Airplane Haiku

Low-flying airplane.
Four nervous friends glance upward:
This time no bombs fall.



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No Bicycle

So now I'm a fish
with no bicycle.
Feeling awkward, exposed to winds
(should I say currents?) of fate,
feeling like a lost appendage, the missing
piece of something bigger.

I'm still waiting to see
if my lungs can adapt
to this water.

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I Have Spent My Life Preparing for a Disaster that Never Happens

1. Fast

If I can, I will run. I whirl, dodge, leap, turn�fall. When raw speed isn�t there (I run shuffling, always likely to sprain something, awkward on legs that don�t hold up)  hope must be in strategy:
set aside a bag, clothes, food,
money, always.  Now watch and be ready, ready to go without looking back, into the rain and night


2. Hidden

To change appearances is more than just a matter of wigs and clothing. The right makeup can make you seem older; moving like a guy and hiding the long hair can make you look like someone else (who it is safe to be). A person, especially a small and limber person, can hide in spaces much smaller than you might expect. In an emergency duck under someone�s house; there�s often a few feet of space in there, and it�s out of the rain if you don�t mind breathing next to the spiders. This isn�t good long-term though. Hiding for long requires allies who will share a closet, a spare room, maybe a basement. They can bring food and the smell of free air. Try not to resort to this, as it is precarious at best.

3. Invisible

Here�s a plan that works for a while:
stand
perfectly
still
don�t
draw
attention

belong

or at least, be something unremarkable
be a dusty nothing reading in the library
be nobody walking down the street
look like air.

4. Teamwork

There�s no point in talking about it, as there is no safety in numbers or anywhere else. If you can learn one thing by watching the mistakes of others, that�s it.

5. Woods

Look, here is water and all the providence of nature. You can never starve
in the woods. Cattail roots, boiled. Skunk cabbage, boiled in two waters but who�d want to eat that? Gather all the acorns you can, take out the nutmeats, put them in a bag or basket, and dunk them in a stream until water leaches the tannins out.

Water lily roots. Inner bark of pine trees. Maple leaves. Berries in summer and fall. Burdock. Wild onion. Pigweed. Reindeer moss, boiled twice and wrung out like a sponge. Seaweed if the coast is nearby.

For this you need a good knife, a hatchet, and some string or thread and a needle. You also need courage and patience, sheer stubbornness and a will to live that matches any forest creature�s.

A lean living, but maybe a living.

6. Somewhere Else

You have to believe
there is somewhere else.
Soft summer breeze.


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Lark�s Poem

�Mommy, when you are a cup,
I drink you.
Glug, glug.�

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Peacenik thinks about the Corporal

Well, did he think the souls of the slain would
rest?

Troubled times are for the ironic:
it doesn't surprise me
to see his name pop up on IM
or hear he lurks on mailing lists but never posts.
I eat irony before breakfast.

I pretend to steal his coffee;
he pretends to pour me a cup.
Eris walks in between us
in goddess we trust--

He doesn't know that I know. But I do.

Troubled times are for the ironic:
I try
to get him to laugh. It's the only lesson
I have to teach, that if you laugh
you don't have to scream.
He doesn't scream enough,
or laugh. Says he's cranky. I say
I'll make him play nice yet, just watch.

Friendly nemesis? I always need one,
though the game we play is deadly serious. Too important
not to laugh, not to see the absurd:
the most important tasks
must be done light-heartedly.

And now I worry they'll send him off
to fight yet another war, trim off
the green buds of playful life
before they can flower. Not fair.

Troubled times are for the absurd--
please Eris, save him.

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Scar

The keloid scar
just below my collarbone
is itching/hurting tonight.
That scar�s where my port was:
every day the medicine flowed
into that port, up my bloodstream.
The medicine made me feel sick and weak,
and next came the walk across the road
to radiation.

Later, the battle finished for now,
I had my port removed. Oh,
it was good to sleep on my stomach.
I felt less freakish,
less consigned to being sick.
Now I could forget those terrible months.

But every so often
that old keloid itches
and hurts and pulls,
whispering through my skin:
�You are mortal.
You are mortal.
You are mortal.�

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