A Short Note From Management: The Pope Releases His First Doctrine

Ex Cathedra Literary Magazine
Ex Cathedra Literary Magazine
Ex Cathedra Literary Magazine
Ex Cathedra Literary Magazine
Ex Cathedra Literary Magazine

The Platypus Will Eat Your Face (Or: Your Probable Future)

You'll like it.
Scratch that:
you'll love it.
You'll be wearing
a cowboy hat
and maybe waving
a big foam finger
and it will be like
getting dunked
in a vat of
white chocolate.
Above you,
the panoply
of stars whirl,
whizzing out
gas, light, heat.
In heaven, everyone
gets a grilled cheese,
another perfect
combination.
Your dog is also here.

Brad's Got a Mouthful of Blood

My windbreaker is so sweet.
You'll fall to your knees in envy.
Or is that w/ envy?
Never ever do I wish for an iPhone,
to be up late pondering my portfolio:
how much diversification
is enough, exactly?
Should I look into
moon rocks, how dust motes move
through bars of light
and shade in late afternoon?
Probably I could be richer than I am now,
hired by the super-duper-rich
to spit blood on the white fur coats
of other peoples' enemies.

Brad's Cultural Revolution

All the survivors will be herded
into pens and pumped full of
sunshine and bunnies.
In the schools, the desks
warm throughout the afternoon,
which lasts 65% longer.
The cacti care nothing for our plurals,
our tiny yearnings and pride.
Fights over nomenclature erupt.
What are you, an idiot?
Fish another clot of hair from the drain,
another clod of sod from the fields,
fry up a kettle of fish
underneath the same moon.
Metaphors are mixed thoroughly.
The boat moves through the passage,
its holds as dark and chilly as your heart.
When push comes to shove,
you'll fire, I'm sure, the first shot.

Poem In Which We Finally Arrive at a Brave New Understanding

The rank-and-file fall in line.
The double-plus good Two Minutes Hate
is three hours underway.
Absolutely no one was surprised.
The end of the story was in sight before
the cardinal swooned
and dropped from the branch
and onto the asphalt where he
was accidentally beautiful.
All beauty is accidental
but not all accidents are beautiful.
Some are a total wreck,
pure and simple,
see, for instance,
last weekend's horse show.
I've never seen so many wealthy people
so distraught, at least not since
Barbaro neighed by the light of votives,
incense burning with the hay.
It was disastrous to be sure
but now that I'm thinking about it
also kind of beautiful
so I don't know where that leaves us.
In another story, the son
rats out the father just as the father
burns down another barn,
then the son walks into the forest,
alone. Such is our reward.
When baby squirrels grow up
they are known simply as squirrels.

Instant Fishbowl

I'm fostering resentment in the rocky wilds,
inadvertently spurring agreement and growth
among the fractious tribes.
I'm used to all the hatin',
this is what happens when
you're kind of like a big deal.
Fragile sovereignty: no one needs reminding.
I'm reading the paper
with my eyes closed.
We're all just a bunch of dumb kids,
each blameless in our own ways.
Didn't see that van.
Didn't see that guardrail,
that glass building, that big bad heart
beating in the dark sky.
Have a Red Bull.
Have two Red Bulls.
What a bunch of bad dumb kids,
multiplying in the scree
and philosophizing new technology into being.
I am ex officio, a blood pressure miracle!
The ant colony merges with another,
inadvertently carried across the ocean,
not fifteen feet away
from a pod of orcas
tearing through the nets.
Chemicals tucked into antennae
like scribbled love notes.
When I was younger I needed
a box with a pinhole in it
in order to catch a glimpse
of the cosmic flux
but not so much these days
where I am my own walking, talking
eclipse scattering the birds from the trees.
Sky shot blue and white and green.
Everyone else got old and into Wilco,
everyone else got over it,
hieroglyphics burning in the dark.
That's all right, screams the eagle.
That's all right, too, screams the fish.

Hey, I Can See Your Patronus From Here!

You disappear into the hawk's eye.
Your drum solo is magnifique.
The end is receding within reach,
within reason, without
appropriate analog.
Hawk eye drum solo moose.
Close, but not quite.
Also, the beginning.
The spruces crash and splay about you
with a consistency similar to water
but water met from
one hundred feet up,
from the bulwark-dotted beachhead,
whales heaving through the spray.
Crash tinkle piano hammer.
Actor hamming it up
for a paycheck staggered with zeroes.
Does anyone notice his hairline?
Short answer: yep.
The senator takes his seat, kind of.
Viscosity, surface tension,
the temperature of a black hole.
The hawk's eye better than the beak.

Varied Processes of Identification

Say, remember when you were a burning plane?
I sure don't.
The doctors aren't sure if this is a symptom or a syndrome.
I bet you were pretty, though.
Really I'd like to lay my head down for a bit.
After the autopsy?
Second autopsy.
The photographers telling each other stories
they all already know
and blowing into their hands through the night.
The van idles.
Probably forever.
Refueling takes place mid-air.
Lots of coverage,
lots of retroactive assignation
of meaning and identification.
No photographic evidence.
As usual.
There's a fishbone in my neckface.
It looks like a window.
It looks like a winnow.
Cough, little petunia,
you're almost out of range.
After this mountain range:
a mountain range
and the green wheels of the sea.
Hey, remember when you were a werewolf?
We ran through the moonlit scrub and scree.
The wind was always so bitter,
so cold, it was always the least of our worries.

Severely Abridged Biography of Skagway Bill

Has had strawberry shortcake more times than he can count.
Has flung fine china across the room.
Has inspected the splatter on the white wall.
Has drawn conclusions.
Has made interpretations.
Has drawn horses and vampires.
Has kicked at the garage door.
Has clapped in unison with a large crowd.
Has enjoyed frozen bananas in an inflatable kiddie pool.
Has rammed the cartridge home.
Has used a microscope.
Has dropped another microscope.
Has berated those less well-compensated for perceived slights.
Has enjoyed thunderstorms.
Has hid under blankets.
Has sifted glacier runoff.
Has scratched bug bites.
Has bathed in a sink, once.
Has had a broken heart and has had lied about it.
Has retained stiff-upper-lippage.
Has wandered a sandy island and wondered how he was going to get home.
Has written checks with self-conscious magnanimity.
Has petted many small animals.
Has had his photo taken with small animals.
Has tried snails.
Has read the writing on the wall.
Has had the bandages removed from his eyes and temples.
Has left, returned, left again.
Has had many adventures and is now tired.
Has smiled at a small brown bird.

Quasi-Sapphic Fragments Re: Alaska and Alaskan Photo Albums

Do not try to navigate by this map
says the map
on my coffee mug.
Okay.
We were practicing our trigger-
happy verve
from scratch.
No other way,
though I do
enjoy those videos
of James Brown
on YouTube,
the ones where
he teaches you
how to dance.
Hardest working man,
indeed.
On another note:
You can't actually
live here.
Here being variable,
subject to weather,
and winds.
Don't eat
that thing over there.
I read how bugs sleep,
how it occurs in trees.
Happiness drops onto you like a spider,
holds on like a bur.
The rain makes
the waterfall even louder.