Puxatawnie In His Dun Period

Most Groundhog Days
we hunched under hummocks, flicking
our Bics, and thumping Platypus tails
like Popsicle sticks. We used back-lit
wavy-gravy claws and digits,
flashing familiar
gang signs, until the Kabuki got too
spooky on mud cake walls, turned us
into penitentiary rubes with pituitaries
on the fritz-- too tall, too tall Rorschach
stains on zippered britches
buckling… Someone pulled a thread
from a tuber root overhead, it clicked
like a light bulb chain, a semaphore
for nap time.

Lately, I’d begun to wonder, as these Winters
run, one into another, and another-- if existence
was nothing more than Tivo-filtered Super Bowl
Halftime Shows in which Jagger and Springsteen
never age, while a pre-dawn stench of hoar frost
on sagebrush reminds me how prophecy is history
written in reverse, a Ponzi by Rumi, generational
curse, false Spring after false
Spring repeating.

But I suppose it’s okay, since I dress
in layers, tends to ward off incessant
Deja Vu digressing into retrograde
amnesia, this longing limned
by dread. Waking
from my single bed of leaf mulch,
once again I see my cousin co-
mingling with a mole in a nearby
cloud of dust. They chuff, they back
bite, somersault and squeal, but I
ask you:

If our ending’s really been told
already, what's the sense in ever
climbing out of this hole

Dennis Mahagin is a poet and fiction writer from the Pacific Northwest.
His work appears widely, in such publications as Juked, Exquisite Corpse,
Thieves Jargon, Pequin, Storyglossia, Slow Trains, Clean Sheets, Absinthe
Literary Review, Frigg Magazine, 42opus, Keyhole, and 3 A.M. Magazine.
He is currently seeking a publisher for his orphaned poetry collection,
entitled Grand Mal.

Dennis' website is located at: http://fourhourhardon.blogspot.com.
His email address is: mahagin@aol.com

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