“You can play Hexen II on a DX-2/66—just not quickly.”—RPB
The bull with the skull face
loads his crossbow again, dammit,
and before I can manage
one simple forty-five-degree turn
another green bolt cracks
into my side. Why
are these things so slow?
More memory, perhaps,
or a more powerful, speedier way
to process instructions,
make the body move.
Sure, these razored gloves
wonderful, height of fashion
and all, but fat lot
of good they do if I can’t reach
Cheese on a saucepan—no,
no, radish slices. The royal
table of Tuvalu stippled
with grated nutmeg. Three
eggs, soft-boiled, on the dash
of a panel truck just behind
the throne. Six sexy starlings
sipping sangria in Santa Cruz.
Does the throw rug resemble
a bear or a cheese danish,
and must one turn one’s head
and squint to get the full effect?
Perhaps a dutch oven
for the limburger, instead.
The path has disappeared; time
to pull out the machete. It is said
years ago this was a highway,
metal as far as the eye could see. Now
it is you, it is me. We pick through
the brambles, uncover a stone,
a twisted hunk of metal, a necklace
of teeth vomited forth from a gopher
hole. Somewhere, on the wind, a klaxon
tries to penetrate the cover, fails.
November 2018 marked Robert Beveridge‘s thirtieth anniversary as a publishing poet. When not writing, he makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Medium Chill, San Pedro River Review, and South Broadway Ghost Society, among others.