| Glass Case
Look into the museum display case:
my eyes are bottled up, disinfected
in chloroform. Untold years Iíve been
fossilized in the manner of my decay.
Confusion is a planet. An astronaut
scooped me with sterilized shovels;
other bitter officers carried rocks with
no sign of life, just volcanic reactions.
Fiefdoms of academics, knaves say
Iím not really there, carried to space
in boots, rolled around on golf balls,
lingering in the flagís red waves.
Open the cabinet. I hold a white blade
thinner than a atom. A joke death has
told more than once will rumble out,
thought gangs battling their theorems.
Philosophy is more dangerous than
wondering about other planetsí lives.
The unknowns canít be cooped up.
Chickens wonít roam with heads
cut off. They eat the breasts of men,
nibble on black holes, punish ghosts
explaining the surface of the earth.
Existenceís futile arrival worries
them only a little. Everything else
is taken care of. Dark matter. Dust.
Donald Illich has been published in Fourteen Hills, The Iowa Review, and The New Zoo Poetry Review and has work forthcoming in Passages North, Roanoke Review, The Innisfree Poetry Journal, Pinyon, Cold Mountain Review, CorssConnect Magazine, Hubbub, and The Sulphur River Literary Review.