Brandon Shane




Cats return home 
in bundles, like matchsticks 
and firewood, a lone broomstick 
surrounded by trash, rusty 
wheelbarrow left in mud 
for decades, yet just as good; 
Autumn watches summer 
stumble drunkenly across sand, 
while someone wheezes 
their final breath as the sun 
returns, enraged by clouds, 
ever resentful of shade.

We have been blinded 
by goodness, as things are always bad 
for someone; mice escape the hawk today 
but it will perish tomorrow; a tabby 
cradles a blue jay between her teeth, 
and no longer will anyone hear 
their beautiful music; a miracle 
has occurred and no one 
was around to witness it.

Men have gone mad, and the plumber 
has never been richer; he is replacing 
the local gestapo with armies of plungers, 
and ulcers have spread like a pandemic 
the world has never seen; the sewers 
are steaming, and we are all grateful 
a nameless person will climb down 
that unsung ladder. 

The machete splits apart bramble, 
and old retirees gamble enough treasure 
to drive destitute teenagers crazy, 
and grave diggers cede jealousy to life, 
prophets return like forgotten novels, 
name brands are riddled with botulism; 
dregs are joined by cracked images 
of once brilliant reflections; delirium 
and psychosis become a daily emotion; 
we return to the forest, another frontier 
for the mailman; we are claimed 
by a pantheon of defrosted gods; 
becoming dogs 
barking at the mirror.





Brandon Shane is a poet, born in Yokosuka Japan. He is a writing instructor, and part time horticulturist. You can see his work in the Berlin Literary Review, Acropolis Journal, Grim & Gilded, Belfast Review, Marbled Sigh, RIC Journal, Heimat Review, Ink in Thirds, Dark Winter Lit, among many others. He would later graduate from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in English.