REEDUCATION CAMP
By Michael Anthony Istvan Jr.
Reeducation Camp
a necktie around your neck brace
becoming the object of a dare
the executioner’s daily practice
of axe swings, aware that he can be
called upon anytime
the executioner’s daily practice with the axe
of axe swings, aware that he can be
called upon anytime
the headsman’s daily practice with the axe,
aware that he can be called upon anytime
to deliver a humane blow saving him from shame
the artist never knows when he is not creating
rummaging the trash for a used fentanyl patch
repeated checking for symptoms
itself taken as a sign
that you have the disease
once great cities vulgarized by tourist amenities
making him do the crime and then catching him for it
indifferent to one another, less
as if we were never children
than as if angry for failing to be
as if shouting will make up for the difference in tongue
the breeze, although it carries
particles of burned persons,
sweeps back the beloved’s hair
the stallion unloads his cream
generative in the man who will die
from the depth of the final thrust
pain drugs deemed too habit-forming to give to the dying man
flannelled men coughing
at dirty jokes on the dock
sipping Styrofoam coffee
a dog waiting outside a corner store
warped ridges of dissolving scum left on the beach with each wave
families harmonizing in song
first smoky breath of the season
Refugee Droppings
masturbating to historical figures
would you feel accomplishment if one of your lines became a cliché?
the bright side—
word jumble disorder
a gift for poetry
Rocky Mountain big horn sheep
seek out lichen rocks
tripping
taking up the painted gesture (hand
over face, say) to sort out
what attitude, what inner life, it betrays
arranging the dead one’s journal entries by the locations of writing
hair-mussing from grandpa, and sometimes more
fashionably emaciated
the urge to pinch cow lips, dog lips
living well as indicated by the practice
of closing and opening refrigerators, drawers,
with the feet while the hands are at work
all day cartoon marathon
filled with commercials
“go outside today”
defense attorneys
put glasses on their clients—
nerds are safe, honest
yellow strips slashing by as you drive yourself to jail
conditions where phlegm
is intentionally swallowed
for its nutrient value
that admonitory gesture
of a silent shh—forefinger to lips—
implicates its target in the eavesdropping
fixing the drowned victim’s face
for the casket, mouth still locked
in a final panicked pull for air
jailed men start to make love
ant mounds mow-riled, dragonflies hover the lawn
the accidental electrocution of the electro-fisherman
spreading her ass to a brown butterfly inkblot
blind but resolute
removal of any shafts
just before she squirts
fiends in dawn beds
armed with toys—parents
guarding vitals: eyes, privates
when lowering your face
from the gaze of the maniac
sets him off all the more
fingers crossed for an accident
serious enough to yield
the needed organ
living in a place reputed
to be paradise, the pressure
is to preserve that reputation
geniuses of path-blazing, much more
than those of analysis, leave silly mistakes
for scholars to build careers disclosing
trees give us warmth in their burning
curling iron—cheap weave—fire detector
already one suicide attempt behind her
eating hardboiled eggs
over the sink, salt
straight from Morton
mycelia in this mulch
fruit with rain—
argent withering by noon
silver coins in water
boiling the mushrooms
black coin: poisonous
condemned as nothing but a sketch: strokes
too hurried, too choppy, too enamored
of what is fleeting for micro precisions
opening to the subtleties of drudgeries
freedom to be bored
beetles born eating
their way out of mother—
quick nutrition
those across species
chewing food for their young,
stealing a bit as they do
their caring for baby dolls
an unconscious request
for cock
parental concern about too much
reading became about too much
TV, and now there is the internet
reclined in the grass of a clearing
in the woods, reaching up alone there
to tempt the butterfly to perch
we would be alone were we not separate
the bond formed through talking in whisper
Rejectamenta
the death of those who remembered you
the hot potato of ancestral pain
should we care whether it is cheating to use numbing spray for deep throating?
leisure construed as but a chance to restore workweek energy
sandboxes of weeds
if the joy of giving dies
in the giving, then perhaps just plan
on giving—keep planning.
the power that your spouse
has over you when she wants
less sex than you
an affair is often the end of a marriage
that everyone knew, but a new marriage
can be formed with the same person
even if life is one season among many,
you are not going to fair better in another season,
because fairing requires living
Jesus not only saves, he sure does pay!
citing that has the same shoes
as the man as evidence
that he is the man’s son
attributing feeling better from your chronic illness
to your invented and promoted protocol
instead of to that you invented and promote it
a father, red-blooded when he looks
at his daughter’s filled-out friends, looks
“weird” to them because he never looks
jealous over someone who pains and loves and struggles too
lifelong servicemen learning to receive help from others
forging an inner equilibrium
as opposed to sensitizing walls
to weather sonic invasions
in such an age of technology when we all should not be
slaving away under an employer, we mock tribespeople
for being too lazy to slave away under an employer
noting how easy it is to waste our time
is no waste of time, for it keeps buried
the thought that everything is a waste of time
feeling death in the room before even checking the body
is your sensing the absence of the usual breaths and motions—
and that, despite complaints by the superstitious, is magic enough
the loathing that festers
for your twin, dragged along dead
but still attached at the spine
so often when contaminated
with some contagion
we contract contagiousness itself
fireworks riling up veteran ptsd
however empty the HIV-AIDS distinction
has become, technically you did not lie
in assuring her that you do not have AIDS
letting the city racket below
portal you not into rage
but into reveries of other worlds
prisoners confused, violent almost,
by news that you used your free time
not to do what you so enjoy doing
parents fight at the table each night
over the identity (sexual, racial, cultural)
of the child sitting before them
nurse glares after seeing
bruises on the infant
yet to be diagnosed with hemophilia
About the Author:
M. A. Istvan Jr., PhD, proud member of the Oregon Trail Generation and long sufferer of sarchosis, engages in deep play even in baseline reality where everyone expects truth and seriousness. He wants to please everyone even though he is rebellious to the core. Istvan has butterflied into a philosopher who no longer attempts to anticipate and respond to all objections that may arise, even those that may arise from the most uncharitable readings.