Not that an alligator in a Chicago lagoon doesn’t matter;
not that a woman put her kids in a swimming pool on top
of her van is borderline child abuse; not that six children
have been shot in St. Louis in the last week shouldn’t make
the national news; but that we are all headed towards our
graves should be snapping its fingers for our attention.
Not that most politicians don’t have our best interests at
heart; not that smoked mackerel should not be the national
breakfast of Finland; not that cockroaches harbor over 1245
diseases; but that none of it matters if any of it does.
I am eating my ear wax for nutritive powers, applying bee
venom to the rash between my legs, creating organic herbicide
in my kitchen sink: four parts water, one part plain yogurt,
two eggs, diluted to a concentration that will not clog
a heavy-duty sprayer from the local co-op, where early
risers get free sausage biscuits on the third Saturday of the
These are incredulous times in which we live, and most
of the stories that materialize out of the electronic dust
in my television are not fiction-based cartoons, not ideas
that some burned-out writer at a major network creates
just for the thrills. They are as real as the alligator that lives
in a lagoon in a Chicago neighborhood, so close to the Wrigley
Building that she could walk there should she choose
to take that chance.
By John Dorroh
Whether John Dorroh taught any secondary science is still being discussed. However, he managed to show up every morning at 6:45 for a couple of decades with at least two lesson plans and a thermos of robust Colombian. His poetry has appeared in about 75 journals, including Dime Show Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Ospressan, Feral, and Selcouth Station. He also writes short fiction and the occasional rant.