Nineteen Thirty
by t. zoEy benally

Nineteen thirty, and the world was poised
on the paper cutting edge of chemical technology
Symbolic fingers and cuticles prepared to be shredded
Wyatt Earp might have saved us, but, alas,
he was sucked into a wild vortex of discovery dreams
And he didn’t wake up in the morning
A time of innovation, breakthrough and understanding
New galaxies—not just the Milky Way
gravity related to electromagnetism—Einstein’s idea
Zeppelins flying around the world and landing in New Jersey
And Lysol douching

Exploration of Antarctica had begun
But American women were still “Held in a web of indifference…”
Patents were being issued for coin-operated vending machines
And women were still trusting “now-and-then care”
Women were careless and risking “married happiness.”
Grace Kelly was born and what did she have to look forward to?
Prescriptions for “Lysol brand disinfectant for douching—always.”

Day after heartbreaking day…
Held in an unyielding web
Leo Reisman and his orchestra sang
“Happy Days are Here Again”
But not so for these women
Webs spun by spousal indifference
Resulting from—you know—poor feminine hygiene
These women were banished because of—you know—poor feminine hygiene
Women equaled Trotsky, husbands equaled Stalin
Lysol equaled disinfection and—you know—feminine hygiene
Women were put on a five year plan of
Industrialization, electrification, and mechanization
A five year plan of Lysol douching

December 1931, poet, Nicholas Vachel Lindsay
Downed a bottle of Lysol, and his last words were
"They tried to get me—I got them first!"
But Lysol douching continued
And the capitalist misconception that
The only good bacteria was a dead bacteria
—funny how that mantra has been reused
for a variety of subjects including me—
Continued to be churned out
There were myths that Lysol prevented pregnancy
Vaginas smelled like government institutions

Perhaps it was psychological warfare
To permeate our mothers with the stench of Lysol
To make them seem like they were one with the government
Blurring the line between women, mother, and home
And the federal government
The whirling eyes of Ka
Telling us to “Trust in Me.”
And beneficial bacteria across America
Were being killed
Paving the way for opportunistic pathogenic bacteria
By Lysol douching.

Muse-less
by t. zoEy benally

I cannot write because my muse no longer listens to me.
I feel her back--smooth, oily shale
Ignore me.

I am shunned, and words are repelled
by the force field that she has installed around my brain
by the iron walls she has welded around my heart.

I am unloved, and have been relegated to a hell
of perpetual false starts.

And each time I jump the gun
Bound out starting gates
I am tazered.

Portions of poems stick in my throat
Uncried tears, unacknowledged sobs
Partially masticated truth
Questioned
and never digested.

I am left malnourished with scurvy
Dehydrated and infested with worms
And my poems emerge in tatters
because she has left me only
boll-weevil infested elbow macaroni
and contaminated muddy water
to consume.

She is like a silent cat - my former muse.
Sleek refusal to reveal my transgressions.
She kneads my flesh with freshly peeled claws,
Purrs, and sheds silver fur on my black sweater and face.

I wish I had a picture of your eyes.

But no camera would capture what I see
when we talk about mundane things.

Like trying to take a picture of the moon
when it ambles over the eastern horizon
magnified not by earth's atmosphere
but by an illusion created in my mind.

Maybe I am the only one that can perceive
gold fire burning in the afternoon forest
that is your eyes.

Maybe I am the lone soul that senses infinity
and that listens for echos of pebbles dropped,
smash against the bottom
of seemingly endless granite enigmas
contained within these glimpses
into your soul.

I wish I had a recording of your voice.

So that I could listen to quiet wind
pushed through wheat straw, filtered through
evergreen sprigs, moistened by cool rain.

Maybe I am the only being that can detect
the crackling plasma bubbling under
quiet shushes at the edges of your words & phrases
Alone in my static reactivity to your soft accent,
the sole being with receptors,
cognizant & alert in this reality.

I wish I had answers
to unasked Questions
Questions that remain sequestered
only partially thought
at the tips of comet tails & eyelashes
Questions inhaled & held tight in lungs
in anticipation
of a quick kiss.

Origin
by t. zoEy benally

Mitochondria were there at the beginning
Nidus that brought all the layers
of complexity, precipitating out,
careening out of solution,
out of matter neither created nor destroyed.

PAD Chapbook Day 22
Response

At 7AM the hollow door wood reverberation sounded different
and holey-bat-tights it was! Knuckles at the end of a friendly fist
accosted my door, and the person at the end of the arm was for me.

At 530PM three additional knocks were again for me!
What shift in the earth's rotation has allowed gravity to shift
and caused these people to drift ever so slightly over to my door?

PAD Chapbook Day 16
If there is a knock at the door, It usually isn't for me

Two doors painted the same blue as the blue in Chevron gas station signs
Separated by three feet of wall and insulation
Two chiral apartments constructed resembling two hands unclasped
and unfolding with thumbs as front doors, and wrist as second means of egress
So when three knocks reverberate through hard wood and disrupt the air
in my apartment, I don't bother opening the front door because
it probably isn't for me.

PAD Chapbook Day 12
Detail

If I squint sometimes it looks like Margaret Thatcher's shadow
Escaped from her like Peter Pan's escaped from him
But it decided to hide out on the edge of my shirt
And unfortunately the heat from the dryer melded it to t-shirt fibers

There were other shirts and several pairs of black pants
Tattooed with smears from an ink pen left by my son
along with nails, pencils, cast iron toy cars with rubber wheels
I kept everything that was black, and, of course, I kept Meg
But I tossed out the teal blue hoodie with blobs and strings
of ink hideously unfashionably dribbled everywhere.

PAD Chapbook Day 11
Theme

Droplets fall, two hydrogens, arms hooked on either side of oxygen
Atomic iridescent beads, diffuse between earth's loamy dark skin
Aggregate on the arborated dendrites, typically labeled trees
Puddle and trickle down, saturate weather chapped bark
Join internal rivers that course through trunk portals
Spread and leak out into soil sinuses around open terminal ends

PAD Chapbook Day 9

Dream

They are all there
even though logically they cannot afford the airfare

My day with them switches from one YouTube video to the next
Different camera angles and lighting make little sense

There are subliminal messages imbedded in my dreams
The government might have outlawed them in 1958
but my dreams still have them

Frightning flashes
Thunderbolts of things that I need to know for the next exam
My eyes try to focus and register
Try to burn them into my brain
Grasp hold, make sense, and test myself on these virtual things
I imagine that I see patterns
And maybe my brain secretly does
but the waking me is oblivious to them...

I try to hold myself under the dark waters of sleep
Sometimes it is easy because I dive into thick oceans
Most times it's impossible to remain cocooned in puddles
I wake up confused, disturbed and alone with insomnia...

PAD Chapbook Day 8

Fact

Sticky white rubber separates from sticky white rubber
Ziplock bag technology applied around square refrigerator
door edges, contains and sequesters cold air
but not as well as 14-3-3 (because I still get a bill)
Disruptive sound waves created by unstuck rubber
Makes me salivate almost as much as Pavlov's dogs

Sultry produce bags drape over stainless steel metal grill shelves
Crenating tomato silhouettes visible through painted logos
Boxes of milk, garlic, cheese with various slices hacked off
Mayonnaise, ketchup, soysauce, mustard, and salsa
mill about on door shelf balconies and discuss the recent election
Antisocial butter hides out in a domed opaque room