the bears

[Chris Adams]

the bears were over-burdened that evening.
With the collective guilt of many centuries
too many and the underacknowledged nature
of their formless eternity.
It was march of 1991--a month that was
destined to have two full moons. Earlier
that evening, I had decided to bury the
television but couldn't seem to find a
shovel. Not even a spade or unclaimed
spoon. Nevertheless, the time for burial
had come and buried it would be...either
it would swallow the earth serpently or
be swallowed up corpsely within it.
No...on second though, nevermind. Passion
had subsided and left me bare...or barren.
Bearing a little animosity still...animated
indeed.
Sitting on the front step, bonding with
twilight's taste, sinking deep into the
sensory cushion. Evocative, yeah.
Macroscopic glow of the moon above echoing
mezzoscopic glow of the streetlights echoing
microscopic glow of my neighbor's cigarette.
Occasional shudder from a truck passion by
on the nearby highway or perhaps just from
the breeze.
The shaggy drug addict upstairs returned
home, carrying a shoe-box that he said
contained a morning dove. He was going to
take it upstairs and play the pipe organ
at it and then set it free. Or maybe kill
it in some satanic ritual. Didn't matter.
The bears bitched and moaned and sent out
for a pizza. By christ, their day would
come.

--
"bread!"