Somnia
Marcescent
Creek Walk
Terminus
My Computer
Piss
Parenting Advice from the Amygdala
Curriculum Vitae
I. Sleeping
Unfair as it seems,
the doorway to dreams
is beyond the control of our minds.
The brain in its rest
is a troublesome guest
that gobbles whatever it finds.
When sweetness is sought,
a worrying thought
is wantonly shouting and knocking—
a murderous moth
is unbraiding the cloth
of midnight, and nothing is shocking.
II. Phobetor
Something’s coming down the hall.
Silently it slides. It will not halt.
Line the garden beds with salt.
Trim the hedges. List the house for sale.
Something’s coming, thick and pale,
waiting at a window pane.
Finally, the moon begins to wane.
Nothing left to wish or want.
Something rises, starts to pant,
turns and shuffles slowly past.
Will this evening be the last
visitation? Sit and make a list,
tabulating what was lost.
Don’t forget to count the cost.
Think about what matters most.
III. Phantasos
A wide plateau, fresh with frost:
a perfect prism for a ghost—
just one, alone, or a whole host
advancing as the barred owls hoot
about who’s cooking. Mounds of soot—
dark scars pocking the ice, some sort
of message from a foreign port,
a daily warning. There’s a part
of every hour when minutes dart
like dragonflies, when clocks don’t dare
to tick in time, when everyone is bare
but no one is aware. The bark
of pines is old—each crack a mark
that holds a world. The glow of Mars
at dusk reminds the world of wars
it needs to fight. Crumpled wads
of magazines—the only thing that pads
so many beds. Erratic hours pass
like dragons that forgot to fly, their mass
of gold too much. A charred mess
is all that’s left. It glitters less
as frost is melting down the legs
of day, and coins are wooden pegs,
and ice is boiling hot, and pigs
have wings, gliding their airy jigs
with gusto. All the masts and jibs
are set—the oldest boys call dibs
to man the wheel. Nothing dims—
the vastness whitens all around the rims.
And now the ceiling canvas rips
and ultraviolet grasps the hips
of Earth. The oceans surge and hiss.
The foam and crash are hard to miss.
IV. Morpheus
Across the lawn, a friend you haven’t seen
in years. They haven’t even been
on social media. You never had a beer
together. (Too young back then.) Can you bear
to make eye contact? It isn’t fear,
but something’s wrong… Did you forget to wear
your glasses?
Someone else is coming near,
walking a dog—her hair is neat,
her dress is bright. You shared a seat
together on a bus once, and once you sent
a message—no reply. You went
your separate ways. She probably won’t
even say hello, and if she did, you don’t
know what you’d say. Anyway, it’s done
now—she and her dog are gone.
The parking lot is almost empty—none
of the cars are running but a ninety-nine
F-150 with a nice
paint job, and one small nick
on the tailgate. You’ve seen this pick-
up… It was your uncle’s. He got sick
and died five years ago. You feel your chest sink
as the engine dies and the tail lights wink
off, woozy from carbon monoxide wine
and memories of that Thanksgiving. The driver door swings wide
and there he is, just like before—his ride,
his favorite hat, his favorite team. (Roll Tide.)
He grins and waves, but doesn’t speak. What time
is it anyway?
The sun is bright on lime
green leaves, and this feels like
a second chance, an open line
to sort some things out—things you thought were fine
but never were. You’ll never find
a moment like this again, but your mind
is still swimming… Is this some kind
of trick?
His face is younger now, like a kid—
and now it’s blank, like the plain white lid
of a jar of pills you won’t get rid
of—and now you watch it rip
in half, split like a ripe
peach, and you see smoke rise
from the emptiness, a vanishing last rite.
V. Waking
As they pull at the threads
jumbled up in our heads,
the province of dreams seems mnemonic,
but these visions of night
bring confusion and fright
and passageways for the demonic.
It’s true the divine
may deliver a sign,
but more often deception’s at play.
As the pale hues of dawn
are dependably drawn,
the nocturnal deceits fade away.
Mother Beech, who hugs the creek bank, teaches
a lesson to her scattered adolescent
children: she spends her winters nude, quiescent
through the constant chill. The smaller beeches
are resolute—although the weather bleaches
and withers, they won’t accept the evanescent
nature of their leaves, till the incessant
press of wind in March finally breaches
their brutal grip, and paper leaves fly free.
Soon, slender buds will open in the pleasant
breeze of April, and the young will see
again the green unfurling, luminescent.
Next autumn, it’s forgotten. Stubbornly,
they cling to what must fall away—marcescent.
Why are you always wading in the creek?
What do you crave? What secrets do you seek?
The swerving roots exposed by rushing flow
are tracing out your curving route. Go slow
and listen to their hints. The sunlight glints
on quaking pools. Your stepping makes no sense
to anyone, and even you’re unsure
how long this restless question can endure
and where this way will lead. Why do you need
to wade this way? Today this playful deed
becomes a somber ritual—a dance
of urgent trepidation. Just a glance
toward home, then onward, onward—don’t delay.
You do not need your eyes. You know the way—
the swirl, the gush will push you on—the tickle
twists and thrills you. All the faint and fickle
advertisements filling up your screens
are nothing now. You don’t know what it means,
but something chattering around you makes
a sound that breaks your barrier. It takes
a while, but then you hear—you’ve heard it often
but forgotten it again. You soften—
you blend into the rivulets that wend
their way through stone and silt, around each bend,
coursing on and on—whirls without end.
The earth is out of joint,
and those who wail and think
this ship will surely sink—
well, they have a point.
Each era has its own
catastrophes and strange
perversions. Humans change
and never change. Alone
among the beasts we build
wide concrete highways, etch
our names in marble, much
prefer our protein grilled,
and clothe ourselves. Our pride
is always fighting to
outweigh our shame. The view
is shabby from inside
the human hut, but here
we stay. There’s danger out
there in the world. No doubt
we’ll need a sharper spear
and so we coddle rocks
to wrest them into blades,
and puncture ancient glades
to fashion shafts and stocks.
The only question, really
is if the world will fall
under a fiery ball
from space or from some silly
national spat—consumed
by cosmic smoke or man-
made plumes. Who’s got a plan?
Either way, we’re doomed.
Or so it seems. ’Cause who
could end all wars, or zap
an asteroid, or clap
and make this whole mess new?
Quick! How many computers would it take
to count to a million a million times
in one millisecond?
Let me just get my computer.
Tell me—how many computers
would it take to track the many millions
of computers filling the earth?
Let me just get my computer.
How many computers would it take
to convert a blue sky to red,
to replicate all alphabets,
to concatenate all strings
that comprise the currently theorized universe?
Let me just consult my computer.
How long would it take a computer
to curry favor with kings,
to carry a crowd to the city center,
to crash an airliner into the sea?
Let me just query my computer.
How quickly could a computer
make an ideal incision,
transplant an organ,
close up the suture?
How quickly could a computer
wake the dead?
Let me just check my computer.
How many computers
can you count in your field
of vision? How many computers
can you smell? How many computers’
fingers can you feel
gently, coolly grasping your throat?
How many computers already have
their pseudo-code embedded
deep in your flesh?
How many computers are
under your eyelids? How many
computers are making you great?
How many computers are lying to you
through their sparkling teeth? How
many computers are telling you
everything you need to know, faster
than you can comprehend? How
many computers are in your blood,
keeping count of your platelets? How many
grand bargains has a computer
offered you in the last 18 hours? How
many holes can a computer count
and fill? How many men
can one computer encourage
and confound? How
many truths and falsehoods
can one computer commit
to everlasting memory?
How many random bits
of wisdom can a computer contain? How many
lies can a computer divide? How many
laws can a computer circumvent?
Can a computer cry? How old
are you and your computers? When
was the last time you used
a computer and for how long? When
was the last time a computer used
you and for how long? When
will your computer complete
its salary negotiations? When
will your computer compile
all the necessary conversations? When
will your computer release its
hostages and go quietly?
Let me just get my computer.
So many gallons of piss
are flowing every second
under our feet.
We piss in porcelain bowls
filled with synthetic scents
to mask the stench.
We can all almost pretend
that no one pisses, that piss
doesn’t exist.
Parenting Advice from the Amygdala
Try terror.
See how shrill
you can be.
Disengage. Distract.
Self-destruct. The best
defense is self-defense.
Try bribes.
Be irate. Berate. Belittle.
Be brittle. Suffocate.
Disappear. Despair.
Double down. Vacillate.
Prevaricate. Put up crooked walls.
Slam doors. Stamp feet.
Deliver a lecture.
A livid leader wins the day.
Rattle sabers. Above all,
save face. Don’t stoop. Don’t
cave.
I am a faster runner than my younger brother.
I am the best math student in my third grade class.
I am the starting pitcher on my baseball team.
I am the high school student council treasurer.
I am a research fellowship recipient.
I am a parent of one daughter and two sons.
I am a published author with a three-book deal.
I am the youngest partner in my legal firm.
I am an elder in my local congregation.
I am a tenured university professor.
I am the President of the United States.
I am an infant in its crib.
I am a turtle on its back.
I am a tiny patch of moss
clinging to rock.
Steven Searcy is the author of Below the Brightness (Solum Press, 2024). His poems have appeared in Southern Poetry Review, Commonweal, The Windhover, Trampoline, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, and elsewhere. He lives with his wife and four sons in Atlanta, Georgia, where he works as an engineer in fiber optic telecommunications.
