Defense Secretary Slips On Ice

I bet he didn’t
see that one coming.
Invisible enemy.
Crushed the phalanx
of his pinky finger
trying to break his fall
on his own front steps,
rushing out the door this morning
to the big meeting,
a big black-and-blue mark
blooming on his bum now.
The media isn’t saying
anything about his bum,
but I bet it hurts like hell to sit
down at the peace table.
He’s probably wincing right now.
Which may be why
we’re all still at war.
Another beautiful fall
morning, cold and wet,
the air full of the crisp,
exquisite smells of death.

Goatscaping

This morning I noticed two small green tomatoes
in the garden. I guess things are getting started
after all. Everything in its own time. And speaking
of nature having its way, have you heard of
goatscaping? I love the name, the play on words.
There’s this guy in Dover who owns a natural landscaping company
called Goats of Dover—he’ll bring his goats over
and clear your property of the unwanted weeds
and biomass the natural way, letting his goats
do all the work. They’ll eat anything and everything.
I called for a free estimate because the weeds
and saplings and poison ivy—and especially
the black swallow-wort—have been encroaching on my house
like they’re going to swallow it up. I want to cut them back,
get rid of the invasive species, maybe plant some wildflowers
or native vegetation that won’t go haywire. So the guy
came over last Sunday with a measuring wheel
and a clipboard. He had a billy goat’s beard and a ponytail
and smelled faintly of goat and looked vaguely like a goat himself—
you can’t make this stuff up. He knew the names
of all the plants. And as he perused my property (I have
three-quarters of an acre) he taught me the names of what I have,
including the aforementioned black swallow-wort. And then
he said uh-oh, I see you’ve got some lily of the valley,
pointing at some ground cover that I was familiar with because
I have a ton of it. But I never knew the name of it. And I said
oh that stuff is everywhere. And he said that’s going to be a problem—
lily of the valley is toxic to goats. They can eat just about anything
but there are a few species that make them sick, and some
can even be lethal. And lily of the valley is one. I showed him
where it grew on the other side of the house by the forsythia
and also among the saplings. He shook his head and sucked his teeth,
said sorry, it’s a deal breaker—if it were only here and there
I could cordon it off with some electric fencing
to keep the goats from eating it. But considering
the extent of it, well, nice to meet you. And he climbed

back into his pickup. So much for goatscaping,
but I’m thinking I might try writing about it,
because although I’m not very good at writing about nature,
this guy with his goats, who put me in mind of a goat himself,
isn’t he just begging to be made into a poem?

---

Paul Hostovsky’s poems and stories appear widely online and in print. He has won a Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, and has been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, and The Writer’s Almanac. He makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter.  Website: paulhostovsky.com

“the call…”

the call
emanates from
far away
and echoes
the initial
mess
age

even though no
horizon
presents itself
from this
far away

“the voice is lost…”

the voice is lost
in machines
of devious
blandness
soft anonymity
the unremark
able usurpation
of our ability
to make
the simple
declarative

our loss is lost
in a vast
ignorance
masked as
leisure leading
us grinning
to ersatz pleasure

---

Bob Carlton (@bobcarlton3.bsky.social) lives and works in Leander, Texas, USA.

Droplets punch down, diving rain becoming
a mother sow’s underbelly on the scaffolding outside,
new poison now, I understand and don’t want to.
The storm steers me to the windows like a swimmer’s final lap,
and thunder’s peroxide punch disinfects my ears with sound.
I know this acid on my hand’s not safe to drink atop the heat sink.
The hardware store across the street folds glass panels skyward
to protect anemic palms, poison lilies, carnivores,
a crowd of cramped pots watching from the floor.
My Venus flytrap died last time, it was already crisp on the table
when I snatched it at a discount. The shiny tag
requested rainwater to live. I was almost asleep when I realized,
it’s not safe.
I miss its ovals of birdcage spines on the sill,
waiting for flies to surprise until it stiffened, black
from root to tip. I boiled water for the last times,
for a spiral of coming night.

---

Noll Griffin (he/him) is a visual artist, writer, and musician based in Berlin, Germany. His first chapbook titled “Tourist Info” is available through Alien Buddha Press. You can find him on Tumblr/Twitter/Bluesky under @nollthere.