How do we know what dinosaurs sound like?
No one has heard a dinosaur’s cry, and yet,
Spielberg has everyone convinced.
Can science determine lungs and larynx from a skeletal fossil,
project vocal range from supposed organs?
Life finds a way.
Maybe I’m too hard on Spielberg,
too hard on a generation’s imagination.
After all, I pretend to play the drums–
air snare solo,
fills high on the kit,
thighs tense and toes tapping–
as I take my morning shit.
After Jane’s Addiction and William Shakespeare
Alas, poor Jane! I knew her well, Sergio; a woman
of infinite breast, of most excellent wig: I have
wanted her on her back a thousand times; and now, how
abhorrent her lack of life is!
My television is hidden from it.
Here hung those funds she saved for trips to Spain.
Where be her tears now? Her
pocket dinners? Her naked baldness
that set the table wanting her to go?
Her blows, meant to break free from loveless being?
Not one now to mock your old habit? Crestfallen?
Now get you to St. Andrews, tell her
they want her, let her rebuff a standing debt,
for now to this Right Here she cannot come;
make him laugh at ‘I don’t owe him nothing’. Prithee, Horatio—
Do they all look this way, once they’ve passed on?
Ray McKenzie’s poetry has appeared in Mannequin Haus and New Pop Lit, and his prose has appeared in Fluland. He Tweets @TheImmortalDrab and is locked in the throes of a David vs. Goliath struggle with the Massachusetts Tests for Educator Licensure.