L.R. Harvey Poetry

Pest Control A stark similitude of will, the two of us,  nesting tight beneath the vacant eaves of something greater than our creeping selves, suspended like a flaky uvula of dust  and salivary substance. We do not ask  for much: a corner we can call our own, a sturdy surface off of which to hang in full assurance of stability, a little space to copulate. But when has similarity of motive ever sufficiently deterred a stronger will from sweeping clean the weaker  one that stands in its auspicious way? So it is with a stream of pressurized repellant I send this prayer—let my hypocrisy be not  the needed grounds for like extermination.

Isolated Reclining in the corporate swivel chair             of judgement, the airy entity that calls  itself the CDC twists yet another paper clip              into a stork, sighs, and judges "yes, this calls         for just a little longer still," a delicate request              demanding tiered acceptance from the groping ones below: First, a simple faith that yes, in fact , the CDC exists at all—second, a childlike belief that it is well-informed about the goings-on among the muck down here— finally, a sightless trust that it is motivated by the full well-being of the ones persisting, through nagging fear of foolishness, to trust its proclamations. A little while longer still, I reassure myself, preconditioned for...

Still, Life  - w ritten during social isolation due to Covid-19 I. Latent Hysteria has yet to slither tendrils up the battered door that holds the wreath that holds the cup of robin eggs tucked well within the plastic bristles. An incubated faith? An ignorance? A mottled mix between the two, surely, sinking deep the latent livelihood in fetal dreams, the thirsty, forking tongue of unseen pandemonium a fear unknown, their total trust instilled in calcium carbonate.  Sleep well, my trusting clump of ignoramuses!  You're not alone: the plastic berries, too, refuse to wither at the sight of women jogging in their surgeon’s masks.   II. Manifest  I’ll make no promises. Actually, I will.  I guarantee you're waking on a topsy-turvy place where surety is slippery, or sure, at least, to reel with opaque impermanence. But wait—for this   is my experience (at times),...

Incarnating the Image Overtly, yes, the images present themselves upon the grainy surface of the writing desk,  their arteries engorged with life enough to satisfy, if momentarily, the thirsty page beneath the vacant eye. A lilting labrador  with tumors, a hair stuck on the shower stall, blue trimming freshly painted on  a yellow house, and on the metaphors extend,  beyond expectancy, as potential gifts of grace unrequited. And what, we ask, could this the excess of provision signify, if not our latent call to don the holy garments  of the priesthood, to realize the images as sacrifice, artistic oblation to the Imageless— a calling, yes, to manifest the labradors and shower hairs as insufficient form    of offered gratitude, presented humbly to the Formless, fraught with prayerful supplication: Let these our meager offerings, though paltry, be nonetheless received.

A Psalm of Cleansing You see, the drain’s backed up again,  my feet now mired in a speckled inch of cooling water, tepid as an afterthought,   and here a tangled clump of hair has knotted all around my pinky toe. In this  the Monday morning circumstance,   it’s tough at best to hold the hope of ever coming clean, long grown accustomed to the swirling mist  beneath the mirror light, the six neglected bottles holding one last squirt of discount two-in-one conditioner— I fear I’m getting used to scraping by.  O Nozzlehead of Purging Water, remind me that this towel-smudge of clarity is fine for now, but keep me ever discontent until the vision and the seer both are rendered clean for good.

Better Than Silence           Why do the nations rage? — Psalm 2 Surely our hopeless prattling           is comical from where you sit,                  like watching fire ants go bumbling  over one another on a mound          you scuffed. “He who sits                 in the heavens laughs,” and while I understand the underlying humor, it           is far less entertaining in the middle                 of the pile. This image of the ants will work for now in clarifying this        ...

Catalogue This as One More Hypothesis on the State of Things The facts have long since been determined on the cosmic playing field, but discontent, the sweating players still pose their postulations  on the underlying nature of the game,  refusing to accept a premise predefined. ‘The charged perplexities,’ they claim,  ‘can never be simplistically reduced to footnote parentheticals attempting to  explain authorial intent,’ or put mathematically, a poem with the answer set as X is just at heart an algebraic equation, not a poem. It doesn’t take a mathematician,  however, to see that an inability to not just solve   a problem, but even just to adequately prove the mere existence of a possible solution, could drive a person to this bleak conclusion on the state of knowing, so can we really blame the mystics in their leather chairs? But surely on  the other hand, a boy petitioning for lunch  who throws...

When Once You’ve Seen the Hippo Yawn Take all the things you thought you understood and pack them lunches, turkey sandwiches in plastic baggies with a jello cup.  Charter a rental shuttle for the day,  then pile in to navigate past big green signs announcing San Diego, past one Pilot station then another, past  the shops that advertise their discount smokes,   their toys. The entrance to the San Diego Zoo  will beckon arched ahead, and once arrived remind them to collect their packs (they won’t be coming home with you) then wind your way past monkeys sauntering on vines and sweaty children gawking at the monkeys sauntering on vines until you reach  a muddy tank appearing empty, dust slow-swirling around a rounded rock that’s actually a sleeping hippopotamus.  Be patient, now. The crowd will slowly thin, grown tired of his childish make-believe— but if you trust me, remain for long enough and he...

Reading 'The Odyssey' Speaking numerically, the classroom's multitude has fractionated down a neatly linear divide,  a chilly 50/50 severance: half convinced they’ve pinned the Protean narrative down,  exacted out through thoughtful force the twisting route to home (O Rocky Ithaca!), the others long since given up defining west from east,  content to wax despondent that if a place exists worth finding, the map’s somehow eluded them  completely, selected other wanderers for guiding on.  But I have spoken hastily. It’s a more a 50/49,  for somewhere in the back there sits a quiet one  with look of consternation on his bifocaled brow,  attempting to piece together what he knows and all remaining unfulfilled, ignorant that he has skipped from chapter 6 to 8  yet reading on in childish hope that answers soon will crawl  their way through mist like siren song.