

Bowtie
Raindrops replaced tears as she traced memories along the window. I lent her my hand while I drove. Her reflection revealed the weight of the past year. Silhouettes camouflaged her face; our daughter’s ghost stained it— a flood damming at the corners of her eyes. She’d been strong until today, the anniversary of Anastasia’s murder. I parked adjacent to a dimly lit warehouse, interrupting her mournful trance.
“Where are we David?”
“You’ll see. I’ve gotta surprise that’ll cheer you up. C’mon.”
We entered through the backdoor. Before us sat our daughter’s killer tied up, a red bow around his neck.
Windy City Farewell, 1944
Fingers gliding
over lacquered Ash,
as a soldier waits
hoping he gets lucky fast.
Losing memories
at the bottom of a glass
he orders another
flaunting his active-duty cash—
a beacon for the piranhas,
but every once in a while,
along comes a shark.
He had a plane to catch
a trigger to pull,
but not before he pulled the trigger
one more night in Chicago.
He was a shooter from the hip
in more ways than one,
and a glutton for punishment
knowing all the right places to find it,
except tonight
the man with a propensity for pain
never saw her coming.
---
She exhaled a silky stream—
a Cross breeze
pushing through the haze.
His shoulders grazed
as sweet vapor wrapped round
to arouse his war-torn face.
He was deeply engaged
with the scarlet woman
from Sixteen and Belmont,
a bitter rival whose red dress
left little to the imagination,
yet despite her blatant promiscuity,
his ears perked with intrigue
at the chance that
the grass on the other side
was greener indeed,
and in one breath
her smoky invitation
arrested his attention
exposing his salacious greed.
Was it a lucky strike
for a woman pushing thirty
or was it her experience
that made the man from Kansas
do a double take?
---
It wasn’t long
before the lady in red
sealed her fate with a fatal flaw
while the Black Mantis stirred her straw.
Ta, Ta…She thought.
Only amateurs excuse themselves
to the powder room
before closing the deal,
and a professional needs little time
to move in for a steal.
She inhaled his vulnerability with poise
and delivered a seductive plume
against his cheek,
a kiss from the Windy City herself,
then returned to sipping her French Seventy-Five.
She’d been playing hard-to-get long enough to know
he’d steal a peek.
Then he stole a peek.
Now, Charles was a gambling man,
and tonight, he thought he’d hedge his bets.
What's the worst that could happen?
Tomorrow, he had a one-way ticket to certain death.
But before the ladybird returned refreshed
the Mantis had him spending his entire check—
he was “All in” on black
and they were gone before Ms. Red ever came back.
© 2023 Chris Sadhill
Litter Box Espionage and The Expansion of Our Assholes
Reasons your cat may be a CIA agent:
1. Satellites cannot yet see through roofs therefore we need boots on the ground to report activity—Puss in Boots.
2. It’s important to monitor the declining health of the American people—that way they know when we as a nation have reached a critical mass of morbid obesity, effectively guaranteeing we are incapable of fighting back when they take over. The secret cat agents report monthly.
3. To end the genocide of their feline race, the Ambassador for the International Organization of Feline Affairs (I.O.F.A.)signed a peace treaty with China, to spy on Americans in exchange for the use of chicken and pork in all their meals. They have arrived from overseas as trained double agents working for the CIA under the Morbid Obesity Operation (M.O.O) but really report back to the Chinese Communist Party-run by Xi Jinping.
Reasons the aliens left without bothering:
1. Everything here tastes like chicken.
2. Our butt-holes were becoming too expanded for their probes. Evidence points to enlarged rectums caused by being “fuller of shit” the further we evolve.
3. We’re the trashy inbreeds of the solar system everyone’s afraid to contract diseases from. Better stay away instead of bringing home “the itch.”
Reasons the FDA actually approves of alcohol/ nicotine:
1. Better to be drunk and not remember than sober and aware when the government rams us in the ass. The smoke is for after, to calm the nerves and slow the shakes.
2. If we coat our insides with enough fuel and tar when they finally use their satellite lasers for “Population Control,” we’ll ignite like matches.
3. Cause without them, I wouldn’t have had a childhood.
Excuses to call out of work so you can go fishing:
1. “I’m pregnant.” Guys Only: If they contest, tell them that’s how you identify now and instead you need a day off for your mental health so you can process all their intrusive questioning. For Females: nothing more is needed. It’s a Win, Win, Win!
2. “My child bit me. I’m taking her to the vet to be put down. Also, I may need a rabies shot. I’ll be out the whole day.”
3. “I may or may not have overheard my cat talking on the phone last night to the CIA. I have an appointment with a shrink at eleven.”
Wait… what is that hiding in the corner:
1. Meth Grandma. She’s usually okay as long as she gets to smoke every few hours. Just keep an eye on her for when she starts getting twitchy.
2. “Well kid,” as ashes fall from her face and her half-smoked Virginia Slim “Those are your hopes and dreams.” my mother takes a swig from her jug of Rhine wine and passes out on the living room floor.
3. “Oh, it’s just Lucky, our pet possum. If you’re quiet and remain relatively still, at night, you’ll get to see him come out and eat the cat’s food.”
Discount Cult Card
Ronnie’s at check-out. I’m three back— adrenaline's pumping. Fuck, I hate him— never taking no for an answer. I devise a plan as the line thins. Soon I’m next to be offered the “Kool’aid.” Before the bottle hits the counter—
“—Ollie's card?”
“Nope."
My card's swipe-ready. He excites.
“You want—"
“—No thank you.” I sneer. “Just. Pepper." It’s working!
His eyes roll.
“Oookayy.”
Fuck yeah! Got ’em! Just gotta pay and leave. He turns to the lady behind me.
“Ma’am. Number? You get his points.”
No! What?! She spouts off digits like she won the lottery.
Ronnie got me again!
Breathing in the Sun
Purple ribbons wrapped in pink.
Icey kisses grazing cheek.
Asphalt drumming underfoot.
A whitetail alerts the bevy.
Stubborn apples softly swaying.
Blurry blanket loosely hanging.
Gravel quelling underfoot.
A warbler performs her shanty.
Starry pupils fading faster.
Dragons’ breath exhaling vapor.
Acorns grinding underfoot.
A rabbit scampers the gully.
Smokey Mountains blue and grey.
Mindful troubles drift away.
Sandstone scuffing underfoot.
A human inhales life’s privy.
© 2023 Chris Sadhill
Flight School
The runway’s clear
and the echelon
loops back
for the second time;
The first time,
was to calculate
wind speed
and direction
then scan the airstrip
for outliers.
Descending westward
they approach,
first over the treetops,
then above the powerlines,
and before long
they’re buzzing the tower—
my whole porch rattling
as they glide past
swooping broken corn stalks
inches from mud.
The captain in the front
lifts his nose,
tucks his tails for drag
and the rest follow suit.
They apply their brakes in unison
reversing thrust,
and as if guided expertly
by a magnetic field
he lands his crew safely.
It's in these short-term
flight tests
early in the morning,
where the visibility
hangs questionably
in the air
when nature shows you
how insignificant you truly are.
It’s then,
you realize
how much life
goes on around you
and will continue
to go on
without you.
© 2023 Chris Sadhill
Triple Feature
I fear
I’m projecting my aspirations
onto a backdrop
too wrinkled with time,
where all versions of me,
play across my face at once
skewing my image,
and never revealing a clear picture
of reality.
Everyone eats their
popcorn and Skittles
waiting for a tragedy to unfold,
and I eat right along with them
knowing I've directed this screenplay before
aware of what's coming next.
Hollywood is full of copycats and wannabes.
Am I not just a proxy
wearing a different costume?
Why do I feel I’ve failed
before the opening credits have finished
or feel like an imposter
every time I start something new?
Will this movie ever conclude
or am I just a series of short openers
with no endings until I die?
Who then will write the credits
or will they forever remain blank?
never the Real Boy, always the Woodchuck
When steel meets pine
false realities will splinter,
revealing the truth in everything,
thus, exposing the lies.
I see you now
you Fake Fuck,
you disillusioned marionette,
thrilled to have that hand jammed
so deep in your ass
you climax
while screaming out
for your AI “daddy.”
Never the writer
but always the receiver,
passing it off
like you stumbled upon greatness,
You Fake Fucking Woodchuck,
I’m on to you!
Mirror mirror
of your own deceit
pound another dishonored medal
into your wooden chest
and pretend to wince
at the hypothesized pain
you assume a “real boy” would endure.
Lean lifelessly against the wall
you puppet,
head cocked,
expression locked,
and useless
without a hand to tickle your taint
and feed you your words,
knowing the blood stains
smeared in the reflection
are hallucinations
of a dishonest mannequin’s pipe dream—
all strings attached
of course.
And when you finally ask
who’s the fairest one of all,
you’ll watch yourself
mouthing someone else’s name
for Alexa doesn’t lie,
because the written coding
designed by some other guy
told you so.
Geppetto should have
thrown you into the mill
and chopped you into scraps
because you’d be more useful as kindling
rather a phony typist
blowing smoke up our asses.
Though, they do say
where there’s smoke…
…but I tend to say Fuck it,
let me light the fire myself.
I’m on to you!
I’ve read you now,
and for a moment
I even championed you,
tipping my Stetson in solidarity,
cheering on an “up-and-comer,”
yet, it was never “You” was it?
You imposter!
How unoriginal of you
to use software to “fit in”
with a group of
living breathing Artists
standing out
solely because
of their unparalleled creativity
and beautiful minds,
forging unique and honest works
you can’t even dream of.
You’re jealous, aren’t you?
Envy leads people to do stupid things,
I get it,
but if you think for one moment
you’re getting away
with using AI
as your “Ghost Writer,”
you can take a hard
left turn
at the corner of Fuck off
and I hope you burn, pussy!
Now that I’ve
run the diagnostics
following your mile-long nose
down the rabbit hole
I’ll stop at nothing
until the wrongs
have been rectified
and we’re cleansed of your kind.
I will personally ensure
you’re exposed
blacklisted,
then shunned,
and dragged through the streets
of every writing community
for the next ten years,
I’m on to you!
Creativity is our religion,
our words form the bible,
and this community is our church,
and you just barged onto our holy ground
instantly making yourself
the antichrist.
Soon, you’ll be
long gone and forgotten
faster than a horse and buggy late
for an Ohioan excommunication
and you’ll burn at the stake
I gored you with
in front of the entire congregation
spitting on your mangled flesh,
while you scream silently
waiting for the words
to talk your way out of it
but they'll never come
because you forgot
you needed a prompt
to speak them.
I’m on to you!
Look at you,
you Fake Fucking woodchuck,
living on your
computer-aided
“Life-Support”
in a horrible attempt
to humanize yourself,
to be more like us,
to feel what it’s like
to have an actual heartbeat,
that has felt the pain of love,
and the grace found in death,
but you know the truth, don’t you?
There is no amount of one’s and zero’s
that’ll ever make you “feel real,”
and now that I’m on to you
I’ll gladly pull the plug for you
and watch you wither away
fading into the shadows
of that woodpile in the corner
where you belong.
I’m on to you!
How well do you sleep
knowing you’ll never measure up
to the authenticity
or vibrancy,
or the pure inventiveness
and explosiveness,
of even the most average artists?
I suspect, not that great!
And if by some miracle
you are sleeping well,
which I hope you’re not,
I vow here and now
to become that neck fat,
that swollen tongue apnea
in the back of your throat,
that suffocating “Hag”
weighing on your chest
ensuring you choke yourself awake
every few moments
back into my living nightmare
exhausting yourself
more and more,
deeper and deeper,
until you’re falling forever
into a reoccurring sickness.
I will be the Krueger of your dreams,
playing your fear as a re-run
for my amusement
leaving you afraid to fall asleep
and with every gasp, you struggle
to pull out of thin air
you’ll be thinking of me.
It's then, you’ll realize without a doubt
I’m onto you.
and you’ll wonder how I know
and how I found out,
but you’ll be too fucking tired
to do anything about it
because I’ll see to it that you’re deprived.
The kind of deprivation
that drives one
into a padded chamber
and all you’ll hear
in your unimaginative,
uninspiring,
Fake Fucking head
will be
I’m onto you!
I’m onto you
I’m onto you
and I’ll be the whispers scratching at your ears
until you choose to leave this precious church
or I until choose to expose you…
I’m onto you!
I’m onto you
I’m onto you
Sleep well you “Fake Fuck.”
Sleep well knowing
that with every written lie you pass off as your own,
your nose will be exposed to greater lengths,
and a woodchuck never chucks wood,
never has and never will,
so be the groundhog you are,
scurry away to make your home elsewhere,
or I’ll dig your new hole myself.
Zip Code
Storms pass,
but many follow,
how frequent
depends on the zip code,
and drowning under the downpour
of an inebrious squall line
inflicts dual sensory loss,
as thunder always confirms lightning.
But the storm passes regardless,
leaving behind
a devastation worse than the last,
forcing you to become
the clean-up-crew
of your own disaster relief
and like every time before
you’ll find yourself
sifting through the rubble,
spiritless and disoriented
hoping to salvage what's left
of the cracked frames,
shattered dreams,
and the memories of better times
when the winds were less turbulent.
Storms pass,
but many follow,
how frequent
depends on the zip code,
so, if you're fed up with living
in Tornado Alley,
change your address.
Dinosaur Chickens
Seasons change,
much how
eyes can't stay open
forever—
it’s science really,
life happening
between the blinks,
like the dinosaurs.
One day
they’re schlepping
across the same land
you’re now
comfortably standing curbside,
sipping on that Frappuccino,
and worrying about
what some nameless bitch said online
three days ago,
while waiting for your rideshare
just around the corner,
and one day,
they’re gone.
Much like that free pile
melting beneath a ghetto streetlight,
where trash is treasure,
it’s between the flicker
of that short-circuited amber-glow
when you too
will disappear.
Seasons change,
grey skies brighten blue,
months turn to years,
as unprocessed rage boils over,
and love floats away with the clouds
to far-off places
only to become a storm
where others
must learn to take shelter
like you did,
and to them, you bid,
Godspeed,
or farewell.
But as another season approaches
with it comes fresh moisture
to collect in the skies
above your head
so, you can live in the clouds once more
tracing your fingers across
impossible shapes
only to fall in love again,
only to loathe again
like you did the last time
when you begin drowning under
an inescapable typhoon.
Seasons Change.
Lizards the size of busses
devolved to the height of chickens
simply to lay our eggs.
And much like them,
mankind will regress.
In fact,
we’ll likely drive ourselves
to extinction
using our own
world ending “asteroids”
and perhaps,
like the dinosaurs,
devolve into chickens too
so, the next intelligible species
can come along to farm breakfast
out of our asses.
At least we’d be worth something then,
even if it is just nutrients.
Maybe that’s how they feel.
Maybe I should ask one.
Don’t fret though.
Knowing this
shouldn’t discourage you,
but instead
empower you to prioritize
living your life
to the fullest every day
while never giving a fuck
about a million years from now.
because hey,
seasons change.
So, to you
I bid,
Godspeed,
and farewell.
Why not hedge our bets?