Cerebral Contents:

Update for 05.13.08:

Male Model by Phil Doran

Set to Replay by Willie Smith

Backsliding by Cynthia Ruth Lewis

Tree by G. David Schwartz

05.05.08:

Disintegration by Don Hucks

Five Feet and Building by Joel Van Noord

Grocery Aisle by Richard Lighthouse

Cross the Road by Ashok Niyogi

04.29.08:

Lookalikes by Phil Doran

Dinner by Brandi Wells

The Modern Covenant by Daniel E. Wilcox

Death by Onions by Michael Frissore

04.21.08:

Future's Children by Kimberly Raiser

Identity Theft by George Anderson

The Datists by Adam Engel

A Great Deal of Money by Justin Hyde

04.14.08:

Mr. Papaya and Dale by Eric Suhem

California by Caroline Imreibe

Aftermath of Vehement Argument #1,068 by Cynthia Ruth Lewis

Trip-Hammer Vitality by Lisa Nickerson

04.07.08:

The Florence of Basel, or Why Readers of Nietzsche Need to Read Burckhardt by Jeff Crouch

Slideshow by Miles J. Bell

Friends of the Poet by Sean C. Bowen

Picture Perfect by Leah Baldwin

03.24.08:

The Streak by Jeremy Hendrix

Grab Your Butts by Emme Hor

Far Away by Ashok Niyogi

Staring Down a White-Tailed Doe by Aleathia Drehmer

03.17.08:

The Hairbrush by Vernard Kennedy

Dog Days of Winter by Niall Berkeley

Poem From My Grave by Michael Lee Johnson

Mashed Potatoes and Hamburgers by Matt Finney

03.10.08:

Hard Work by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

Jetty Cake Pigs by J.D. Nelson

I'm Quiet in Bed by Moctezuma Johnson

Tequila Shakes by Richard Lighthouse

One Flu Over The Cuckoo's Nest

by Aleathia Drehmer

I lay here
near breathless
from the pneumonia
that has filled my lungs
with pus and fluid
from the whisper of bird flu.

A bead of sweat
trickles arduously slow
down the center of my brow,
but my body so weak
I cannot even raise a hand
to wipe it clean.

I feel my heart race faster,
and I have long since lost
the clear definition
between being awake
and being asleep
to know if this is all true.

I find myself
in my hospital gown,
in the center of the street,
surrounded by an army of people
in surgical masks,
with dead chickens in arms extended.

They come at me
with great, grave purpose,
all arms stretched in my direction.
I cannot see their mouths,
yet I know the devil
is stuck between their teeth.

I stand there
paralyzed in fear and weakness,
and think it an awful shame
that this is the last thing
I will see before I die.

(Second Place Winner of the 2006 Bird Flu Poetry Contest)

______________________________________
Aleathia Drehmer writes because she has to. Her work has previously been published in Zygote in My Coffee, The Cerebral Catalyst, Lunatic Chameleon, Haggard & Halloo, High Contrast, and Flutter. She will be in Laura Hird's Showcase this spring.

posted 11.13.06.

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