackjack tournaments in Vegas

while the girl’s pimples blushed in shame.

Then there was the biology teacher, a precursor

to Mr. Science, who told his sixth period class

that he could predict the future. He proved it

by having us concoct gun powder pellets

in chemistry class, place them in the hall

outside the class door. When dismissal bell

rang, the students rushing like windmills,

shoes plopping on the ambush, sharp popcorn

explosions made the girls squeal and scream.

He was right. Jumping jacks leaping into the

air, the forced air pressure as they descended

blew skirts upward so that we could see

their panties. Simple physics he grinned.

None of this is true of course—except the

acne, Miss Lawson, a book never finished,

and pixels on a screen.

Roasted Chicken at Walmart

Almost mythical you know in buying

potato salad and banana pudding at

the Walmart deli. While the deli lady

was measuring out the pound of flesh

I noticed fresh new chickens, plucked

like a guy feeding quarters into a slot

machine, gleaming white like a virgin

bride, merry-go- round twirling on the

roaster. Little headless things like miniature

people, pathetic wings tucked to the sides,

juices running down, grease from a mechanic,

given to the fire for all the ogres buying

toothpaste and toilet paper before taking one

or two home sans seven secret herbs and spices.

When they were little broasters pecking around

the cage, they probably saw themselves growing

into an enormous roc. Talons that could lift

a man, deposit him in the nest for pecking beaks.

If less ambitious, perhaps a great bald eagle,

symbol of a once great nation. Maybe a hawk

plummeting at two hundred miles an hour or at

least a vulture feeding on roadside kill.

Instead, noble destiny, flesh plucked from bone,

washed down with a six-pack of Budweiser by

Super Bowl halftime.

The Weather Girl

Storms across the screen wiping away

moisture, accumulated ice, clearing

minds of years of tattered weather,

like a tsunami washing clean the mind’s detritus.

We cannot stop watching. We need her

to point the way, a weathervane predicting

day’s journey.

Our obsession, dressed one day in red, the next

black, winter white, heels clicking like Dorothy

because there’s no place like the studio, she

glides like a hawk in freefall, guide to our

seasons.

She explains the heat, our thirst for the desert,

shifting fronts, how it only takes a little pressure.

Highs and lows, snowcapped mountains like

towering breasts; a glib brunette, blonde, or

redheaded meteorological interpreter, eye of

the storm messiah, baptism found in rushing

tides, communion drinking slush, her skirts

a ritual TV robe.

Without her we are lost, headless weather people

lacking a barometer, not knowing when to barbecue,

shoes to wear, clothes to don.

The weather goddess is the great pixelated mother.

When we go to sea, interstated land, clear or stormy

skies, her Delphic microphone pronouncements, nodding,

returns us to the time of sages speaking from dark,

blind caves. We become children of moon, sun,

stars, her offspring.

When the screen is flat and blank, the spell remains

where eyelids of morning cast us into that predicted day.