THE NIGHT HAS 1007 EYES
Millie says, “Oh man, here you go again, you’re like a zebra that died in a zoo.”
What can I say? I am a croaked zebra and I can’t lighten up. Life is unyieldingly terrible. Zoo zebras have it better, actually. They get fed on time. Most of the world doesn’t.
But most of the world can’t fly and I can. I’m like Sister Bertrille in The Flying Nun only I’m not Catholic, I weigh 220 pounds, and I’m gay. I don’t know if Sister was a lesbian. There were rumors. About Carlos too.
When I fly, I can’t go too high. I’d like to make the moon someday, but I settle for penthouses. I’m a bit of a Peeping Tom. Though my name is Jerry.
I’ve learned a few things airborne. It’s no better up here than down there, but at least it’s not down where teacher war gives kids cursive writing lessons, the ink is always red, and after the lesson they have to drink it so they die.
Millie also says, “I get high from living.”
Huh? I get high from being separated even for a few moments from the disaster called mankind.
Wait a second—don’t think I was always a crab. I was a cheerful boy, a yes mam yes sir kind of kid. I got blue ribbons for deportment, held my farts in even when they would have made other kids laugh.
I fell in love. Fifteen times at least—it never worked out. I got crabby. Now I don’t bother with it. I fly over love’s graveyard and believe in no resurrection.
I had a job. Ten jobs. All were snakes swimming in cold chicken noodle soup. Quitting became a talent. When bill collectors come after me, I fly. Go ahead, take whatever I have. I can live on a balcony or a branch.
I was raised to be a good Baptist. Jesus and I swam in the springs of living water. We’d have races and of course he always won so I got bored with him.
Jesus: “But you have to love me--I insist.”
Me: “You’re all about you. Even on the cross you had it planned out that you’d collect on the worship. I’ve gotta fly. Bye.”
One thing scientists haven’t figured out yet—the night has 1007 eyes. It had 1008, but a huge black hole sucked one out. We are being watched, not by God who is drugged up on harp music, but by the night. Stars aren’t the eyes. They’re hidden. They’re seeing you now. What are you doing? It will come out—everything will.
I fly into a pupil, recline in a blink. Another war breaks out. An eye fills with tears. Impotent tears. The sun comes up. Night goes blind in one eye, but the others keep watching.
THE AUTHOR
Kenneth Pobo won the 2009 poetry chapbook contest from Main Street Rag for his manuscript called Trina and the Sky. It was published in December 2009. In 2008, WordTech Press published his book called Glass Garden. His stories appear in: Galleon, Word Riot, Verbsap, Tonopah Review, and elsewhere.
Millie says, “Oh man, here you go again, you’re like a zebra that died in a zoo.”
What can I say? I am a croaked zebra and I can’t lighten up. Life is unyieldingly terrible. Zoo zebras have it better, actually. They get fed on time. Most of the world doesn’t.
But most of the world can’t fly and I can. I’m like Sister Bertrille in The Flying Nun only I’m not Catholic, I weigh 220 pounds, and I’m gay. I don’t know if Sister was a lesbian. There were rumors. About Carlos too.
When I fly, I can’t go too high. I’d like to make the moon someday, but I settle for penthouses. I’m a bit of a Peeping Tom. Though my name is Jerry.
I’ve learned a few things airborne. It’s no better up here than down there, but at least it’s not down where teacher war gives kids cursive writing lessons, the ink is always red, and after the lesson they have to drink it so they die.
Millie also says, “I get high from living.”
Huh? I get high from being separated even for a few moments from the disaster called mankind.
Wait a second—don’t think I was always a crab. I was a cheerful boy, a yes mam yes sir kind of kid. I got blue ribbons for deportment, held my farts in even when they would have made other kids laugh.
I fell in love. Fifteen times at least—it never worked out. I got crabby. Now I don’t bother with it. I fly over love’s graveyard and believe in no resurrection.
I had a job. Ten jobs. All were snakes swimming in cold chicken noodle soup. Quitting became a talent. When bill collectors come after me, I fly. Go ahead, take whatever I have. I can live on a balcony or a branch.
I was raised to be a good Baptist. Jesus and I swam in the springs of living water. We’d have races and of course he always won so I got bored with him.
Jesus: “But you have to love me--I insist.”
Me: “You’re all about you. Even on the cross you had it planned out that you’d collect on the worship. I’ve gotta fly. Bye.”
One thing scientists haven’t figured out yet—the night has 1007 eyes. It had 1008, but a huge black hole sucked one out. We are being watched, not by God who is drugged up on harp music, but by the night. Stars aren’t the eyes. They’re hidden. They’re seeing you now. What are you doing? It will come out—everything will.
I fly into a pupil, recline in a blink. Another war breaks out. An eye fills with tears. Impotent tears. The sun comes up. Night goes blind in one eye, but the others keep watching.
THE AUTHOR
Kenneth Pobo won the 2009 poetry chapbook contest from Main Street Rag for his manuscript called Trina and the Sky. It was published in December 2009. In 2008, WordTech Press published his book called Glass Garden. His stories appear in: Galleon, Word Riot, Verbsap, Tonopah Review, and elsewhere.
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