Michael Prihoda

Untitled (One)

imagine a monster,
playing with pebbles,

just one,
maybe two,

picking them up
putting them down,

almost careless
but not unconcerned

with the life passing from
claws to ground,

a collusion
of bricks & brains.

pretend you
are one of the pebbles

&, i suppose,
i am another,

though easily the stand-in
could be John Denver,

Abe Lincoln, whatever
peach fuzz pokes your fancy.

& from this put down/pick up
process of pebbles

filters entrails of smoke,
something from this monster’s

pretension of what occurs
beneath a cobalt & silver sky.

the frontal lobe is not
so different from a rotisserie chicken.

need i remind you of the monster,
the interplay of pebbles?

how this becomes
a drafting table

for nightmares,
how the pebble

labeled “you”
& the pebble labeled “me”

do everything in their
power to remind each other

of their hardness,
of how they are,

always will be,
rocks.

Michael Prihoda is a writer, editor, and teacher from Indianapolis, IN. He is the editor of the literary magazine and small press After the Pause. Publications of poetry, flash fiction, and art have appeared in Potluck, Rasasvada, Pretty Owl Poetry, and Spelk Fiction, among other locales. He is also the author of two chapbooks and five poetry collections, the most recent of which is The First Breath You Take After You Give Up (Weasel Press, 2016).