The mob of eyes watch
from the stands the shivering thing
preparing its plummet.

But the thing’s eyes behold
the clouds swelling
with blackness, a storm
somehow trapped
within the gym, bouncing
the springboard
with merciless air.

It was once a lauded machine,
piercing through the water
like a diamond. But, now I see
some pale creature, its little head
watching waves in the pool
distorted by the storm’s will.

Boos and jeers mingle
with the storm’s howling.
I want the diver to dive,
to defy every force,
to sustain an elegance
before the destructive
everything. But it just stands
there, contemplating.
And now my voice joins
the disgruntled chorus.

Finally, the diver goes
slowly down the ladder.
The wave of boos overpowers
the storm’s wailing.
I look around, and next to me
is a child staring into his phone,
I grab it and launch it
into the air, but the phone
misses the diver and plops
into the water. I watch
the diver descend as the child
scolds me for my faulty throw.

I.

They move away from the sky
to surround a certain park bench.
Everyday, at noon, a hand is there
with the bread.

II.

A crow with a treasure
in its beak, hops away from the rest,
to a nearby puddle. It stares
at the water before dipping
its bread, and swallowing.

III.

Noon again, the birds wander
around the grass, heads cocking
and making noise–their hand is gone.

IV.

A head emerges from a hole
in the bush, its eyes wary
of the world’s movement.
Its furry body appears
in the open.

V.

Rabbits wait underneath
the park benches.  The swings
have stopped moving.

VI.

Squirrels journey from their tree,
past the bike wrapped in rust.

VII.

A small dog walks alone across the grass
followed by a pink leash, into
the brown hawk’s vision.

VIII.

The birds have flown,
marking the sky with their formations
and the rabbits cross the empty road.

The pit of hell eclipses the ******
toilets in the mind of the lone security guard.
He had informed the right people
of the breath of feces spoiling the air,
the spilling of porta-potties dampening
the earth and a girl’s smelly shoes.

But now a man onstage informs, “Um,
there’s a fire…” The mountain of flame
overtakes the crowd. A 10 year-old barks
at the *** onstage. The last guard
ditches the show.

And Ted tosses an empty can where others
have piled, smells something. His friends
were taken by the crowd, purple darkens
on his arm and he wishes he was less bored.
He follows two pretty girls (finally!) but a group
of pale apes finds them and coerces their flesh to be
revealed. He tries to catch the cacophony in the air,
but noise bludgeons. Soon smoke
engulfs the night. Ted makes it home.

The sun doesn’t startle away
the heft of last night’s image.
There was the street light and the twitching
eyelid, three teeth coated in yellow.
A bellowing that smothered
and the feeling that the old man did not know
of himself.

The contortion of skin: his face,
gapped. A voice lashes at the air.
There are no words. Arms stretch.
There are the hands. A mistake.
He shambles and swipes, finally
he pushes a fist into you, creating
the fall. Now his nails claw
at your chest. Your hand thrusts
up into his gray face, then you push
him off and stand. You throw
the old man down and pummel
his chest with your boots, marking
the ground with flesh, and then
you are gone.

And even though you left him strapped
to the street light’s glow, memory
tightens as you walk down
the harbor, letting its breeze
know your neck.

Stanley is the kicking,
the spinning in the park.
Our days are finally taken
over by a frenzied life.

The biting tells
us he is too much
for others. The TV is great
for him. Life is still.

He sleeps. He doesn’t tell
us about his favorite shows.
There is a sighing. A change moves
throughout the house.

Stan is all upstairs,
we only hear his door
and the screams
of video games.

Is present once again
in his blackened room,
hears songs in the trees.
The window glows: the sun
reaches all, and doesn’t care
about your comb-over.

Darkness leaves the world,
life refills the street:
cars commuting, bodies shifting
across concrete, passing
familiar others. Emil enters.

He watches the girl
over there: greasy black hair,
paled skin. She is pretty
in her damaged way.
Emil shoves away
Those thoughts, bites
into his McMuffin:
these are getting better.

Slow through the park,
Emil lingers. Joggers in their routes,
a Frisbee keeping itself in the air
until sputtering in the trim grass–
Emil overlooks everything.

He sees the marks glow
underneath his secretary’s
sleeves. He staggers over,
smiling, “I heard what you said,
that your girlfriend broke-in
and bit you in the arm.
If you need to, you can
stay at my place
for a while.” She smiles
a smile Emil’s been aware of
since middle school,
when girls wouldn’t even look
at him and his acne-scars twice.

He opens his door, and walks
within the black, only outlines
of things show. He flips the light
switch. Only he can alter this world.

He shrinks to a hush
below purple sky – this air,
soft and beckoning,

carries a mute voice
that teethes at the brain, killing
the pull of his son’s

image. Now two eyes,
paled and tearing, watch the speck
of light grow greater

than the stars. His arms
raise to the light like a babe
grasping for papa.