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.

8.07.2015

Time is Relative

Yesterday time was measured by the
speed of tears running down my face.
My universe contracted.
Exhalation. Removing toxins.

Yesterday was a day on Venus
Minutes hobbled by on creaky wooden crutches
Super heated air trickled in
I finished reading a book and re-read interesting sections
I tried to lose myself in music on Pandora
I tried to lose myself in my favorite movies
Meditation was my only recourse
Marinate in the time alone
Back to the basics
Continue to breath
Survive

Yesterday I lost my muse
Pluck inflamed with grief
But that is the nature of muses

Today I am better
Tomorrow I will be even better
With each turn of the Earth
I will be further from this nadir
Spirals of time
Salve
Bandage
Protect
my wounds

6.26.2015

Harvest

Cold air slows molecule vibrations
Snowflakes with jazz hands
Fading
Water plods into ice formations
Crystallized into a
Clean flavored candy shell
Ice Floats at first
Then slams shut
A vertically clawed adamantium prison door
Liquid incarcerated
Not quite ready to be stilled

Cold air annihilates cell walls
Expands liquid into a solid lattice
Squares explode
Ninety degree corners become chaos
Triads joined at the electron
Harness the power of the atom
Then everything dies
Green, red, purple, pink, white
All fade to flat yellow
Bright sunflowers fade
To that same hollow yellow

My heart fades
Hollow yellow
I count the seconds
Until snow falls
I count the seconds
Until I am frozen
Seconds until
I can sleep and forget.

4.07.2015

Wool Socks

My father taught me to recognize
The faint jangled vibrato discord of a spent incandescent bulb
He saved these bulbs so that he could teach me to darn my socks.

He didn’t use the same needles that my mother used.
He didn’t use the same thread.
He sang and whistled.

He asked me what I was doing...
Where I was...
When I wore holes through my wool socks.
I was…

Wandering along the gray irrigation ditch road
Carrying a stick. Followed by my mutts. Smooth river pebbles
Piled in my pockets. Pretending.
Pretending to be Spanky, Darla, Alfalfa.
He let me pull arms lengths of thread from the spool
It took quite a bit of practice to snip the threads cleanly with my even front teeth

Selling seed packets to my grandmothers and grandfathers
Inspired by black and white ads
At the ends of comic book adventures.
I wet the uneven thread ends with spit
Bringing the wet ends to a point between my lips

I was riding the bike that he helped me build
From parts we found at the trash dump
From parts that I bought from the scrap metal guy
A dime for each glass soda bottle
I enjoyed watching the caked sand
Melt from the glass
In water
It made him laugh when I exaggerated
When I scrunched up one eye and stuck out my tongue
While I threaded the big eyed blunt needles

I remember the day
We found the basket for the front
The dump smelled like rotting flesh. It smelled like burning trash.
I was cultivating another hole in my right sock.
The basket corner was as beautiful and precise as any elbow
I used my stick to scrape and pry it from the dirt
He showed me how to anchor and span strands of warp
Across the severed thread chasms.
Threads kept loose

My favorite dog learned to ride in that basket.
She was my constant companion
Silent witness to the erosion of my wool socks
Until a cruel Aunt shot her in a fit of drunken ennui
He told me to be patient
He told me to be precise
While I stepped the weft across
While I closed the gaps worn through wool socks by my adventures

3.30.2015

Life

Aaaahhhh, LIFE.
You are a mysterious and enchanting mistress and sister.
I kiss your smooth hands and cheeks
I gaze gently with so many questions into your dark eyes.
Life, you are simultaneously the goddess I worship
And the demon that haunts and hunts me.
Only you, Life, can wring and shred my heart with challenges and strife,
But still caress my soul with a touch as distilled as bird’s whisper, a butterfly’s sigh.
Life.
Loneliness

“Hi!” I smiled. Step on a calculated concrete crack.
“Hi! Come on—let’s go get a burger.”
If he had been a few hours earlier
And had chosen something vegetarian or pescatarian
If.
Then.
Maybe.
Maybe we wouldn’t now both be lonely
But, as it now stands
We are both the 1/10th
Unholy 1/10th never mentioned in gasoline prices.
We are only visible when we congregate in unfortunate and unwieldy clots
We are the spit out lime rinds
Fragrant, but inedible
Indelicately perfumed
We are the bits of salt unlicked
Crystals—too large to savor—tenaciously but delicately clinging to the glass rim

05.30.2015

10.23.2014

Drama at the laundromat

The laundromat is not the place to have emotions.
At a laundromat, any emotion is interpreted as drama.
Sit silently and watch the rotating metal drum spin your clothes.
Slosh. Wash away memories. Whir. Rinse away pain. Bzzz. Spin away heartache.
It's best to quietly admire and acknowledge the water jets flooding the detergent tray.
Minutes digitally ticking down to zero.
The centrifuge slows, reverses, slows, reverses, slows, reverses, slows, reverses...
Until you are no longer interested. No longer care. Gaww-dammit!
Build a callous around your soul and other tender parts because...
You don't need the cumbersome baggage of drama
to weigh you down while you're fighting for dryers.
You need to be clever, calm, cunning, and quick like crinkly aluminum foil.
Drama is a big ol' bag of 50 gallon water.
Suppress your emotions.
The folding tables know too much.
Their hard surface can no longer absorb your drama.

8.30.2014

Dead Gray Bird

My ears heard it last week.
And my eyes widened,
and my pupils dilated with fear unconsciously.
Ice shards crystallized instantaneously through my heart.
My trachea and esophagus spasm-ed, shuddered.
My lungs steeped in warm saline.
Sodden tea bags, flavor faded and washed from the desiccated leaves.
My ears heard it,
but my brain refused to believe it.
Override. Override. Override.
Not until yesterday did my neurons register and process the horrific information.
And I know
and understand now
what my skin felt last week.
Damn my brain for stupid optimism
and silly idealist notions,
no better than thimbles.
It's my heart that has kept me safe and alive.
My heart that feels the struggle in fingertips, earlobes, knees and lips.
My heart that deciphers, in an instant, heart beats like Morse code.
My heart that tries to warn me with arrhythmias that make me cough.
My heart that adds, 3 + 8 and verifies that, no, they don't equal 13.
Verifies that the shine in my hair is no longer beautiful.
Verifies that it is increasingly blinding and migraine inducing.
It is my heart now that must bleed, while my bumbling brain watches.
Giant thumbs that cannot peel the covers off the bandage adhesive.
A loathsome dog,
my brain,
all teeth and paws...
Disappointed that the fragile gray bird no longer flies,
but lies limp on the ground.

4.26.2014

oneword: smiled

I ran away many times, but I always got caught The evil nun always smiled her thin Grinch smile Everytime they brought me back Lips devoid of love Thin grey pink

1.26.2012

oneword: collar

Colored wax scrubbed enthusiastically
across paper glaciers
frozen over dried stereotypic leaves.
I didn't know I was supposed to remove
the little plastic collar stays
when it was time to iron.
Sand washed over hands shoved firmly
into bell tails, containing sips of ocean.

11.28.2011

oneword: dim

congested skies
diphtheritic clouds
infect my sinuses with a fine film
of minuscule pebbles and river silt
deposited
magically evaporated
from dams piled and affixed
by concrete shoveled in human hands
my eyes assume the dim light
means that it is bed time
and I feel like
lying down
to sleep