Richard Weaver

The Monkey of Anger

 

does more than fling poo. Sure, he’s a master craftsman
and dead shot, able to fling without being seen,

 

and disappear after the deed is done. And he is careful

to point a finger towards the pack, and wag it suggestively.

 

The monkey of anger is a connoisseur of dung, a fierce,

biting and snarling competitor for the best excrement

 

available. No matter whose. He plays no favorites.

He hoards it near his banana stash, mixes it

 

with small stones and chewed straw until its consistency

is firm enough to remain a ball in his hand, and balanced.

 

Only then does the monkey of anger reveal his intentions.

Does his anger unveil itself, and his need for a target manifest.

 

The monkey of anger has his sights on you. You wrongly

assumed your umbrella will shield you, your reflexes

 

are superior. Your awareness of environment and superior

knowledge will not grant you poomunity. You are doomed.

 

Your fate complete, and ignominy your new name.

 

 

The Giraffe Who Swallowed Wrongly

 

died while gargling, a slow death, exacerbated

by allergies to pollen, a fear of heights, knocked knees,

 

a too-keen awareness to the nearness of stars

and the moon’s atavistic nature, as well as complications

 

of multiple herniated discs caused primarily

by Acute Peeping Tom Syndrome. The service

 

and feast were held the same day: all who attended

enjoyed a long repast.

 

 

The Aardvark of Unwanted Adverbs and Unwelcoming Adjectives

 

has taken up residency in the Swedish embassy, having sought asylum

after uploading a smorgasbord of grammatical impurities

to every English Department and laundromat on the planet.

 

He/she, no one knows or is willing to suggest, has demanded

nothing, suggested less, insisting they (the sexless they) are not

the arbiters of language nor the ambassadors of lexicography.

 

The rotation of the earth has slowed noticeably, due, possibly,

to the collective breath intake of all English majors, and minors,

not to mention Endowed chairs, Professor Emeriti, and tenuously

 

tenured faculty members. Committees have been formed worldwide,

and are meeting on days that begin with W, and months ending in E.

There is hope yet for a solution, or at least a truce. A partial withdrawal.

 

Untutored minds are quick to realize the End has come ‘round.

 

 

The Speed of Dark

 

has challenged you to a race, a duel of sorts,

a journey beyond the universe’s edge.

Winner take all. Loser required to pay

 

God’s outstanding tab. In your defense

this challenge arrives every year exactly now,

at the High Time of Golden Impatience,

 

when most everyone else has fled this galaxy

or the next, bored with weather patterns,

bothered by an influx of tourists (you never know

 

where they have been), being fleeced by balding

gypsies. Bad timing can never be made good.

But bad decisions, that is another story.

 

Just not this one. This one will lower the net

so that all shots land safely in play. It even allows

for Mulligans. What do you have to lose, I hear you

 

say to yourself. And truthfully I say to you,

God’s a teetotaler. Never goes on a bender.

Never buys the next round, or drinks for the house.

 

Truth be told you could throw the race, and find a way

to come out ahead. It’s clear you are leaning

towards accepting this farce of a proposal. Science

 

is in your favor. Always has been. Most likely will be

after the sun has imploded. So what’s the problem?

You worried about your streak of perfection?

 

Unbeaten since…always. It’s not pride that beckons,

or ego that prods. You are simply bored with the unchanging

all-ness of it all. And know that rubbing Dark’s nose in it

 

will give no satisfaction, offer no closure or resolution.

You are the rock and the hard place.

Alpha joined at the hip with garlicky Omega.

 

And worse, you know without a doubt

this slow death will never end.

 

 

Richard Weaver

Richard Weaver is an unofficial snowflake counter (seasonally) in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. Recent poems have appeared in the Southern Quarterly, conjunctions, The Little Patuxent Review, Gloom Cupboard, Red Eft Review, The Literateur, Five 2 One, Steel Toe Review, Crack the Spine, StoneBoat, OffCourse, and the Stonecoast Review.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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