Craig Rebele

from ARTIFICIAL WILDLIFE SANCTUARY
 

How can you measure thickness when the moon is waxing? I let you slip into Kansas. A compilation of a bicycle and a bicycle is the square root of negative one on Thursdays. Don’t tell Jeff. He’ll be upset and a shade of light purple. A mongoose tells you to sit down, take a load off. Will you obey? It seems obvious.

I am nothing without pronouns, are you? Tweet your whereabouts and penis to be an elected official. Glowing corpses of yesterday’s breakfast float by and remind us of tomorrow. You can find it there.

Let me put it to you this way.

The irony of irony escapes us all, but we won’t escape the joy of a slap to the face. Academics agree. A solid reputation soiled. Who do you work for?

My friend Mike is an underachiever. So is the politician you like. It’s a documentary. The answer will surprise you. Assume you know the turn of phrase. You do it so well.

There was yogurt here.



A forest of cloning factories manufacture each other sixteen hours a day. This is called a helix. I caught you photosynthesizing long after the sun went down and you said it is a secret. You said it’s a train ride from South Station. I am no longer able to say.

A reliance on pronouns and socially-conscious gibbons hiding behind rocks.

A dirt road. Where else can you pollinate your mouth? We come here for the summer heat and a distorted view of reality. But it’s a dry heat. And we stay for the vector bundles. I am a drag show within a drag show, coming for your malfunctioning meta-cognition.



I cannot count past eight, so I waited for you to show up early. The worm is strong in its native plastic soil and the cat won’t shed its indifference. Please do not pee in the pool. What is the flavor it keeps secret? Stuck and stuck and stuck. Come here. You’re going to brush your teeth in the sun. Wax and wane and gibbous is when you see them. The violent grammar of midnight. Ass.

The weight. The heat. The weight. The wait.

We ate toads to survive what we do not understand. When it is over it will be very over. Memories of flesh and architecture haunt and slide. Oh, looming loom, a flash flood of road maps and national forests. Return to Nevada.



The feet were sitting there politically, with their painted nails and protruding ankles, monadnocks of bone and participles. No one could tell them white pines are protected and our house looks yellow in the afternoon. I won’t let you operate on me. You’re not even a doctor today, a dog with indigestion and a pedicure.

Elephants and bears hold grudges, hiding in trees, waiting, pistons pumping.

ΔX over ΔY. Every reason to leave does not exist. It is a faceless absorbency, the armadillo you’ve been looking for this whole time. The melted pink plastic is melted.

 —

 Craig Rebele received his MFA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University, and currently resides in New Hampshire. His poetry has appeared in print and online in places such as BlazeVox, New American Writing and Otoliths among others.