Four Poems
by Marc Meierkort
Ferris Wheel Junkies
They buy a farm. Lines are drawn
for a fence. Husbandry is hardest
on a wife. In time for the harvest
the perfect birdhouse is complete.
The word has gone out that there
is room to rent. Space for rant if
the mood strikes. The response
is overwhelming. Ferris wheel
junkies arrive in droves. Love
musters up the courage to say
what people are afraid to say.
Wives know to leave a little
something on the table. The
farm hands them a new set
of challenges. The perfect
birdhouse now swamped
by a family of squatters.
The river rising visibly
by the minute. Record
collectors hovering
like carrion birds.
Platters floating
merrily along.
Some of It Is True
Headlines offer little in the way of insight
but some of it is true. Going to war keeps
the peace. People come together in ways
gods find strange. Ideas fixed in history
negate ways of talking about the world.
Like numbers headlines can be made
to say whatever you want. Desire
marinates quietly on the nature
of identity. Good bad or in
different language only
some of it is true.
Trackways and Other Stresses
There’s a chance that everything that happens
happens by chance—testimony and deflection:
misdirection and punk rock. Oddities of form
need new ways of seeing. Interference patterns
itself on chaos. The more I drink the less murk
marks me as made of glass. I still have my ass
to drive home but without a spotter that’s just
not an option. Good grief officer I didn’t see
you until now. Yes sir. No sir. I don’t know
sir. I’m not being coy. I’m filled with joy
as I cover my stolen bases with flowers
and rhythm guitars. On the basis of this
solicitors play a game of hurry up and
wait. There’s nothing I can do. Time
works according to its own internal
clock. If you give me a ticket what
will that prove but a commitment
to trackways and other stresses.
I got nothing left to lose. Lock
me up if you think it will help.
Show me the way and I will
walk in the other direction.
The arithmetic will bear me
out. Magnetic fields a team
of experts. Paper trails lie
in wait. Papal imposters
like the Satanic Verses.
Why I Am Not a Farmer
Like John Proctor I am innocent
to a witch. In light of recent events
I decide to eliminate meat from my
diet. Too rich in meaning it was too
much of a good thing. Nietzsche says
“we need lies in order to live.” I need
a guru to get me when life guts me of
ego. I beg you—leggo my Eggo.
I am
unfit to be a farmer. Dirty hands make
heavy labors make me late for dinner.
Appetizers come and go. The internal
bounce is an experience to remember.
The upshot of which begins sinking
in. The downside waiting to pounce.
BIO: Marc Meierkort is poet, educator, and editor. An Adjunct Professor at Columbia College Chicago, he also serves as Managing Editor for Allium, A Journal of Poetry & Prose. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, his work has appeared in After Hours, BlazeVOX Journal, Querencia Press, and Cool Beans Lit, among others.