the battle roared across the sky like
an epic Sanskrit in the palm of a hand,
folded tightly with a beginning and
an impending ending.

the gods were beautiful
with glowing white skin,
their hands grappling tridents
falling across their chests were
necklaces littered with skulls.

the demons clashed the tridents with their
clawed hands, fingernails the size of Rhode Island,
and bulging eyes fixed on their opponents.
the demons were grey, their skin veiny and taut,
the yellow in their eyes like lightning
in the black sky.

and the men sat in a large circle, in front of their homes
and bars and football fields,
in lawn chairs and lazy boys and stoops and bar stools,
huddled in a circle with filled coolers,
and they drank and commented on the battle
with eyes that were white,
with mouths clung to a glass or bottle,
with ears listening to each other.

“the gods are winning” one says.
“no, it’s the demons. did you see the way he
pulled out that god’s eye?”
“yeah but the rest of the gods are too strong”
“no, I would bet on the demons”
“well I’d bet on the gods”

and the gods and demons continued their battle,
the sky lit up with a war like no other,
and the men sat and drank and talked of epic war
like it was a common sport.

a man that had been quiet says,
“I hope the gods win”
the one for the demons asks “why?”
“well, I don’t want my women to be like the demons”
“well, I don’t want my women to be like the gods”
the one on the lazy boy says
“I don’t want them to be like either”
a barstool man chimes in,
“I want my women to be like the gods in the kitchen
and like the demons in bed”
and they laugh.
and the sky bursts with violence.
and they drink.

the gods grab the upper hand,
pulling demons into the sky,
they obliterate them
one by one.
“I told you the gods would win”
“It’s not over yet”
“Give it up, evil will be a thing of the past,
we can go to the grocery store without the
fear of getting robbed,
or pump gas after midnight”
“Well if the demons win you could
get a ****** and lie to your wife without
guilt, without remorse, with a smile on
your face”
“And how will my wife be acting?”

the demons stir and pull away,
they race across the sky as the gods pursue,
the tridents launched into clouds,
the demons laugh and gather.

a man on the stoop says;
“what if no one wins?”
the one for the gods says,
“someone has to win”
“well, what if they **** each other off”
he laughs, “the gods won’t let that happen”
“they may not have a choice”

the demons rally and rip tridents
away from the gods,
and use them on the gods,
and force the gods to retreat.

“I told you! the gods are going to die!”
“no, they have them just where they want them!”
the battle continues.
a violence like no other.
a sky like no other.
the men drink and look at each other.

“don’t let the gods fool you,
they won’t give up”
“the demons are attacking,
they have the tridents!”
as the battle ensues,
a man in a lawn chair,
drinking forcefully,
watches the battle closely,
he doesn’t favor either side,
he enjoys the fair fight,
he takes a long sip and says

“why should we care if they **** each other?
we may be better off,
left will no longer battle right,
the ocean and beach won’t battle each other for the tide,
the sky and ground won’t battle for the horizon,
the moon and earth won’t battle for the sun,
up won’t battle down,
male won’t battle female,
synonyms won’t battle antonyms,
employees won’t battle bosses,
classical music won’t battle rap,
democrats won’t battle republicans,
you get my point”

a man on the stoop says
“that’s what I’m talking about!”

and the gods pull their tridents from the demons,
and the demons tuck their claws into their chests,
and they both look down at the men,
then they look at each other,
and the men finish their drinks and turn
to leave without ever getting anywhere.

the first time I met him
he put out his hand
and met me.

not from this world,
not from here,
not from where I was from.

as time passed I met
him before work,
outside my bathroom window.

and he met me.

as time passed he met
me along a wall of friendship
and disdain.

but still, he met me.

as time passed I met
him along a wall of scorn
and disbelief.

he tried, I know he did.

like dolphins we gave each
other names and shared
oceans with waves like

stars,

carrying life to a shore then
pulling it away before ever
really knowing its

luminosity.

in trading trees for
skyscrapers

in jamming calloused feet into
crocodile arlo’s

in laying on a flat cot while neon
fires brightened

city windows

the forest remembered

a tepid breeze
                             pulling a shade over the sun
                         with summers leaves
leaving it partially
                             exposed
                         to flickers of yellow slicing into
a black stream
                             you dipped your red hair
                         into when I last saw you.

I had slept for too long, I know, for my eyes crusted over,
and when I rubbed them I felt relief from sleep.
Walking into my kitchen undiscovered, like a mars rover
I stumbled towards the counter in a bumbling flesh jeep.

the fruit bowl overflowed with bananas and mangoes
and they were beyond their years, wrinkled and hot
from the heat of today, and yesterday, their death grows
towards a beginning only a fly could know, but not.

their fermenting skin was armied in fruit flies,
they had built quite a formidable force and I
wondered had I slept so long? Their fleeting red eyes
scurried in my presence without a question of why.

opening the cherry tomato container unleashed an army like Agamemnon’s,
I feared I had slept that long, in a house of Aegisthus,
a deceptive horse unleashed
flies about my cheeks and eyes-
I feared their anger, only in that moment though,
I hadn’t even thought about it before.

a cider vinegar trap was the plan,
with a plastic wrap coffin,
and in some hours a cider vinegar graveyard
full of crimson eyed drowners.

A brash plan, yes-

or maybe an overthrow of a sluggish ruler
with a small army of energetic soldiers,
my crushing hand slicing like a scythe,
only to be matched by a putrid hatred of a kitchen subjugator,
a hatred the ruler understood himself-
a fear of waking up to it left the fruit
bruising in the basket
in
the
first place.

soaking in the warm
           water, her large body
              covered in soap

and bubbles.
           she sipped a glass of champagne
              her toenails sat

sticking out
            like bright pink
                                                   icebergs.

her eyes closed
            and relaxed, she knew the children
               would not be home.

her husband was where he said
             he wasn’t and she knew
                    they were broken.

but she was calm.
                 like a desert
                                                     breeze.

she looked into her eyelids
            and saw work
                 waiting on Monday,

her son struggling with order
             of operations, her daughter
        knowing men better than her.


sinking in slowly,
               her chest warmed like a
       leather car seat in August

kissing the water it
            submerged her plump
                                                        fac­e

she gasped and sat up,
      rubbed the soap from her
                                                        eyes
­
and saw a
           ladder,
                  a golden ladder against

the back of the tub,
looking about the
   bathroom and saw nothing

but the ladder,
     which climbed up and into
       the ceiling

which was now a sky!
         a gleaming sky
           with sparse white clouds,

oh, what a scene!
                putting her hand out she
                  grasped the bottom rung,

her wet body half in water,
                      half out. She pulled hard
  on that rung, but barely moved

again, she thought about Monday,
           and the weight she couldn’t
                                                        ­    carry.

a day she would see her boss,
       her husband,
                                                        ­  herself.

she finished the champagne.

she let her fat body
                          
                         fall
                         into
                          the
                        water.

“Nearer my God to thee...,”
she sang into her wet eyelids
hoping angels can swim.


©David Moloney

her
curvature
enhanced a
perception;
a woman
yes,
an articulated vanilla
doll most certainly. this
can’t be what you want,
he said to himself.
you’re a child,
he thought.
but her figure moved like
he wanted,
tight on the chest, a slight bust
with hips to accentuate her
leanness.
her purple lips did not worry him,
but the lack of eye sockets
may have.
as his hand fell into his jeans
a managers hand snatched a phone.
he turned and left hurriedly
the same way he came in;
through women’s outerwear and




alone.

I stood in the rows of stones
sitting in growing columns,
as the trees littered the carefully laid
orange and white wreathes with
dying leaves.
Pink chrysanthemums root
readying for winter.

I question
why must we do these things;
the dishes,
brush our teeth,
wear clothes,
paint the baseboard,
return things borrowed,
fix the handle on the drawer.

the sink may stink,
but the flies well fed.
bad breathe brings distance,
but distance breeds fondness.
and no one asks a nudist hermit
to lose weight.

These leaves within these stones tuck
a blanket over the raw Earth,
readying for winter,
keeping warm the maggots and beetles.

With the shadow of the raised
scythe looming over us all,
it’s silhouette shrinking as the sun
leaves us

I ask why,
Why must we rake these leaves?

it sat on the chain link fence
fenced outwards in aired

blue bird striped
stressed on points

on points red bird
blue bird bounced

against bodies blue
bird pushed red bird

demon bird
my bird
on the street
off the fence
away from cars

stay for winter.

if he were to leave like
a passing storm,
tracked by a team
of experts,
but, swept out to sea,
forgotten by forecasters
but remembered by fish.

if he chose to
leave on terms
gathered,
saying goodbye in a
short note of giving:

“Heather,
Your pretty face wasn’t enough,
I saw the *** marks and
I actually feared them.
Mike,
You ****** at soccer,
the idea it was better than
baseball disgusted me,
Gail,
Your younger years made
my whole life whole,
remember that,
Trisha,
I always loved your pies,
blueberry, pumpkin,
who could leave out apple,
John,
I leave to you my
knuckleduster,
Fred,
to you my ’69 chevy,
Uncle Steve my
Who Pinball machine,
Helen,
my distasteful character.
Mary,
my married heart.
Jesus,
you know.

and my putrid eyes to a ****** of magpies”.

when it hops it hops.

a wiry puppet
strung together and
painted green and black.

when it hops it hops.

a cringed waiting face
a scrunched holding space
my soft hand holds her.

when it hops it hops.

her cold, slimy legs
her wet, filmy knees
her yellow white eyes.

when it hops it hops.

now maybe she stops.
I want her to stay.
In my wanting hand.

Do not cringe, my frog,
I had hoped for you.
In my hoping hand.

He hoarded fingernails he bit off or found
in the curtain-less showers in a pile in his cell,
like a pixie collecting shrunken satyr horns.
He ate only the cheese at lunch and pulled
off the white fat bologna and let it sweat
in the sink.
His markhor beard held dead skin and peanut butter
clumps and it refused to grow anymore.
Behind the rosewood door
he stood on the steel toilet and stared into
the sun-glow bulb dimmed behind plexiglass.
When he was tired he slept under the bunk
like a frightened child.

He was allowed an hour a day
to stretch his harpy legs,
he’d hop to the phone and talk
to the dial tone like it were a confessional
to John Paul II,
“God doesn’t know, God never knew”.

I found him on a Tuesday afternoon
after lunch cleanup hanging by a shoelace
from his light fixture,
curved like a sunflower.
I cut the stem from the pseudanthium
and it wilted into my arms.

His neck looked like a corseted waist,
and when I loosened the shoelace
his dry mouth opened and he coughed bleu cheese
returning life into my face.
His teary mud colored eyes rolled forward and we stared into
each others as I cradled him like a baby.

He later told John Paul he wanted to quiet the voices.

In ’97 he took his ***** girlfriend’s crying three
month old and quieted him by crushing his
skull in a dresser drawer.

this old heart
wasn’t always so old,
it once was young and
tenderfoot,
wandering through days and
seeking regalement at night.

this old heart
rarely defeated it’s angst,
clenching fists at duelists
only with intentions of
defeasance,
never relegating the significance
of the win but focusing on the
sacking in a loss.

this old heart
played board games with
his sister on snow days after
laying out paths in the white dust
with an orange saucer
while chasing a laughter
only the belly could muster.

this old heart
was once a boy,
with hair like the white hot sun
on an August afternoon,
with bronze skin running about the grass,
chasing an aging brown dog with a ball
in it’s mouth.

this old heart
was once a boy, yes,
but remains no longer.

this old heart grows weary now.
this old heart bears weight.
this old heart stopped asking questions.
this old heart doesn’t laugh.
this old heart has no dog.
this old heart gets lost in the dark
whiling staring into the blinding sun.

rocking in my
fishing boat

a red skeeter
twelve feet

a hundred fifty
horsepower

a blue Coleman
cooler at my feet

the sun on
my face

the graphite rod
at my side

the worms left
in the car

the sun on
my face

it wouldn’t have been as stunning,
the sun in it’s witness.
it would have been cunning
if the wings coyed flightless.

but a cloud blanketed today,
a lost ambition within bare arms,
black waiting water her
fascination’s prey.

the smell of seagrasses,
the smell of foulness,
life leaving room for death’s anchor-

the spurned sun.

if it weren’t for you
I’d kept away.

if it weren’t for you
I’d remembered

to keep in-between being
wet and melty and
forsaken.

My daughter yells "Jesus!"
over and over,
maybe copy speech
from nana.

I ask her
"Do you even know who Jesus is?
Do you even know who God is?"

She swallows and looks at me.
"God made everything. You, me,
the sky, the Earth and moon" I say.

She swallows her cereal and laughs,
She's only two.


©David Moloney

writing a poem about falafels wouldn’t
be like writing a poem about love,
or death,
or even ideas.

writing a poem about a seamless dress wouldn’t
be like writing a poem about marriage,
or faith,
or even divorce.

actually-
it’d be like writing a poem
about a poem,
but not.

it’d be like listening to music for
sound,
sound like a screen door slapping
shut,
kicking up years of dust in a room,
a room with a floor that held feet
from nothing it could know,
but nothing the floor didn’t know,
dust the door thought it knew,
a facade of spew the not knowing
found important enough
to write a poem about.

To the owl in my oak tree, yes you, I see you*

when your eyes fall out through leaves
and there’s an unintended solace
like the start of a dream, or fall,
or whenever the air and the skin
shared a coolness, you sat there,
I know.

my daughter, clumsily young
with a hand in my own,
shuffled down each step on her bottom,
carefully new,
like a baby seal on a hot beach
scurrying away from what
she knows.

she at times needed a hand
but as her clothes tightened and
her shoes filled, I saw her as you
have seen her, walking faster away
from me,
careless,
like a baby seal in the desert
scurrying to water years gone from beaches.

You knew her better than me
and for this I despise you.

we saw you one night
you know-

you had on these eyes that
were something orange,
like a boiling star,
a white face mask and
grey ear tufts––
we saw you,
she said, “Look Daddy, Look!”
and your neck moved past anyplace
my neck could ever move.

Is that how you saw her?

if our God is
the colonizer then
our intelligence is confirmed

we are here.

in blades of grass
ants follow a guide,
a following unseen by
boots mangling terrain,
like sea glass,
like years of forming,
one takes time to care for
one they made.

the bed they lay
in the following night,
many strings of nights-
is like ash,
grey dirt piled for thousands
of spoken dates,
years- days following days,
until he came and took the days and
made them years,
and told us what the years were but not
what they meant to the bulbous rocks,
or how seven days made sixty two moons
a sixth
from the sun.

on purpose.

or if
he meant to **** the girl.

or if
it were naivety.

the water trickled reflections of
death, birth; frog legs
that looked like bullhead lilies.

his scars, sutures, shared bones,
they made him together like the
together we fight against.

a monster,
unlike a monster this gaseous air
has seen,
or gasped,
or choked on.
A monster like no other,
that found us here and taught us
to teach each other to drown and
forgive and drown again.

Ha, I get it.

The shine is from a
wet cloud against
a sun
that stands in the rain.

I get that
the way the gloss
shimmers
and you don’t want that-
the rain.

you don’t like the flash.
the drips. the wetness like
hair growing over your face.

you don’t like the way
the hood moves in the
light.

you don’t like the way
the glass reflects images
of a second there and
a second now.
(And how they are the same.)

but the sun is
against us.
(So is the light! Collusion? How
can’t it be)

Look away!*

didn’t you hear?

the light wants to show off,
the light wants to prove you never had it.
the light wants to illuminate the sound
of things we can’t hear
of things we set aside

of things we think others want
to
see.

we got sick,
we got hungry.

the cows went for water
the chickens ate each other

but I looked for you Malthus
are you happy now?

its bad,
get it over with,
this will take too long.

a driving car
with me in it
and driving.

the racing trees,
the dripping river
frozen, trying to

thaw.

on a night where
the moon seems
to follow me.

my hands on
my thighs,
the wheel drifting,
the glossy black
road,
the salt on my doors,

on a night where
the moon seems
to remember me.

birds, like the ones with red feathers,
or blue feathers,
it does not matter to make
a picture of

birds.

together on opposites sides
of a galvanized fence.

birds that have feathers unlike each other
but are birds.

birds that fail to tell one another when
flight occurs,
but they know.
they take flight like tin heroes,
but feathered,
it’s the silence we don’t understand.

the bulbous eyes,
the stuttering heads,
the chip, chip, chirp.

the song.

like sand slipping through my
together hands,
the song,
the spaces,
we don’t know.