Poem Samples

All-Nighter

As she sits cross-legged

on her dorm room floor,

words swarming off the

page, ants boil from the

brown core of an apple

that is no longer there

and crawl up under the

shadow of her skirt.

Published in Foliate Oak

Amniocentesis

As my wife presses her ear

to the phone to learn the test

results, I break off a slice

of a pizza that has been

delivered and weigh it

in my palm. Am I impelled

to take this bite as an act

of faith, an anticipatory

celebration of good news,

or am I trying to squeeze

in a little enjoyment before

the grieving starts?

Published in Foliate Oak

With Apologies to Josef Haidbauer

Of course I am far too compassionate

to endorse corporal punishment or

abuse of authority in any form.

Still, I cannot seem to help envying

Wittgenstein his little episode of self-

indulgence when, after seeing the

dead ends to which logic and science

led, he had traded in his ambitions as

a cutting-edge philosopher for a job

teaching high-school math. After all,

to behold for a moment before you

all the stupidity of the human race

congealed in one face, to see it staring

back at you through porcine eyes,

exuding a stubborn smugness, and to

have the chance of striking back at it,

just once, with a resounding slap:

Who am I to dare rising above

such temptation?

Published in Thorny Locust

Auguries on Highway 5 Just North of Buttonwillow

Our fortunes told by invertebrates’

wings and viscera splattered on

a windshield, we weave down

stretches of highway pulled taut

between signs bearing the names

of peace officers fallen in the line

of duty, following stepping-stones

created by the footprints of clouds

while dust devils dance on a tired

topsoil; oil rigs dry-hump exhausted

wells and middle-aged executives

with golf-course tans get a jump

on the three-day weekend, playing

leapfrog with each other in luxury

cars, shrinking away to the vanishing

point on an asphalt conveyor belt,

sucked happily toward the blast

furnace of dreams with a sickening

slurp.

Published in Leaves of Ink

Bone Scan

A stranger's heart blows kisses

at me from one screen, while,

on the other, my wife's bones

are redrawn at a rate of eight

times a minute.

As it progresses down her

body, turning her insides out

in more detail than we care

to see, a relentless tube

approaches our entwined

hands, and we try to elongate

the seconds that stand between

us and the moment when we

must let go.

Published in Millers Pond

Bon Mot

Loud of shirt and big of

mouth, he exits the office,

braying, “Don’t stop smiling.

It keeps the blues away,” as

if he’s just said something

insightful or useful or even

funny. Following his own advice

with every step, he heads in my

direction, shining his teeth, and

there is nowhere I can hide.

Published in Nerve Cowboy

Buzz Kill

I know that by observing you I’ve

sucked some of the fun from your

daily routine: the sneaking around

to get out of work without being

caught, the cringing before authorities,

the maneuvering with peers in the

cause of petty self-interest, the

pretenses and banalities and endless

repetitions and self-absorption and

sly little short cuts, the constant

search for food and pity, those

deep, bone-rattling snorts as you

suck up your mucous and those

equally deep sighs that shake your

frame while you realize the time

has come when you must actually

put in a little effort to earn your

pay check. But cheer up. Yes, I’ve

caused you some discomfort by

bearing silent witness to your

misdeeds without joining in or

giving signs of approval or at least

acceptance. But we both know that

this discomfort will only go skin deep

because you would never consider

really questioning yourself or getting

caught by guilt or shame. And, anyway,

the discomfort will be short-lived

because you will quickly find a way

to make it all my fault and savor the

sweet taste of martyrdom.

Published in Five Poetry

Carrion

Don't warn the vultures

that circle the place where
my heart once beat that
something waits beneath

these rags and bones to

reach up and grab them,

for I have developed an

appetite for scavengers,

and I am counting on

their curiosity.

Published in Poem

CFO

The winter vegetable

of a man sits without

expression behind his

burl wood desk in what

he calls a “Spartan”

office, sizing people

up through eyelids

squinted as tightly

together as the halves

of walnut shells, one

hand near a photograph

of his trophy family,

the other on “The Art

of War,” using the

inquisitor’s trick of

maintaining silence

in order to wring a

confession (or in this

case, a greeting) from

the person opposite

to him.

Published in Better than Starbucks

Clean-up in Boy’s Apparel

I should have known better

than shopping at a big box,

but money was tight and, after

all, I just wanted to buy a

tee-shirt for my five-year old

son, so I took a chance, asking

myself, “How far wrong can I

go?” But—after looking through

dozens of shirts in his size and

only finding ones that celebrated

race cars, trucks, robots, skulls,

ninjas, sports stars, superheroes,

monsters and other predatory beasts

(extinct and not); were called Under

Armour; boasted the camouflage

pattern favored by hunters and

snipers; or bristled with verbiage

such as, “Trouble Is My Middle

Name,” “There Is No Second Place,”

and various other threats, bursts of

bravado and trash talk—I thought

that I should beat a hasty retreat in

search of something obsolete at a

second-hand store or else end up

vomiting in the aisles. I might have

succeeded in my plan even though,

at the last minute, I ran smack dab

into a section devoted to the John

Cena “Never Give Up” brand,

containing articles of clothing which

the manufacturer describes as

“inspirational” for “little champs”

because they bear the image of

“their hero,” a musclebound wrestler

and hip-hop performer saluting.

Finally, though, I found that my

self-restraint could not bear up

under the words that appeared on

all the merchandise: “Hustle. Loyalty.

Respect.” So I ended up making a

salute of my own in the form of a

partially digested brunch.

Published in Five Poems

A Compromised System

To protect your compromised immune

system after you complete a stem-cell

transplant, we have cleaned this house

with the grim determination of soldiers

or exorcists. But a simple beam of sunlight

pins me into immobility, making dust again

visible everywhere, and I am cursed with

an X-ray vision of what lies beneath the

surface: a world of nightmares and

contaminations. The simplest movement

— a shifted weight, an opened door, the

gentle breeze of a whispered word — can

send germs floating in mid-air, rising from

each surface as if every atom is eager to

contribute its share in a cataclysmic

conspiracy.

Our five-year old son stands transfixed by

this same beam, but then he charges forward,

scattering motes with somersaults, trying to

touch them, dance with them, capture them

on his tongue like snowflakes, raising tornadoes,

hurling lighten bolts, calling down avalanches,

releasing genies, wrestling demons, rearranging

molecules and the cosmos, creating life.

My hand rises unseen behind him, heavy with

horror and responsibility, but I do not call him

back. The dust will be there whether or not he

stirs it, and have we not in our own time known

such joy in chaos?

Published in Millers Pond

Conference

Two crows confer

on a spruce snag,

sizing up their

opportunities down

below and sharing

a wink. They’ve

seen something

shining in the

undergrowth.

Published in Jellyfish Whispers

Constructive Criticism

What you need is to be a little
cruder, a little louder, a little
more stupid. It couldn’t hurt

to occupy some additional

space, increase the number of

your cell phone conversations

and crank up that bass a notch

on your car stereo system. Why

not squeeze in an extra episode

or two of American Idol and

Dancing with the Stars? As a

personal favor to me, would

you please consider giving a

greater priority to tail gaiting,

talking with your mouth full

and picking your nose? Vote

less. Stop reading (except blogs

and text messages). And, while

you’re at it, how about using a

few more resources and leaving

behind a wee bit more waste?

That should round things out

nicely.

Published in Thorny Locust

Cormorants

Just this side of cold blood,

cormorants throng the bluffs,

wings suspended flightlessly,

striking poses of crucifixion,

an eruption of the prehistoric.

Published in Jellyfish Whispers

Corruption

As I pass these wonders —

the startling white of an

egret in suspended animation,

the electric blue of a Ceanothus

vibrating against a bank of green,

the flash of a blackbird's epaulet,

gifts of a kind providence — I

resist the urge to linger, afraid

that my presence here will abuse

these signs of trust, sending them

back to nothingness, or, worse,

turning them into caricatures or

their own opposites.

Published in Leaves of Ink

Of Course They’re Heroes

It goes without saying that they’re

heroes. Brawny Paper Towels says

they are. So do the good folks

at Band-Aid Brand Adhesive

Bandages, Hooters and Hallmark

Cards. Corporate America can’t

be that far wrong. The Wounded

Warrior Project, Homes for Heroes

and Carry the Load don’t ask what

makes them heroes, so what gives

you the right to ask? It’s not for

you to question their ends or means,

to ask if they’ve killed or tortured

or raped, invaded countries, propped

up dictators, committed war crimes.

All you need to know is that while

serving in our country’s military,

they have suffered and risked, and

that some have even died. Yes,

since you are impolite enough

to ask, the same thing can be said

of combatants against whom our

warriors have so bravely fought

(Nazis, the Viet Kong, The Taliban),

but they are clearly not heroes

because they were our opponents.

And don’t even think about trying

to get by with pitying our military

heroes as victims of brain washing

and exploitation instead of telling

them how proud they should be

of serving our nation with honor.

Otherwise, they might just go all

Abu Ghrab or Mai-Lai or Hiroshima

on your ass.

Published in Down in the Dirt

Cramped Quarters

Don’t let me die in these

cramped quarters, where

the ectoplasm of previous

occupants has congealed

and suffering has taken

shape, confronting and

encasing me, a granite

cocoon that will last an

eternity, where the bass

vibrations of my neighbor's

music have left a bullseye

on my wall as if this spot

were the center of the

universe or ground zero

for a nuclear attack, where

only in dreams does the

wind whisk autumn leaves

from the lawn of the

graveyard at my feet

and dance them through

the window, turning them

into monarch butterflies

that fill my room with

the translucent light of

a thousand stained-glass

window fragments, and

where, in reality, the leaves

lie and molder, trodden,

unheeded, beneath the feet

of mourners and other tourists.

Published in West Trade Review

The Delta

Four fishing rods lean over

the stern, feigning indifference

until our boat plows through

the heart of a floating island

of water hyacinth and they

blow their cool, going wild

over snags.

Published in The Laughing Dog

Deprivation

What would become

of you if that buzzing

little box were taken

from your hands?

Would your thumbs

go crazy, beating a

senseless tattoo on

their own, or would

they simply pine away

to nothing and drop

off? Where would

your eyes focus?

Would you contract

nystagmus or go all

Gloucester on us?

I don’t even want

to think about what

might happen to your

ears, your mouth, your

mind itself. What

toll might obsolescence

take on them? I fear

that you would end up

combusting into a

pile of ashes right

before me, all for lack

of a cell phone.

Published in the Penmen Review

Drying Out

I’m going down to the ruined

pier this morning to dry out

with the other cormorants,

strike a pose against the wind

and spread my wings, flightless.

Published in Nerve Cowboy

Earthquake Country

Smiling through spent smoke

from nine pastel-colored candles,

the education professor cuts a slice

of chocolate cake and sings Happy

Birthday to his lover’s lover’s son

as the table slides into a California

sunset.

Published in Leaves of Ink

Egret

Breaking off from the landscape, an

egret hangs above the marsh like a soul

— implausibly white, impossibly aloft.

Published in Binnacle

An Exercise in Rhetoric

Your skin argues with me across town,

through the night, as persuasive as

a ripe peach, issuing invitations and

ultimatums, exhorting confessions,

eloquent in the rhetoric of desire.

Published in Dalhousie Review

Feliz Cumpleanos

Dress me up as Batman or a donkey.

Don’t forget streamers and bright colors.

Hang me within striking distance. But

don’t make it too easy for the revelers.

Blindfold them and spin them around.

Rig me so I can be lifted and lowered

and kept enticingly out of reach. Then

bring on the clubs and goodie bags. I’m

full of treats today and my tissue paper

is ready to give way.

Published in Foliate Oak

God’s One Good Eye

Put your sweaty hand in mine

and walk beside me between

the trailer park and the off-brand

gas station, the all-night donut

store with its neurotically blinking

neon and the disembodied railroad

tracks, amid the remains of those

who have failed their leaps of faith,

who neither made it to the other

side of this crevasse or ascended

to heaven half-way through their

jumps. And always remember, my

poor and sweet companion, that

even those of us who wound up

here are not the most unfortunate,

for we, at least, have landed and

are not among those who continue

to fall, twisting in the endless gaze

of God’s one good eye.

Published in Milk Sugar

Gold Standard

We grew up watching

TV by the hour, and

no one can say we

didn’t turn out O.K.

They forced us to say

our prayers with our

eyes closed and eat all

our peas, and there’s

nothing wrong with us.

We shot each other with

toy pistols, rifles and
lasers, and we’re just fine.

So how can we deny these

privileges to our children?

Published in Thorny Locust

A Gordian Knot

Unable to simply slip

the hook from a blue gill

because it has disappeared

down the fish’s throat,

unwilling to lose his quarter-

dollar’s worth of tackle by

cutting the line, a father

hacks clumsily at the

blinking head with a dull

knife to “put the poor

thing out of its misery,”

extracts the hook, and,

as he kicks the body,

still twitching, into the

lake, explains to his

son, “Now it will

deteriorate and go

back to nature” as if

congratulating himself

on a job well done. Let’s

hope people express

similar sentiments when

the time comes to dispose

of his remains.

Published in Jellyfish Whispers

Green

With your dark glasses

finally removed, I find

a green that is a rupture

and a reunion, a product

of spontaneous generation

and a foregone conclusion,

a threat and a promise, a

beginning and an end,

the iridescent flash of

a dragon fly’s wing and

the cool skin of a grape.

But my glimpse is so

brief and your eyes are

again sealed off so

impenetrably behind

those cryptic opaque

shells that I wonder if

I have ever really seen

such a thing as green.

Published in Dalhousie Review

Half-Masters

Be careful. You could

get carpal-tunnel syndrome

from the repetitive stress

of raising and lowering

that flag so often, keeping

up-to-date with whose lives

are worth honoring, whose

deaths worth mourning,

who are the victims, the

martyrs, the heroes. You’d

better take it easy. That

head of yours might just

crack open like a raw egg

if you are faced with the

full implications of flying

the flag at half-mast for

Nancy Reagan, whose

most famous public service

wasto promote the disastrous

“Just Say No” campaign,

while letting the stars and

stripes flutter high in the

breeze after the police

shoot to death a 13-year

old for holding a water

pistol. Why not just give

us all a break and fly the

damned thing at half-mast

permanently instead of

jerking it up and down

like a yo-yo?

Published in Down in the Dirt

Copyright Kyle Heger 2015

Half a Moon

She slips my arm around her

slender waist and teaches me

how to coordinate our rhythms

as we walk past pussy willows

bursting into bud and make

our way to a rendezvous with

half a moon.

Published in The Binnacle

Copyright Kyle Heger 2009

Hand Puppets

Be careful how you treat the

dead, for, if in the remote

chance that there’s any justice

in the world, one day you too

could find yourself public

property, with someone sticking

a hand up your ass, moving your

lips and arms, making you say

and do things you never would

have dreamed of saying or doing

while alive, and smiling all the

while. Take Friedrich Nietzsche’s

fate as an example. Or that of

Karl Marx and Jesus of Nazareth.

Published Penumbra

Copyright Kyle Heger 2009

His Master’s Voice

Rest easy. The man of the

house is up on his hind legs,

patrolling the perimeter, doing

everything but pissing on the

fence posts to mark his territory,

glaring suspiciously at every

stranger passing by, while inside,

his family members eat holes

through each other’s hearts and

raise a toxic midden.

Published in Iconoclast

Copyright Kyle Heger 2009

Hitting Bottom

Coming home to take my

daily dive into oblivion,

I find that it takes me less

and less time to hit bottom.

Upstream, something must

have happened to the River

Lethe. Someone has dammed

it, diverted it or drained it

almost dry, because by the

time it reaches me, it’s

nothing more than a sluggish

trickle. I guess any night now

I will break my neck.

Published in Nerve Cowboy

Copyright Kyle Heger 2015

The Hole

I'm haunted not so

much by you as by

the things that crawl

up through the hole

you've left around me.

Published in Foliate Oak

Copyright Kyle Heger 2009

Home Invasion

With volley-ball team tans and

pony tails, two young women

in uniforms park their van and

flounce through our house, trying

to look serious but eyes still bright

and faces flushed from laughter.

Trailing a scent of bubble gum and

sweat socks, they exit with a gurney

in their hands as if it were an ironing

board, knocking against walls and

furniture. On it lies the body of my

wife.

Published in Millers Pond

Copyright Kyle Heger 2009

Horripilation

Driving through the eye

of the student ghetto, my

father points at a mansion

surrounded by a cast-iron

fence and says he plans to

turn it into a school where

kids like me can feel

welcome, while, across

the street, black-and-white

geese like fat Siamese cats

with question-mark necks

undulate in a cemetery

between open graves and

empty promises, defecating

here, laying eggs there, and

horripilation begins a

pilgrimage up my arm.

Published in Milk Sugar

Copyright Kyle Heger 2015

On the House

Calling all the crude,

stupid and hungry.

Special alert. I’m on

the menu. The meal of

the day. You may take

great gouges out of me,

free of charge. Giant bites.

I won’t fight back. I’ve

been declawed and

defanged. I lie helpless

on the groaning alter of

appetite. If you think

Pate de Foie Gras is

something, you should

try a mouthful of me. I’ve

been force fed so many

platitudes, false hopes

and sales pitches that

I’m bursting at the seams.

My flesh is marbled with

the fat that comes from

binging on diseased

dreams. And to make me

even more appetizing,

I’ve been marinated for

years in my own juices:

a heady mixture of

sweat, frustration

and despair. This meat

is so tender it’s falling

off the bone. I’ll melt

in your mouth. It’s an all-

you-can-eat buffet. Help

yourself to a heart, a

brain, a pair of testicles,

some cannibal stew. It’s

all on the house. But

you’d better step right up.

This is a first come,

first served operation,

and the line’s already

stretching around the

corner.

Published in Nerve Cowboy

Copyright Kyle Heger 2015

I Haven’t Pleased Enough Machines Today

I passed my credit card too quickly

through a reader at the pharmacy

and too slowly through one at the

gas station. My fingers couldn’t

make themselves understood

on my cell phone’s touch screen.

I made the mistake of sneezing

during a call to my insurance

company’s voice-recognition phone

system, which made it disconnect

me. I used lower case instead

of capital letters trying to log

onto my account at a doctor’s web

site. God forgive me: Even though

I had dutifully checked out all my

books at the library, there must have

been something wrong with the way

I exited because the alarms went off.

Again. I even transgressed so far

while paying for my groceries that

a robotic voice had to warn me,

“Unexpected item in the bagging

area.” It didn’t say if it meant me

or not. I haven’t pleased enough

machines today. So far, they’ve

been quite forgiving. I just hope

they’ll let me have a second chance

tomorrow.

Published in Blue Collar Review

Copyright Kyle Heger 2015

Kitchen Sink

When monsters block

the hallway to the

bathroom and serial

killers lurk outside

your house, urinating

in the kitchen sink

suddenly makes a

lot of sense.

Published in Nerve Cowboy

Copyright Kyle Heger 2015

Kite

Mine, to fly before the wind,

to give shape and color to its fury,

to tremble in its beauty

and express its changing course.

mine to slump slackened when

this power withdraws its grace,

to snag on bough or fence—

a sail torn from its mast,

a flag without a pole,

a kite abandoned by a child’s hand

to dream of flight again.

Published in Beyond Centauri

Copyright Kyle Heger 2009

A Little Night Music

Night has turned the rough side

of its tongue against us, and all

that remains is a skeleton of

sounds: a train rattling its way

out of Richmond, City of Pride

and Purpose; a buoy bouncing on

the breast of the sea, warning

overly eager suitors away from

shore; jets leaving dirty claw

marks in the sky, and all about

me the sound of horns and gears

and tires as vehicles drag loads

uphill, bear lovers to trysts and

return tired commuters home

while I lie staring upward, align

my spine with the Hayward fault

and spin off into space between

the blades of a ceiling fan.

Published in Santa Clara Review

Copyright Kyle Heger 2009

Lockdown

Call out the dogs. Set off the

alarms. Lay some traps. Send

for the Marines. Lock your

doors. Hide your valuables.

Shelter in place. Cross yourself.

Say some prayers. Hang a braid

of garlic. Cast some silver

bullets. For the love of God,

at least avert your eyes. One

of the mechanical marvels has

broken free from the tracks

of the glockenspiel and is moving

about on his own volition, with

all signs indicating that he is

in danger of running amok.

He’s been caught smelling

flowers, watching birds, doing

some simple stretches. From

time to time, he’s been known

to rotate a pair of Baoding balls

in his hands, sing softly, break

out in a sweat. He’s even had

the temerity to look people

in the eyes and say, “Hello.”

He is suspected of having

had an erection or two. We’re

more worried about his sins

of omission. He manages

to neither bustle about self-

importantly on missions

of great importance nor spend

his time in endless talk about

celebrities, professional sports

and shopping. Until recently,

the authorities had harbored

some hopes that he might fall

into a pattern which wouldn’t

disturb the equilibrium of the

campus too greatly, tolerated

in the manner of a harmless

village idiot or a benign

eccentric like the Gold Coast’s

Emperor Norton. But his aimless

wandering, his attention to the

environment and the people

in it, his readiness for self

expression clearly place him

more in the rogue category,

in a league with the Phantom

of the Opera and the Hunchback

of Notre Dame. He hasn’t

actually sent a chandelier

crashing down on people’s

heads or poured molten lead

from gargoyle mouths yet.

But it’s only a matter of time.

All the signs are there. Why,

today, he was even found

removing snails from the

sidewalk, where so many

had been crushed underfoot

by the passing throng, and

putting them in shrubs so they

might be a little safer, rather

than stomping on the vermin

as they so richly deserve, these

one-footed enemies of our

institutional verdure that our

industrious Buildings and

Ground workers have spent so

much time and money trying

to eradicate. Who knows what

he might dare to do next?

Published in 300 Days of Sun

Copyright Kyle Heger 2009

Lost: My Front

If found, please return my front.

Recognizable by a durable

obliviousness and a well-worn

smile. Mistakenly taken by lover

when she moved out. Could be

found on any street corner or

park bench, nursing its wounds.

Without it there to retain them,

vital organs are in constant

danger of spilling out. With so

many nerve endings exposed,

every forward movement causes

excruitiating pain. Also, my back

is getting awful lonely without it.

Modest cash reward offered for

information leading to its return.

Published in After the Pause

Copyright Kyle Heger 2017

Make Mine Camo

I just can’t enough camo.

Slap it on my baseball cap,

necktie, jacket, underwear,

shirt, belt, pants, socks, shoes,

swim suit, wallet, sunglasses,

backpack. Wrap me up in it.

It’s more than just a fashion

statement. I must be ready

at an instant’s notice to dive

into the undergrowth and do

a little big-game hunting. Give

me camo bed sheets, toilet seats,

bath towels, throw rugs, cell-

phone cases, lawn ornaments,

surfboards, jet skis, motorcycles,

SUVs. A fellow never knows

when he’s going to need to do

a little sniping or take on some

other combat role. I demand

camo bandages, slings, casts,

canes, walkers, wheelchairs

and prostheses. I’ve got to show

everybody that I’m a dangerous

guy. While you’re at it, camo

my skin, my house and my coffin.

When the drones come, it’s mighty

handy to be able to keep a low

profile. And don’t forget to cover

my dog, my wife and my kids with

camo too. After all, I might want

a few fellow survivalists to keep

me company come the apocalypse.

Published in Down in the Dirt

Copyright Kyle Heger 2015

Monsters in the Making

You needn’t be overly romantic to

believe that children are better than

adults. All you have to do is see how

pure and self-sufficient is their self-

interest, their anger, even their cruelty,

compared to the sick, sly monstrosities

that we employ. It’s like the difference

between, on one hand, a cat playing

with its prey before consuming it and,

on the other hand, the prolonged attempt

at the extirpation of Native Americans

or at least their culture by European

settlers, complete with forced marches,

stolen lands, broken treaties, gifts of

small-pox impregnated blankets,

wholesale attacks on their languages

and religions. But give them time, the

precious dears, and our progeny will

catch up with, and perhaps even surpass,

their elders.

Published in Third Wednesday

Copyright Kyle Heger 2015

Mumia x 2

Case closed: Mumia Abu-Jamal killed

Philadelphia police officer Daniel Faulkner.

No, I didn’t actually witness this murder,

but I don’t need to have seen the crime first-

hand to know that Mumia is guilty. He was

arrested, charged, tried and convicted in

a court of law in the fairest, most honest

country on the face of God’s green earth,

and that’s good enough for me.

Take it from me: Mumia is one-hundred

percent innocent of the charges against him.

Of course I didn’t myself see what he was

doing while officer Faulkner was killed, but

I agree with many things Mumia says, and

I know that a hero like him, someone who

has fought against oppression, cannot be

guilty of this crime. Besides, the fact that

our legal system is so unfair guarantees that

he is innocent.

Published in Fear of Monkeys

Copyright Kyle Heger 2015

My Bad

I was pleased to see you obeying

the speed limit in a school-crossing

zone through which almost everyone

else raced. I thought it was a nice

example of self-control. It was only

when I noticed you still driving at 25

miles per hour in the 45 miles-per-

hour area of the highway a few

minutes later that I realized that your

slow pace was the result of some

mixture of timidity, stupidity, slow

reflexes and obliviousness. Sorry.

That was my mistake.

When I first began working alongside

you, I was favorably impressed with

what I thought was the warm welcome

you gave me. You asked so many

questions about my interests, my

family, my life. You told me so much

about yourself and about our workplace.

Wow, I thought, she is really open,

curious and communicative. Now

that I’ve had a weeks to observe you

in action, I’ve discovered that in truth

you just can’t stand even a minute

of silence. My bad.

Your sudden transformation from

retiring clerical volunteer to leader

of our grassroots group inspired me.

What courage and moral strength it

took, I told myself, for you to go

from licking stamps and addressing

envelopes in a back room to leading

protest marches, making speeches

and giving interviews to reporters all

within a matter of months. Now I

realize that you have an endless

appetite for attention. It’s humbling

how fallible I can be.

Published in Five Poetry

Copyright Kyle Heger 2015

My Brother’s Heaven

My brother’s heaven is close to earth,

no further than his binoculars or telephoto

lens can reach, as close as a utility wire,

a tree branch or a nest within some reeds.

Not for him the airless wastes of space,

but, rather a life-sustaining atmosphere

beneath a protective dome of blue. His

angels don’t have cold ether in their veins.

No. Their blood is warm. They eat and

mate and give birth and expel their wastes

and die, lose an occasional feather,

leave tracks behind in snow or sand, take

baths in dust, mud or water and upon

occasion crash, heedless, into plate-glass

windows.

Entrance to his heaven requires no prayers,

just silence, or, at most, a few well-whistled

notes. a deft clicking of the tongue, or perhaps

an occasional bribe of seeds or suet.

Published in Third Wednesday

Copyright Kyle Heger 2009

Narrow Strip

All it takes is the narrowest of strips

to kill a tree: a simple, shallow ring of

excised tissue, a gulf through which

nutrients can’t pass up from the roots.

While all around it, other redwoods

survive with great hollows burned

out or deep gouges running up and

down parallel to their trunks, this one

member of the grove stands slowly

dying from one-foot up, victim

to a precision that can barely be seen.

Published in Jellyfish Whispers

Copyright Kyle Heger 2017

The Optimism of the Nihilists

Did the nihilists ala Bakunin really

believe that once the social order

was destroyed a better system would

take its place? Where did they get

the optimism to think human nature

had anything better to offer? It is

difficult not to be touched by such

naiveté.

Published in Disclaimer

Copyright Kyle Heger 2015

Orientation x Three

We still cannot release

Patient A. Although

she displays an almost

Buddhistic sense of

oneness with the world,

the kind of wisdom,

well-being and balance

found at the core of the

world’s religious traditions,

plus critical thinking skills

and imaginative abilities

that are almost off the chart,

she still proves unable,

or unwilling, to pin

down for us the current

date, her present location

and her own name. In

contrast, her companion,

Patient B was released

earlier today for, although

she continued to show,

at best, a superficial

understanding of herself

and the world around her,

be unable to live in the

present moment and to

be motivated primarily

by a desire to consume

useless products and

services, she gave definite

evidence that she was

oriented times three, so

she can sally forth and

resume her useful place

in society.

Published in Blue Collar Review

Copyright Kyle Heger 2015

Pardon Me

Please pardon me if my

right of way transected

your short cut. I should

have known better.

After all, you’re in a

hurry. And I don’t really

matter. If I could just

make your life a little

easier by dematerializing,

please believe me, I would.

Excuse me, please, if my

attempts to transact the

business for which you

scheduled this appointment

is getting in the way of your

cell-phone conversation

about TV shows, celebrity

news and your laundry. I

know that I am a most

inconvenient interruption.

I hope you will accept my

apologies for being in front

of you in line. I realize how

frustrating it is to have to

wait. Feel free to rush me

along by bumping into me,

burning the skin from the

back of my neck with

Funyon-scented fumes,

speaking loudly in my ear

and otherwise invading

my personal space even

though none of this will

get you out of here any

more quickly. Who could

blame you?

Published in Five Poetry

Copyright Kyle Heger 2015

Pediatric Dentist’s Office

By the time you’ve left, it’s kind

of hard to say whether this place

is a dentists’ office, Chuck E.

Cheeses or a revivalist’s tent.

To take with you as a souvenir,

you get a photograph of your child

and his dentist side by side looking

like the best of buddies in a brightly

colored cardboard frame covered

with stickers bearing pictures of

contemporary pop-culture heroes

and motivational phrases full of

exclamation marks. All the staff

members speak in falsetto voices and

smile as a matter of policy. Great big,

wide, white smiles. Real face stretchers.

The kind that you hope your child might

have if only you pay for enough tests

and treatments of dubious medical value.

The dentists refer to themselves in the

third person. That’s a real icebreaker

If you’re on the wrong side of psychosis.

They call nitrous oxide “funny air,”

local anesthesia delivered by

hypodermic needle, “a few drops,”

a drill “a toothbrush,” and probably

a bill a “financial query.” While parents

chew over the self-promotional material

and advertising merchandise with which

the office staff loads you down, the

children can pass the time playing

“Shoot the Monkey,” “Street Racing”

and other video games or watching

the latest Disney spectacular either on

the big-screen in the waiting room or

on mini-screens above them on the

ceiling at every single patient-care station.

A few minutes in this place will make any

of the various anesthesia options which

the dentist describes to you, or even old-

fashioned pain relief delivered by a heavy

blow from a mallet, seem not only attractive

but immediately advisable.

Published in Five Poetry

Copyright Kyle Heger 2015

In the Pipeline

For all the warmth she exuded, the

young woman with long lashes

could just as easily have been selling

fruit smoothies or cell phones as

burial services while we discussed

what to do with your remains, sitting

in an office that reminded me far too

much of the one where I had been

suckered into making my first and last

time-share condominium purchase

after a three-margarita sales pitch.

But at least she represented something

individually human: a voice, a pair of

eyes, a customized name tag. So, when,

on the day on which the interment had

been scheduled, I discovered that she

was not on the premises, that she had

broken her commitment to accompany

me through the process, that she had,

instead, without telling me, foisted me

off on a salesman I’d never met, I was

dismayed. Behind their counter, staff

members broke away from a spirited

conversation about football long enough

to greet with equal parts surprise, contempt

and amusement my request that your ashes

be treated a bit more gingerly than a sack

of dirty laundry. Was I one of those party-

pooper consumer activists they’d been

warned against? Did I need Sherlene to

hold my hand during what was, after all,

a pretty cut-and-dried process? Who was

I to blow the whistle on somebody who

always brings such great cheesecakes to

company potlucks? When they passed me

off on the manager, he was careful not to

admit that any wrongdoing had occurred,

in case I had a lawsuit up my sleeve, but,

wanting to keep on the good side of the

Better Business Bureau, he grudgingly set

another date and gave me the cold comfort

of an assurance that he himself would be

there to assist me.

But as I stand here now, watching a little

concrete box lowered into the open earth

on a hillside overlooking the San Francisco

Bay, I realize that it would be easier for a

disgruntled funeral-home employee to

desecrate your ashes than it would be for

an unhappy fast-food worker to spit in the

milk shake, and I can’t help wondering what

is really being covered up with soil (maybe

just a bundle of unopened junk mail) while

your remains are swirling toward the bay

in the sewers.

Published in Bougainvillea Road Literary Review

Copyright Kyle Heger 2015

Plunge

Young lovers couple

against the railing

at the end of the pier,

and I suspect that

both are unaware

of the toll that time

has taken on the wood

that bears their weight,

and that neither knows

how to swim, at least

not well enough to make

it to land.

A single silver laugh

escapes their embrace,

but as it rises, it turns

into the sharp scream

of a rapacious gull,

then disappears.

Published in 300 Days of Sun

Copyright Kyle Heger 2009

Point Molate

Tucked between a

secluded survivalists’

marina, half-torn railroad

tracks and the crenellated

walls of a castle used

formerly as headquarters

for a winery and later

as a U.S. navy facility,

the beach comes and

goes with the muddy,

ray-haunted tides.

Timing it right, we cross

the point, following cryptic

flashes of sunlight bouncing

off what first appear to be

mirrors cast upon the wrack,

but which, on closer inspection,

turn out to be transparent jelly

fish the size of dinner plates

aid like magnifying lenses

among the rocks, invading

the privacy of barnacles,

clam shells and crab claws.

Between the dried remains

of kelp --salty whips, root-like

holdfasts, air bladders--- are

signs of a humanity that

could be extinct: scraps

of net, chunks of iron, bits

of beach glass from shattered

bottles, the written calls for

help they once held long

ago plundered by mistaken

and ultimately disappointed

scavengers.

But reminding us of the

continued proximity of human

lives are the wake of ferries

and tour boats that lap upon

the shore, the pop … pop …

pop… from a nearby oil

company shooting range and

the lowing of a diminutive

light house that squats

on a guano-covered island

and startles a flock of Canada

geese from a ruined pier.

Flying toward us, casting

shadows over a superfluous

no-trespassing sign, they

swerve at the last minute

to avoid a crumbling cliff

face, passing so close we

can hear the rusty hinges

of their wings.

Published in Birmingham Arts Journal

Query

Is it his voice rising

or a flock of trapped pigeons,

querulous and adolescent,

beating plaster from

the domed ceiling?

Published in Iconoclast

Reaper

Bent frame wrapped

in a flannel

of brave new red,

fine white hair,

duck-down soft, raised

by fingers

of wind, my grandfather

staggers under a make-shift

prosthesis—an old wire coat

hanger duct-taped

to a telescoping paint-

brush pole—and thrusts the

ungainly contraption high

between aching limbs of a

mulberry tree, knocking it

against stems that have

already been brought to the breaking

point by the

weight of burgeoning

fruit. Again and

again he thrusts, struggling

to regain his balance. Again

and again the branches spring

back when he releases

them: relieved and bereft, almost

groaning. Again and again through

a spiral of frustrated birds and

bees, berries drop as they are so

ready to do, ripe and

overripe, bursting as

they hit a sheet of translucent

plastic he has spread

on the gravel

driveway, staining its

wrinkles with a purple so

bright you might think it

had spilled from his very

heart’s blood, spilling seeds

destined for a ten-gallon pickle

bucket bummed from a fast-food

restaurant, and, after that, the

dinner table, and eventually

to decomposition. He is

so light that when he at

last puts down his home-

made pole pruner, the wind

almost spirits him

away into the vortex

of beating wings and buzzes

and off into the robin’s-egg

blue sky, but his black

boots, that have become

oversized for him as cancer

has reduced his mass-to-

surface-area ratio, now

weighing him down as

if he were an astronaut or deep-

sea diver, keep him

bound to the crust of the

earth for a little

longer, perhaps long

enough to enjoy the fruits

of this labor.

Published in Avalon

Rehearsal of Evil

I stayed up late last

night, sharpening my

hate (which had been

blunted to a nib against

the impervious hides of

the crowd), polishing my

vengeance, reserving

the right to do onto

others what they have

done onto me. In fact,

so late did I stay up that

when morning rolled

around, I was unable

to get out of bed to

exercise the evil I’d

so elaborately rehearsed,

except in my dreams

Published in Nerve Cowboy

Rendezvous

As a conspicuous absence,

you keep this rendezvous

here tonight with me, our

five-year-old son, Luis,

and our host, who trains

his canon of a telescope

in a Berkeley back yard at

the night sky to gratify a

passion he developed as

a political prisoner in

Northern Ireland, staring

out between cell bars.

The first time we came

here several months ago

you were still able to

furrow a brave trail of

broken dew drops on

the grass behind the

fluorescent tennis balls

on the feet of your walker.

Our appetites had been

whet by the scent of warm

bagels, fresh from the oven.

Luis and a white whippet

raced elliptical orbits around

each other in a newly planted

garden. Our host was happy

to be out on bail, only the

wireless signals from an

electronic anklet keeping him

within the perimeter of his

property. But we spent just

a minute looking through

the telescope, our ambitions

to see the stars frustrated by

the benevolent blue blanket

of the sky as the sun’s rays

bounced off the shell of our

life-sustaining atmosphere.

And so we agreed to return

some night and lay siege to

heaven’s secrets when the

tumblers of circumstance

had fallen more propitiously

into place. By the time the stars

were in alignment, and a night

had come in which the Pacific

condescended not to exhale its

obscuring breath over the land,

and Luis was awake late enough

and our host had time off from

his battle against extradition,

cancer had already claimed you.

But we kept our rendezvous still,

and as I gaze up, I take a cold

comfort in the knowledge that

we are seeing light from stars

that died so long ago.

Published in Millers Pond

Repose of Doves

Enviable, the dove sleeps

on a ledge three floors above

ground, altitude safeguarding

him from predators below, a

double pane of protective glass

protecting him from people who

pace insomnia stripes into the

carpet of the hospital hallway,

his ability to fly forestalling

a fear of falling, one great round

eye condensed to a contented

slit.

An inspiration and an affront,

he retains his repose as I knock

on the window in warning, in

applause, in threat, my hand infused

with an urgency to startle him into

flight, at least to see him open his

eye in fear.

For I have just remembered the

raptor’s shadow. But nothing that

I do disturbs his peace, so I return

with clenched fists to my attempts

to wrest day from night, struggle

against gods and maintain solidarity

with the dying.

Published in Millers Pond

Siding with the Philistines

For years, I’ve voted for money

to fund grade-school classes in

music, drama and visual arts,

believing that education must

go beyond “the three Rs” if

people are to lead happier, more

fulfilling and more productive

lives. But after years of passively

hearing my sons’ complaints

about what happens in their

“enrichment” programs, I have

suddenly remembered my

own childhood, when my

early impulse toward the arts

barely survived nine years of

ham-fisted teachers who were

more intent on demanding

compliance and cramming their

curricula down students’

throats than in awakening our

nascent esthetic senses. So now

in order to spare my youngest son,

while he is still only in first grade,

a future of going through the

same meat grinder, I find myself

contemplating the possibility of

striking a strategic alliance with

the philistines in an effort to

cut school money for “The

Arts,” steeling myself to the task

in much the same way that

anarchists swallowed their pride

and indignation to make common

cause with Social Democrats

in order to defeat Franco in the

Spanish Civil War and China’s

Communists had to cooperate

with the Kuomintang to fight

off Japanese invaders during

World War II.

Published in Birmingham Arts Journal

Staring Contest

The bobber and my eye

stare at each other, each

red-rimmed and weary,

trembling on an uncertain

surface, ready, at any

moment, to be dragged

out of sight by the

movement of an unseen

monster.

Published in Laughing Dog

Strangerous

When I decorated my work station

with prints of paintings by Miro and

Van Gogh, a Chinese opera mask

and fresh flowers instead of the

obligatory potted plant and Disney

figurines, erecting walls against

ugliness and mediocrity, they realized

I was strange. I figured it was better

than confessing what I really thought

of them.

As I began to sing quietly along with

Bob Dylan, Billie Holiday and Tom

Waits, trying to claim a little space for

something better amid the thick and

incessant small talk, they understood

that I was dangerous. I figured it was

better than telling them all to shut up.

When I started to hammer away

enthusiastically at my computer

keyboard, giving it the old Ray

Charles (or Glen Gould, if you

prefer) treatment, swaying back

and forth, grinning, making faces,

in what is clearly to me a rational

reaction to an irrational environment,

they learned that I am something

more than just strange or dangerous.

I am strangerous. Still, I figured it

was better than cursing them.

Now they’d better step back,

because I feel a spirited St. Vitus’

dance coming on. I’ll give it my

all, bust some moves, and cut

the rug (or in his case the linoleum)

so hard and so fast that fluorescent

bulbs will rattle in their ceiling

fixtures and overhead sprinklers will

go off. And after that performance,

I wonder what they’ll call me.

Published in Third Wednesday

Sympathy Note to the Socialist International

You have my sympathy. All that

solidarity and suffering, all those

high hopes and mistakes, all that

destruction and building and planning,

all that loyalty and betrayal, and all

those endless meetings wasted. How

were you to know until the experiment

had failed so often that the world, the

species, wasn’t worth the trouble of

your noble dream?

Published in Disclaimer

Test of Faith

Stand motionless

in the rain, praying

that God mistake

you for a stump, or,

better yet, a rock,

something beyond

the test of faith, the

torment of time and

the consciousness

of obligations it

can't fulfill.

Published in U.S. Worksheets

Thumbland

I blow flies off

funeral food and

reach for a spoon,

hoping to beat

salmonella to the

punch.

Great flat-footed

farm women in

flowered church

dresses and sweat

stains stagger beneath

the weight of bowls

of potato salad and

hemorrhaging slabs

of pork they serve up

to a man named

Virtue with syphilitic

brain damage while a

Midwestern sky comes

down hard on the thumb

of Michigan’s lower

peninsula.

And not far away, my

great grandmother, who

winked and wrote poetry

and gave me rides on

her knees despite arthritis,

begins the long slow process

of returning to soil, almost

within touching distance of

this year’s crop of sugar beets,

at the same level as root

cellars full of jams and

jellies in Mason jars and

potato eyes grasping for

the light, safe beneath the

reach of tornadoes and plows

as they make their way across

the flat lands.

Published in Nerve Cowboy

A Torch

A maple has managed to

catch the last light from

the setting sun, which

throbs now through golden

leaves: imprisoned, prolonged,

sheltered and exposed off in

a burst of proprietary pride.

But, far from harmless, the

flickers threaten to consume

their golden covers as easily

as a flame does a paper lantern,

or to shred them in the manner

of a butterfly beating its vigorous

wings against an outgrown

cocoon, and so the branch tips

make a point of holding their

treasure gingerly.

Published in Jellyfish Whispers

Uprooting

While winter casts spells at me

through glowering window wells

and the old house groans under

other people’s feet, I plunge faith-

healer hands through my skull

and twist them furiously to uproot

that which keeps me here, but

withdraw them holding nothing

but my dripping self: an insufficiency.

Published in Milk Sugar

Vietnam Syndrome

How dared people in that

fourth-rate little power

battle us to a standstill

after we invaded their

country? They should

have been civilized

enough to let us do

what we wanted instead

of fighting back. Who

gave them the right to

shame us, to hurt our

national self-esteem?

Especially after we were

nice enough not to use

nuclear weapons against

them. Why, for several

years after our drubbing,

we lacked confidence

so much that we were

actually reluctant to use

our overwhelming military

might against any other

nation. A deplorable

state of affairs. It took

us decades to screw our

fighting spirit back up

to the point where we

could launch any more

full-scale invasions.

Pray that we never sink

so low again.

Published in Blue Collar Review

Voices

As I lie, having waved

farewell to my words, noises

rise from the street to fill

the void — flattened

voices of children laying

destruction to neighbors'

property, teenagers' elaborately

ignorant grunts as they labor

over engines that won't

start, percussive expostulations

punctuating a game

played a thousand miles

away — leaving bloody

tracks on my bed, see-sawing

through my chest with bone-

cutter persistence and planting

booby traps for anybody

who might be foolish

enough to try coming

to my rescue.

Published in Dalhousie Review

Wag More, Bark Less

Yes. Yes It all make sense now,

thanks to that bumper sticker

on the back of your car that I saw

before me for so long in the traffic

jam this morning. “Wag More,

Bark Less.” Of course. If only

the Jews, the Roma, the Poles,

the French, and all the others

whose countries were conquered

or who were hustled off to work

camps and crematoriums had wagged

more, barked less, surely the Nazis

would have been much more well

behaved. If only the natives of the

“New World” had just managed

to wag a tad more and bark a wee

bit less, I’m sure the slaughter, the

rape, the theft, the cultural imperialism,

the genocidal attacks launched

by invaders from the “Old World”

would have tapered off in no time

at all. And if now the workers who

are mistreated, the consumers

who are cheated, the people whose

air and water are polluted, the species

that are being wiped out would only

have sense enough to simply take

your words of wisdom to heart,

everything will turn out for the

best. Thanks for enlightening me.

Published in Blue Collar Review

By the Wind Deformed

A Cypress clings stubbornly

to life atop the oceanside

bluff, pressed close to

earth and deformed by

wind, pointing in the

direction in which each of

its daily oppressors has

fled, not in the direction

from which they continu

to come, more intent on

accusation than on prevention.

Published in Jellyfish Whispers

The Wreck

My life rattles past the window without me,

shuddering, straining, letting out its long low

one-note cry and pawing, Cyclopean, at the

darkness, rocked beneath the weight of wild

celebrants and sleeping brakeman, laughs and

toasts and broken glass, midnight resolutions

and morning repentances, sloppy kisses and

confessions, waving flags, second thoughts,

false starts, the jolt of molten gold and fist

fights in the bathroom, trailing scents of

buttered popcorn and the sounds of polkas,

salsa and brass-band atrocities, racing toward

god-crumpled tracks, the sundered trestle, a

graveyard of steaming engines and darkened

cars, while I lie safely in your bed and wonder

if I'm grateful.

Published in November Bees