A Questionnaire for Determining Those Deserving of Care

Please answer yes or no to the following questions:

Do you smoke?

Do you have poor eyesight?

Do you suffer quietly from a vague, chronic, low-grade sadness?

Does your fleshly mass exceed the bounds of visual good taste?

Do you stubbornly refuse to bring children into this world?

Do you have too many children?

Are you lazy?

Are you freckled?

Are you foreclosed-on?

Was your cancer caused by a poor mental outlook?

Do you consume processed foods?

Do you wake up at night terrified, staring into a nameless void?

Do you avoid flossing?

Have you ever eaten Cheetos in lieu of lunch?

Are you a pessimist?

Do you nap in the daytime?

Have you ever had a lapse of faith, no matter how momentary?

Are you a drinker? An addict?

Godless? Schizophrenic?

Do you crave oily foods?

Did you at any point accept less-than-ideal work?

Have you allowed your self-esteem to suffer?

Have you found yourself unable to forgive?

Have you ever wondered what you're really doing here?

Do you find yourself anxious without reason?

Do you sometimes find it difficult to pee?

Have you ever made an uninformed choice?

Are you a compulsive:

E-mail checker?

Nail-biter?

Lip-chewer?

Self-cutter?

Liar?

Have you ever been:

Fatigued?

Socially awkward?

In debt?

Down in the dumps?

Humiliatingly in love with someone who couldn't or wouldn't love you back?

Haunted by self-doubt?

Afflicted with flatulence?

Caught speeding?

Jealous of those more fortunate?

Unable to find the correct paperwork?

Lonely beyond imagining?

Overdressed?

Mired in the throes of self-pity?

Avoidant?

Addicted to your own shame?

If you have answered “yes” to two or more of the above questions,

we regret to inform that you have been deemed

unworthy, due to the misfortune

that you have quite obviously brought upon yourself

with your reckless disregard

for all that is clean, holy, and God-fearing and virtuous.

We wish you the best

in your continued search for quality care. 

--Kristen McHenry

Hermit Crab's Lament

I have a lot going on at the moment, and also it’s death hot, so in lieu of a proper post this week, here is an old poem from my first chapbook, “The Goatfish Alphabet”. Enjoy, and stay safe in the heat!

Hermit Crab’s Lament

You who call us

house proud and vapid

have misunderstood.

Do you think we merely

fumble our way by instinct

into any hollow object?

You can't comprehend

the arithmetic of our choices; the ecstasy

of toil in a hard, rank womb.

I will admit to a touch of pride.

I’ve always been keen on headroom,

though we can ill afford

to be choosy in these times.

I remember the days of abalone ceilings, the yolk

of my belly nestled in porcelain ribs, nights

when we met the Pylochelidae in secret,

to whirl across the sodden dune,

showing off our spiral cloches.

We danced to forget that our shelters

would again abandon us.

It’s of no consequence

these days, I suppose. They’re all a poor fit now.

The wind oozes through, no matter the rental.

The shore is a wasteland of broken cups.

It’s about the seeking, they tell me.

Well cold comfort. My whole

damn species are fools, always skittering

toward some fresh perfection, always

outgrowing what loves us.

Only God has the courage

to go without a crust, to linger

as tender as a polyp in these barrens.

When he taps our walls for the final eviction,

We will be unable to hang on, unable

to refuse. He will stagger with us

towards our first, most perfect home.  

--Kristen McHenry

Sestina for the Hanged Man, ‘Mo Better Buddy

I’ve had a few requests for some Buddy updates, so I’m going to try to get a mid-week Buddy “newsletter” out at some point over the next few days. (Sneak Preview: dead rats and butcher paper.) Until then, here is a sestina I wrote about the Hanged Man, one of the major arcana cards in the Tarot. It’s a little heavy for a hot, sunny Memorial Day weekend, but what the heck.

Sestina for the Hanged Man

This is a process of voluntary surrender.

In return for his sacrifice, The Hanged Man gains

Not illumination, but a lust for the divine.

The tree of sacrifice is living wood, its bounds

Of vines a comfort creature, offering

The mute counsel of its long decay.

This is a process of accepting the decay.

In return for his sacrifice, he will surrender

All that was given him in offering,

The sun-dulled dream of his fevered gains.

He has offered himself to these loving bounds.

Inverted, he sings for the divine.

This is a process of mourning the divine.

His bones know the journey of their own decay

He has witnessed the failure of our pious bounds

And the humid medicine of surrender.

In his dumb rebellion, The Hanged Man gains

The imitation of god, but never an offering

This is a process of refusing Earth’s offering.

The Hanged Man waits for the divine.

He has not accounted for his carnal gains.

He’s at ease with the relics of decay,

And the cost of every drab surrender.

His renouncement knows no bounds.

This is a process of mastering the bounds.

The Hanged Man knows the value of an offering

He is ecstatic in his surrender.

He is entranced by the divine.

Forgive me, Hanged Man: I’ve trafficked in decay;

With no respect for my blessed gains.

This is a process of extinguishing the gains.

His grief cinches tighter than his bounds.

The Tree of Sacrifice weakens with decay

And the Hanged Man triples his offering

To the silent, warm divine.

He has set the terms of his surrender.

And what’s to become of his sweet decay? I have no prophecy in offering,

Nothing to show for my earthly gains. No means of unfastening my bounds.

I too, am dazed by the mute Divine. I too, am listless in surrender.

--Kristen McHenry

Slipping

Slipping

I squeeze myself into the tiniest opinions, like those

octopi who slip their tanks by wringing

their sleek skins like a washcloth, then coasting down drainpipes.

Sayonara, suckers:  Fair and square, they’re gone.

I’m not out for a soft landing, just one

that will whisk me down-current 

with a mute and ruthless efficiency.

It’s what I’m good at, being small.

A slip of a thing, they used to say and now

I really am. Catch me if you can. I’ll slither

through any crevice lickety-split. It’s my superpower,

to go at any time. After all these years the contortions

don’t even hurt anymore. I’m a human

oil slick, lubricious and covert.  Ask me anything.  

--Kristen McHenry