Thinking About Endings Over a Birdbath

I am on Ogden
and River
in a store that sells
birdseed, though
I’ve never seen
a bird planted 
like a ficus you buy
for Mother’s Day
that dies
by Father’s Day.
The world
is funny when you
turn it inside out
like a still-wet
sweater, hills rolling
under themselves,
buildings growing
teeth. I haven’t been
to this part of the under-
belly, and it’s under
construction, 
like most things.
A man in a Ford Focus 
flicks his cigar 
onto the shoulder,
shrugs, and drives away.
Seeing isn’t believing. 
I used to believe 
that charcoal
turned into steak,
that earth can give rise
to flesh. Now, I walk
knowing that stone
cannot strike a man
into transubstantiation.
Bless me, Father, for I am
here to purchase
a birdbath, which
is perfect for one so
unclean. I christen
these waters in the name
of the sinew, ribs, 
and holy lyric 
that sings these things
into form. I am on Ogden.
I am inside. I do not
buy a birdbath. 
Everything curls in 
on itself. I wash my hands 
of the whole ordeal.

 ξ

There is a Dragon on My Lawn

A red-breasted dragon steps onto my lawn.
Clawed toes jut from its mittens,
perforating Kentucky blues. The twang
of my guitar offers a lesson in resonance,
metallurgy, clouds.
The dragon is hesitant to strut across
the greenness. Look how
this much-feared creature is afraid of light
like a locust or funeral. I don’t know
why the dragon is on my lawn. I’m not sure
all dragons have the same intentions,
which is crucial as far as dragons go.
Its bacon-y wings bone themselves
apart, stretch in the sun like a leathered cat.
If I went out to touch them, I might fall
right through. Not all things are meant to be
felt. A frosted rose could crumble under
the weight of a silence, the violence
of inactivity. The lack of magnets I keep
in my drawer next to the silver-
ware. I wonder if I should get a sandwich.
The dragon slowly turns as if he is a dog, 
forgetting that most places can be made 
comfortable. It lies down like a beacon, 
pours fire –– not for the burn, but for after. 
After, I make a sandwich and sit on the porch.
I’m not sure there are dragons at all.

ξ

Jake Bailey is a schiZotypal experientialist with published or forthcoming work in Abstract Magazine, The American Journal of Poetry, Constellations, Diode Poetry Journal, Frontier Poetry, Mid-American Review, Palette Poetry, PANK Magazine, Passages North, Storm Cellar, TAB: The Journal of Poetry & Poetics, Tar River Poetry, and elsewhere. Jake received his MA from Northwest Missouri State University and his MFA from Antioch University, Los Angeles. He lives in Illinois with his wife and their three dogs, and you can find him on Twitter (@SaintJakeowitz) and at saintjakeowitz.xyz.