five poems

by Paul Hostovsky

Emu

I dreamed you the emu at the zoo.
The sign said you bit, but you blinked
so sadly. You had

no hands. You looked
flabbergasted to be there.
Speechless for the first time in your life.

You could only cock your head in that birdlike way
and bite the wire mesh with your beak, but I knew
the word you were trying to say

was mistake. Your favorite word
in the whole world. But there was no mistake.
After all, this was my dream. I was having it,

and I wasn’t having any of your

biting, supercilious,
inventory-taking editorial

in my dream, I said

in my dream. Then I moved on
with my fistful of corn

to the fallow deer
who are always more timid
than hungry.

Luddite

Part of me, a very big part, like 98%, wants to toss this laptop

into the garbage can (which I really shouldn’t do because

it would end up in a landfill and leak rare earth elements)

and write this poem instead with a pen or pencil on a piece of paper.

And that same part of me, which is greater than the sum of the other parts,

wants to jettison the television, the smartphone, and the car,

in that order (because I’ll need the car to take the television and the laptop

to the recycling center, and the phone to pay the cathode ray tube recycling fee

with my recycling app). That’s the side of me—the side that I am on—

that is against airplanes, cruise ships, credit cards, online banking, video games,

social media, free shipping, and plastic. All plastic. Especially the plastic

that protects our food and prevents waste. And especially the plastic

that’s used in hospitals to save our lives: disposable syringes, surgical gloves,

blood bags, IV tubes, catheters, plastic heart valves. Because what’s the point

of saving our lives when the plastic is killing us? Or of protecting our food

with plastic when the plastic is in our food, and in our water, and in our air,

and in our poetry—just look at all the plastic in this poem! And I wasn’t even

thinking of writing about plastic. But here it is. It’s everywhere! And a big part of me

wants to toss this poem because of all the plastic in it. But a small part, like maybe

2 parts per million, kind of likes this poem and wants to put it out there in the world.

Koan

It’s hard to think about the oneness of all things

without a little something in your stomach,

unless of course you’re fasting for the purpose

of thinking about the oneness of all things.

But even then it’s hard to think clearly

about anything, let alone the oneness of all things,

without a little something in your stomach,

even if it's just a piece of toast, or a banana,

or an Egg McMuffin.

Who doesn’t love an Egg McMuffin?

It’s easier to think about the oneness of all things

when you start with an Egg McMuffin

as your premise: No one doesn’t love an Egg McMuffin,

therefore we are all the same.

Such reasoning is flawed, of course.

There are many who dislike or even object to

an Egg McMuffin. So we are not all the same.

Even though we all share in the oneness of all things.

Thus the inadequacy of logical reasoning

can provoke enlightenment.

AI Could Never Have Written This Poem Because

because because because because because

because of the wonderful things it does

like giving a nod

to an unforgettable song lyric

from a childhood

of unforgettable song lyrics

lyrics that (granted) may exist in a megadatacenter somewhere

that’s stealing water from humans

but really live (live!)

in the kind of memory

that can’t be googled because

because because because because because

because it’s a human memory

of a broken heart

and if you type its keywords in a search field

it will never in a million years come up

with Faith Lubecki’s exact words

when I was sixteen

and she was eighteen and a senior

expert on the hydraulics of the penis

of her ex-boyfriend Mark Winkles

whom she forsook for my more literary point of view

for a month or two

(though I only ended up disproving

every borrowed theory of hydraulics

that between the two of us

I couldn’t come up with

for some odd and mortifying

unexplained reason)

then broke up with me and went back

to Mark Winkles

saying something about remaining friends

though I don’t remember her exact words to me

because because because because because

because I was devastated

and heartbroken as only the Tin Man

who didn’t even know he had a heart

until it got broke could be

Gory Details

Spare me the—

spear me the—

OK, tell me all of the

gory details.

Your liver is here

on your right side

under your ribcage.

Your gallbladder,

which is full of bile,

is under your liver,

next to your transverse colon,

which is full of shit.

You’re full of shit—

semi liquid waste,

stool, feces, poop—

which spills out, oops,

into the light of day

with all the blood and guts

when you’re speared,

run through, torn apart,

shot, blown up,

blown to bits

and pieces—

which little boys

love to laugh and groan about

in their make-believe

games and stories

and video games,

because the gory

details are life itself,

and the bits and pieces

are the same old pieces

of the same old

unsolvable puzzle

of the body

that all the king’s horses

and all the king’s men,

not to mention the little boys,

keep trying to fit together

and fit into.

Photo of Paul Hostovsky

BIO: Paul Hostovsky's poems and essays 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, The Writer's Almanac, and the Best American Poetry blog. He makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter.