three poems

Matthew Klane

An Epiphany

Freud P.O.V.

The light bulb going on…

and off… and on…

Every little girl knows

how to make

a boxset of Friends

into a Molotov Cocktail.

Every little boy knows

how to shake hands

for the camera

like its Fight Club.

I feel naked in the snow

forced to sing

the national anthem,

stiff as a statue

smashed to pieces

with sledgehammers.

I can see now

my fingers and toes

for sale on the internet.

First angry,

then sad, I realized

how I had to take steps,

to do something.

Kremlin Demonology

The goblin “Stronghold”

embossed with the silhouette

of a rhinoceros.

Anonymous “orcs”

fallen under my babushki

fly-swatter.

A watchdog site

“mongrelcyborg dot org”:

misinformation on misinformation.

Conspiracy theories dust-cloud

the terraces of “New York”

pizzeria.

The air-

liner disappeared

like a pushpin into a corkboard.

“What do you know?”

a bobbing torch

shines in your eyes.

The Worst-Case Scenario

Let’s say, hypothetically,

you and I were just

guys in ties,

a random tandem,

running courses on business ethics

in this open-planned mini-Googleplex.

Let’s say, hypothetically,

every pawn on the ping pong table

is a baby who’s been deported

to outer space

that then comes back as a reanimated corpse

i.e. angel from heaven.

Let’s say, hypothetically,

we promised

to lay new pipes and cables

but standing in our way

was a pack of expats and their rescue pets

demanding the revolution of lawn care.

Let’s say, hypothetically,

you and I were more than just

two strangers

with matching “Hope and Change” tattoos

sharing a quick and quiet

monetary transaction.