science thestrals (an incomplete thought)

I am considered strange, unusual for my interests in osmosis and other unseen, biological processes.  Sometimes, I catch myself wondering how wonderful it must feel to walk generally from one point to another in complete oblivion of the little invisible occurrences that could untangle the threads of the misconceptions, blankets on the brain… those blankets that allow us to keep on living like gods, to keep covering our little monkey eyes, to keep our warm blood comfortable and our thoughts distant from hard truths.  But then I think, what the hell are you thinking? And I remember how wonderful I think it is to possess this scientific perspective, this de-tangler (no more tears) no matter how lonely it can sometimes feel.  Hydrogen bonding keeps holding me together, and then I at least have my own parts to keep me feeling complete.  

Down Dali

By Monday, my nostrils have already begun to rust from musk of smoke residue.

I can no longer see the grilling meat smells wafting above Hispanic houses in evening,

Everything in the kitchen blue, like I’ve been filtering the sun through my eyelids

Kids, like the sun, like my bad drinking habits, have bullied their way into my afternoons.

Eye evolved only to find a riper fruit, and I had to learn not to see things in black and white

I eat green, I make red, I dream in the colors of the seasonal fruits at the store

Next year at this time, all the leaves will have blown away

The clocks will have melted and mixed with the mountain run-off

Our hearts in our pockets, the olives we picked down to their

Pits. How much longer must we keep digging?

When I sleep, I am broken down to stars, sapling-bits, sand

Sleep, stars, sapling-bits, sand

Best to burn down a house in the rain

When the smoke makes wet velvet with the flames

Kateri Sava, Spring 2013

Beer Monger

by Kateri Sava

‘Twas my beer leg and the sparkling toke

     Did lighting and grumble in the womb        

All musty were the gas pump groves

     And the drunkard’s flag a flume

Beguile the Beer Monger, my being

     The speechless jowls, the vacant brows 

Beguile the chub-chub tub, and Shiner

     The fumes of fermented brews

I took my plastic sword in hand;

     Long time the merchant foe I woke  

So rested he by the cash-cash tree

     And stood a while to soak  

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

     The Beer Monger, with eyes of ash,

Gave bearings to the Mistletoe hood

     And brooded through his stash

One, two! One, two! Go through, go through

     The debit blade slicked through the crack

He left it unsaid, and in my stead,

     Gallant to my steed, I slacked

And had I sleuthed the Beer Monger?

     Came to my arms a beerish blood        

O tipsy day! Prost! Salute!

     I, snorting in my flood

‘Twas my beer leg and the sparkling toke

     Did lighting and grumble in the womb        

All musty were the gas pump groves

And the drunkard’s flag a flume

From way up there, you and I, you and I