Two poems by Timothy Carroll

Higitus Figitus

In a time of grace-filled goodness
      and thick 
                dark 
                    evil 
                           there is a need for magic. 
The difference between white 
                                              and black magic in such a time    
is that the white for example 
            could give one wings
                        poof one into a sparrow, 
                                               and that’s fun. 
               One can venture off to exciting places with wings,
                                                       a belly full of joy-worms. 
Whereas black magic (not 
      to be confused with the black hawk, which is real   
                                                                                          and 
    wired to dart for the neck) can zap life from a flower.    Can it zap the life back in? Probably 
        (just as it can change from warthog to princess)  
                                                              but don’t count on it. In a world of wizards’ duels, wherein 
                                                       pink 
                                                              elephants 
                                                                          run 
from blue mice, 
                      one side must be rammed over the edge by the other 
because the townsfolk have a dire need to bow. 
                              Who can pull this sword from this stone?

===================

For Lack of Sleeping

movable unman comes tacit courting            
groans a mediaeval Uh

pale ember invades the eyes 

between this frill rhythm and the hemisphere 
the thievish week blows the skull open HUFF

which he falls into like a tenfold hole   
mixing iodine to a loony’s wit

as the brain-legs stumble for everyday train     
mouth parts with a tonic-dove Eh        
which is swiftly picked by a sly panhandler
muffled by WOOF

A façade-sphere points on Ramble Avenue 

walking under suncloud or dragged through ranting red fog     
the phantom’s face wilts   
feels the atomic weight of his clothes

the mind a lofty thought-pit honks
at passing philanderers
their nifty tendons        
basement apes with sweetening growls      

the deaf sun shushing all this puttering        

he reach the descending stairs   
flops down  
 a fishy decrescendo

                                                            sits the sorrows
                                                            the ill-fated wait

Author bio:

Recently, Timothy Carroll’s work has appeared in the Brooklyn Review and Penny Ante Feud, as well as throughout the New York City subway system where he curates a public space project entitled, Service Changes. He lives in St. Paul, Minnesota where he teaches high school English.