11.04.2024

One hundred thousand miles
by Zoey McKenzie

Question rings, a pebble plinked in a bird bath at dawn
Cold dagger of sound ricochets
Zings and splatters mundane mind clutter
Whale song reverberates, disrupts
Plankton thoughts of work, breakfast,
“Timing belt.
When was I supposed to change my timing belt?

My car leaks oil. I pull the dip stick out of the mysterious
Metal engine innards.
Pinch it between a paper towel, carefully folded and folded
Folded to absorb as much oil as possible
To increase my chances of understanding how much oil is in my car
Draw it back, rub oil off
--en garde!

Clean the never clear etchings
Decipher the message

Sometimes the oil is honey
Sometimes it is leaning towards ink
Sometimes the honey is between the H and the L
Other times I have to tear open a quart

Recently they changed the spout
Spout that normally fit
Holding the quart securely upside down
While it glug-glug-glugged, plastic sides heave
And spew contents

That spout is now too big, and oil
Cascades out and around the opening
Spilled wine
Ran down and pooled on the ground

A waste. Whose idea to change
Something that has been the same since before I first started driving old cars?

The mechanic's writing faded
He left an odometer warning on a sticker.
Watch for this number. Your timing belt will only last this long.
The reminder was gone.

In chemistry class, in biology class, they always warned
About marking samples with non-permanent ink.
Warned about losing data
About observations being lost
About knowledge lost

The summer sun was still high in the turquoise sky
When an antifreeze geyser erupted
Steaming and whistling from under the hood
Launching antifreeze in both liquid and gas
Out of vents torn between the joined metal and plastic
Radiators. Metal and plastic.
A quick fix
Once I got all the right parts.


The only mechanic who believed me
When I told him there was something wrong with the car’s suspension
I described the periodic shudders and staggers
We drove and drove until I finally hit the bump
That restarted the wobble
Grinding metal joints

He knew what was wrong and he knew how to fix it
The only mechanic who knew I noticed more about my car than just the color.

We packed water and snacks, the dog and I
Black nose tip pointed into the wind
Reading the nose paper at 65 MPH
Eyes closed and ears flapping
She ignored me singing along with the radio
She’s been slowly losing her hearing in her old age.
64 in dog years.

Interrupted by a snap and a stumble
All the worrisome lights came on at once
The engine shut off and the steering wheel stiffened

We rode that last gasp, the dog and I
Fought the steering wheel and found a narrow driveway
Coasted off the asphalt and onto gravel and then dirt

Turned towards the shadow of the crumbling wood sign
Of a decades defunct establishment
Baked to charcoal by the sun

An ocean of heat waves lapped at the scuffed tires
Of the now silent vehicle
100,000 miles apparently

5.27.2024

182 days since he last drank water

By Zoey T. McKenzie 

He opens cans of soda pop. 
Lilliputian metal strain, creak and groan, 
and Pffffish-POP! 
Then more metal ripping and another snap. 
He enjoys metal tab under his 
fingernail-smooth on the visible surface, 
and tiny gnarled, sharp claws on the hidden side. 
It makes him feel
–not necessarily alive, but it makes him feel. 
182 days since he last drank water. 

A torrent of bubbles crowd and shove up his nose 
though his nostrils into his mouth 
and up his nasopharynx. 
His eyes water, but the liquid does not 
run down his face like sad tears. 
He grinds them into the corners of his eyelids 
before they mix with fine dust and muddy his cheeks. 
The rough skin on his fists scratch raw 
the delicate tissue around his eyes. 
No water for 182 days. 

He woke into this fever dream 182 days ago. 
No alarm. No rooster crow. No cacophony of dawn song. 
Only indecipherable elevator muzak that alone he can hear. 
He stands in the line at Starbucks 
waiting to request an iced chai latte from the cute barista 
A pop jazz smoothie cover of California Uber Alles 
slurps into his brain. 
Alone he sings the lyrics. 
182 days--am I starting to forget what it tastes like? No. 

He has had insect eyeballs transplanted into his face. 
He lives in the brush strokes of Tonight at Noon, 
sees in a different light spectrum, 
and notices things only important to dragonflies, ants and beetles. 
He glides around melted rock faces 
and howling pseudanthiams where 
anthropomorphised leaves cradle florets humanized into cheeks. 
182 days without drops and torrents and oceans. 

He lives in the stench of burnt toast and burning brake and clutch. 
The bread and asbestos crumbs leave a trail 
for Hansel and Gretel to find him by moonlight. 
Indelible, inedible IYKYK trail 
for these sibling heroes to follow
to carefully cross the Pont des Arts, 
bridge weighed down and unbalanced. 
To find him and patiently relieve him of the burden of 
pebble offerings wrapped in calico fabric and wishes 
Secured with hastily knotted yarn to his handrails. 
To toss them into the moon reflected in the Seine 
to sink, to be rinsed and to absorb cool water.

1.23.2021

Bioluminescence by Zoey McKenzie

Do not fear sweet siren songs Powered by oxygen nibbles and luciferin magic She sings vine tendrils that catch and curl Tender shoots, a lock of hair twirled dreamily around a finger She sings sea foam and starfish and saline waves Crashing and then calming Smashing and then draining and pooling Ebbing and shuffle bubble around barnacled rocks Release your hands clamped so tightly over your ears The fortune lines of your palms crisscrossed across cartilage turns and soft lobe She sings and we watch the mysterious underbelly of clouds Glide and drift across the night sky Damp silence punctuated by a satisfied WHOOSH and spray of twinkling constellations Green lightning bug glow of our watches Cool, forest ghosts Winking and flirting and dancing in darkness

10.22.2019

Hibernation
by Zoey T McKenzie

Calico koi
Flip, flash
Scaled tails
Luminous
Beneath silent
Insulated ice
Water triangles
Lattice expands
To protect
Flora fringe
Burned black
By winter
Equisetum skeletons
Hollow holy reeds
Frigid wind
Gently coaxes
A lonely wail and sob
To fill
Space time cushions
Await
Lily and lettuce
Taro and pickerel
Iris, sweet flag, mosaic

10.07.2019

The Rock Record
by Zoey T. McKenzie

The dinosaur roared across the FM radio waves
Dino-Sizzle… Sounds like a Tyrannosaurus rex…!
We turned up the volume to listen for details

Dinosaur exhibition at the county fair complex
Animatronic displays, dinosaurs you could ride

My 8-year-old daughter had one doll
And a wide array of dinosaurs
That doll’s singular role was to be food for her diverse dinosaur herd.

Of course, we were going!

One display compressed the entire history of our earth
Into a one year calendar
We humans came onto the scene two days after Christmas
Imperceptible water molecules adrift in time’s briny sea
75 year jaunts in this 4.6 billion year journey,
Singular human, singular molecule,
Two hydrogen, one oxygen
Not even a water drop

The first three or four worlds, depending on
What corner of the Rez you’re from,
...March through most of December
Were dominated by single celled organisms
The first wave of collaborators
They generously released oxygen
And created a delicate atmospheric cocoon

Quietly observed by the anonymous Orion, Hercules and Pegasus
Then multicellular organisms
Then more oxygen…
Then bigger, more complex creatures
Until finally, us humans…
Mere infants, hours old,
Our first lick and wail of air
Sobs of life still lingering in the dead air space of our lungs
Our novel taste buds still sated and impressed with sweet mother’s milk

My dear friend Ralph reminds me on a daily basis
Of our narrowing window, our blip, our bloop, our bleep
Left with ravens, ticks, donkeys, pigs, pigeons, catfish
Our sliver of air slowly bubbling away
Diminished populations of song birds, bees, butterflies, and trees
Our thrashing limbs accelerating the dissolution, incorporation
Diversity becoming a weak memory ghost
Of oxygen into the saline ocean

Sometimes I wonder if our single celled ancestors have deemed us unworthy
Those whom we ACTUALLY should have created Gods in the image of
Observed our trajectory with ancient time wizened perception
Elected euthanasia for us, and are going back to formula
Infecting our brains to change our behavior and to increase our insouciance

Toxoplasmosis gondii protozoa in mice brains making them more cavalier
Taunting cats, and eaten
To perpetuate the protozoa
At the expense of the mouse

We thrash and flail, peel our fingernails from our fingertips
We deliberately crush our bloody stumps in door hinges
We slowly squander this splinter of heaven
That supports our complex creature survival

Soon our bodies will decompose and mineralize
Petrified and pressured into the layers of rock record
Our two days in the sun,
A gossamer air-brushed crust of tie-dyed sugar
Coated and recorded
Documented on the jawbreaker of time.

8.12.2019

Movie Modes
by Zoey McKenzie

I’m an ionian sucker for rom-coms
Magical kisses in the pelting, humid, deluge
The threat of lightning strike not even rumbling
In the sights of a deity’s impending plasma cannon blast
Slo-mo running towards your soul mate through crowds, traffic, barking dogs
Defying gravity. Thumbing your nose at thermodynamics laws.

I’m a sucker for ethereal fantasy films
Featuring unicorns with dancing manes
And neat, polished hooves that prance and stomp
Sky filled with flower petals and allergy inducing cottonwood seed storms
Hazy, soft edges and rivers and streams that don’t care
Which side of the Continental Divide they are on
Dorian optimism with a slightly worried mom

I am a sucker for adventurous foreign films
Phrygian realities in other languages and unfamiliar locales
Trying to solve challenges and mysteries with an exotic accent
Tumbling in my ear and stumbling across my tongue
Losing my luggage and worrying about water quality
Should I get travelers checks or systematically slide
Stacks of local currency into my secret money belt.
How do I avoid being captured by bad guys?

I’m a sucker for films about interactions with alien beings
Quirky lydian love with green guys who are super powered by our star’s light
Waltzing in zero gravity, up and down walls and ceilings
Slamming down a pint of Romulian Ale
Sharing vodka and scotch with Klingons
Flying that space ship sling shot style around the sun
Dodging asteroids and avoiding tribbles

I’m a sucker for movies about the common man
Overcoming staggering odds, escaping from dire straits
Fleeing avocado, harvest gold and rust decor
With wry, mixolydian pluckiness
Sucking down egg yolks and black coffee
Stepping into sagging, faded sweats one foot, then the next
Jogging in the chilly dawn across sand and up stairs
Taking a moment to reflect
And punch the sky in victory with a balled, work calloused fist

I’m a sucker for films that don’t have a happy ending—most of them from France
The hero ensconced and entangled into overwhelming aeolian odds
Held down and enduring the focused beam
Of fluvial sunlight refracted through a magnifying glass
Held in place by a cruel child god
Curious to see, without regret
What will happen next?

I am a sucker for movies that don’t make sense
Teetering on a locrian stool, one of legs too short
One of the legs too loose.
Slowly, creaking into a monotonous
squeak, scrape, thump, squeak, scrape, thump
Work without effect

6.18.2019

Gone

I waited in the snow. Wind pressed against my back and legs. I smashed frozen mud with my boot toe. Listened to the final crunch of ice crystals. Then the quiet surrender of red sand. His John Deere growled and chuffed out of the juniper trees. Big black tires pressed tread into the cold earth. He quietly climbed down. Not yelling like on the phone earlier. Shaken soda bottle diffused into flat, bland dark liquid. He had no money. And he cried. The horse was was his brothers. His brother was gone. He pressed his face into the mane, the gray hairs stuck to his tears and started to freeze. I gave him time. Let him cry. Tried not to stare. Tried not to join him in sorrow. He asked me again and again if I was sure that there was nothing to be done for the broken cannon bone. The horse had been his brother’s. And his brother was gone.

12.05.2018

Burned bridges are difficult to cross
Prophecy from the bowels of a fortune cookie

If you're not prepared
This might be true

One summer the footbridge across the churning irrigation canal
Was burned by a troupe of zombie spray paint huffers, baggers, sock thieves

We still made it across
Again and again
Difficulty is relative

11.29.2018

Bailing wire twisted, turned
Knotted symmetrically
I don't even know the conjugation
For what the pliers inspired
In that thin metal column
But it held fences
Transcended politics
Conducted electricity
Wired together communities

9.25.2016

Breakfast

I’m eating my last boiled egg this morning.
Casual Thursday morning of yoga, squats, and routine hygiene activities.
I boiled a half-dozen last week, and have been eating them off and on.
Six Grade AA white eggs jitter-bug in the red enamel pot.
Trembling to a simmered beat. I depended on them.
I’m not sure what I am going to do now.
The barren forearm of future breakfasts stretches out before me.
I am anxious.