Tag Archives: thom ward

“Not Quite, Then Again, Perhaps” by Thom Ward

Etcetera's MistressHis sense of dislocation was palpable, like a sofa
left out by the side of the road. She was the integration
of all things disparate, weather vanes and vinyl albums,
fire hydrants and stethoscopes. Friends thought he was
an overgrown mosquito. How else to explain his constant
whining. Her acquaintances were gypsies who became
philosophers in their dreams, so she said. At the office
he’d take a cup of water, a crayon, some string, a paper
clip and pretend he was fishing. One morning, dressed
as Plato, she passed his cubicle and inquired about
his intentions. Drowning worms, was all he muttered.
She told him poodles are typical therapists, so focused
on themselves, and that her blues were evergreen. Nodding
yes, then no, he barked, then offered her a pocketful of stream.

Thom Ward,
Etcetera’s Mistress
Accents Publishing

“Petites Dents, Petites Pattes” by Thom Ward

Etcetera's MistressThe language has always been smarter than us.
It slinks, pounces on invisible mice. Waits
by the bowl just recently filled, looks up
and stares through you—its tail curling
into a question mark. Each moment
another chance to nap, for it to assume
what it rests upon. Or so you think. And
who can think beyond the language?
Who doesn’t yearn to say—cat—without
the cat itself? Go ahead, keep collecting
those pieces of yarn, rubber-squeak toys,
keep changing that litter box. No doubt,
your god is a stranger. How quickly
cat disappears when the stranger arrives.

Thom Ward,
Etcetera’s Mistress
Accents Publishing

“Gruff Passage” by Thom Ward

Etcetera's MistressWinter won’t give itself over to spring. She said,
If you start out depressed, everything else is a bonus.
Each morning I piss excellence, was his response.
If we’re lucky, notes trudge out to us, and sometimes
we start singing upside down. Invisible trolls
smash old radiator pipes with their invisible hammers.
Hello to the firelight in scotch, goodbye to the smoke
in whiskey. Is that a sudden rush of comfort? Or just
another guy playing catch-and-release consumer?
The couch in my shrink’s office continues to bet against
me, and the bank plans to mortgage my shadow.
Travel Sunday morning in Saturday’s shoes: recall
how the weight of that leather will outlast us, except
for those embarrassments our children agreed to forgive.

Thom Ward,
Etcetera’s Mistress
Accents Publishing

“Moves of Little Consequence Ending with a Groundhog” by Thom Ward

Etcetera's MistressThere’s the cold that manifests and there’s the cold
we blast at others because we can. One by one
these flakes, confused paratroopers behind enemy lines,
strike the windows, the roof, cling to branches.
Zealous believers drive their vessels into precarious
waters, know the fury of the hunt, as elsewhere
sudden squalls begin inside the agnostic’s head.
If you stay out too long in the snow, your hands
will get icesolated, our five-year-old says, just
in case we forget. I follow bleached rivulets of toothpaste
down the drain, another trail of exhausted ideas.
Woodchuck, please forgive small reckonings we run
through. Sun, shadow, shadow, sun—the white cloak
of the asinine each year gets dumped on you.

Thom Ward,
Etcetera’s Mistress
Accents Publishing

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“Oh to Be Devoured” by Thom Ward

Etcetera's Mistressby the questions that have escaped the notion
of self, if not, then chased down the street
by mad dogs with rabbis. Each day the world’s
fabric tears a bit more even as the pure shooter
lets go the ball with such ease, like gently stroking
the head of a newborn. Will you be my baby?
Teach me how to rescue so many bright toys
locked in dark rooms. Most of us a forgotten
connotation for minnow: someone or something
deemed insignificant. But seldom you, friend, especially
on those mornings you bury your face in a bowl
of porn flakes. Sacred? Profane? Call in the lights,
the cameras, I’m doing just fine moving through
this old life, so much plotting, but no plot.

Thom Ward,
Etcetera’s Mistress
Accents Publishing

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