—Katy Brown, Davis, CA
The house is infested
with a clan of trolls.
The elders have set-up
under the desk and work table,
stealing pens and paperclips.
They steal the jigsaw puzzle pieces
and swap them like trading cards.
They torment the cat and
startle the contemplating spiders.
Their Midwestern cousins,
in campy black and white vests,
sleep under the bottlebrush,
fling foul-smelling excrement
at the dog, and fade into the shadows.
the neighbor’s beetles
and sauté the sleepy snails
that hide under the gardenia.
We’ve tried commercial troll-spray,
turned the sprinklers
on the outside camp
and tried to vacuum
in all the dark corners.
The house trolls simply laugh
and tip over the kitchen trash.
We used to have ants.
We used to complain
about the neighbor’s cat
digging in the flowerbed.
We haven’t seen ants or the cat
since the trolls moved in.
Honestly, the trolls are worse.
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove
Got him at a liquidation sale.
They were relocating the bridge
And the trolls were moving on.
Got him for a good price though.
And they said he’d stay under
The desk and gnaw at my feet
When I was writing bad poetry.
He’s always under there with a
Kind of humming rather than
Trollish grumbles and mutters.
Doesn’t gnaw, either, just
Sometimes licks my toes.
Licks a lot actually. I expected,
You know, a kind of troll-fetor.
But he’s always cleaning, paws,
Ears, whatever. Come to think
Of it, the ears aren’t floppy
Troll ears either: they’re
Sort of erect and pointy.
Sometimes I think he’s actually
A cat and not a troll. Maybe
I should have kept the receipt.
Original Star Trek Viewing Guide
Dagger of the Mind
Balance of Terror
The Squire of Gothos
Return of the Archons
A Taste of Armageddon
Errand of Mercy
City on the Edge of Forever
The Gamesters of Triskelion
Bread and Circuses
The Paradise Syndrome
For the World is Hollow and I Have Touched the Sky
Wink of an Eye
Elaan of Troyius
Requiem For Methuselah
(this is the single best episode of
The Cloud Minders
you and me baybuh
we can make it
your husband is the President
...the Secret Service
I'm Sorry I blocked Your Pestering Phonecalls
I was wrong I know that!
You and Me you know it...
Please do your outdoor jobs in the early morning
and your indoor jobs in the afternoons
because I see you do the exact reverse
That means I don’t want to see you clipping bushes when it's 103!
You break my heart when you do something like that
because I don’t want to call an ambulance to rescue you if you pass out
—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento
Pop star Jim Morrison died at age 27 in Paris, the same summer of ‘71 I was born
—the causes never exactly determined but speculated to be his drug and alcohol abuse
Now supposedly the last poem Morrison ever wrote has suddenly appeared
Handwritten on a piece of red- and blue-lined paper of a once-intact notebook,
labeled "page 152" it says,
“I have a vision of America 28,000 feet & going fast—
I have drunk the drug of forgetfulness
Leave the informed sense in our wake—You be Christ on this package tour—money beats soul
Last words, Last words out.”
As I write this, it is expected to be up for auction for $60,000 to $80,000
which is a hell of a lot for something that appears not even to be suitable for framing
Why doesn’t this piece of memorabilia go to a museum?
Or maybe be put into a plaque at Morrison’s often fan-decorated, flower-covered gravesite?
—Loch Henson, Diamond Springs, CA
He’s almost harmless.
He steals my toenail clippings and
wears them in a locket.
He brings me bouquets of frogs.
(He doesn’t hurt them, but
there is not much for them to eat
under my desk.)
He gets jealous when I write.
Sometimes I have to go
to the garden to get away
from the grumbling.
—Medusa, thanking today's contributors and noting that we have a new photo album on Medusa's Facebook page, this one by Michelle Kunert, featuring last Monday's Sac. Poetry Center reading. Check it out!