HoboEye Poetry:
Christopher Murray, Portland, Oregon, USA

CRIMES OF THE FUTURE

Parking an opinion in cyberspace without a permit.

Listening to an unorthodox symphony.

Raising your voice to the representative of a trans-national corporation.

Planting seeds in unapproved soil.

Laughing at a Masterpiece in public.

Ingesting “freelance berries” picked at a mountain pass.

Farting off-schedule.

Looking someone too intently in the eye.

Sketching a beardless Jesus.

Copulating under a cloudburst in a windstorm.

Mimicking the voice of a newscaster.

Quitting a job everyone agrees you should keep.

Conversing meanderingly for several hours on a weekday.

Commiserating with the Enemy’s losses.

Creating nonsensical similes in an attempt to lighten your burden.

Goose-stepping through a graveyard in autumn.

Imbibing spirits that eclipse the dominion of a concrete sun.

Stroking the hair of a good-looking child.

Insinuating the limitations of Science.

Failing to attend your college reunion even when plagued by mental illness.

Purchasing a novel on-line when you really shouldn’t.

Kissing a foreigner at a time of war.

Taking up a musical instrument after the age of thirty.

Talking to a dog as if it were a human.

Drinking water directly from a lake or stream.

Hoarding tracts of undeveloped land.

Spreading rumors about a theme park.

Forgetting to take your medication.

Remembering the failures of your Nation.

Burning the biography of a decorated historian.

Making unverifiable predictions.




THE  INVISIBLE  FOREST

It looked like a city. In fact, I would have sworn
that it was a thriving metropolis had it not been
for the pine-scented winds that rushed through
the sluiceways between buildings. I would not

have thought twice about it had I not heard
the unmistakable sound of a fawn lapping
at a puddle of rainwater outside my building.
I paused for a moment, but I was late for work,

so I hurried on, my moist hand gripping the handle
of my briefcase. I stopped at a kiosk to grab a paper,
but the news-stand was gone. In its place stood
a sculpture that resembled nothing if not

a large mound of pine needles. Yet, this illusion
did not last. A second later I saw that in fact
a commuter much like myself was depicted there
in copper. He gripped a briefcase like mine—

he even wore a similar wristwatch. However,
in the hand not gripping the case he held
a compass, which the polished orbs of
his eyes scrutinized. Likewise, the slightly

oxidized likeness had, slung by a strap
across his shoulder, what appeared to be
a canteen. Who was commemorated by
this artwork, and what had he to do with

our city? I resumed my commute, but all the while
I felt I was being watched by the metallic woodsman.
I ducked into The Uptown for my usual black coffee.
Things were back on track. Constance winked

at me as she handed me my change. I found
a used paper and located last night’s scores. Only
when I emerged into the street did I notice
the mud caked to my shoes. I stomped it off

as I headed for the subway. A homeless man
uttered something incomprehensible to me.
Another man tried to sell me a receiver yanked
from a battered payphone. I sipped from my

coffee cup, but was startled by the frigid water
that filled my mouth—like runoff from a glacier.
I took a few sips before tossing the cup. Only then
did I realize it was fastened to my hand

by a clear, fragrant sap. I shook the cup off
and ran to make my train. Billboards filled the space
above me with pictures of athletic bodies splashing
themselves with a blue beverage. A video monitor

conveyed the image of a burning car weaving
through an angry crowd. I descended towards the platform,
pushed through the turnstile, and poured
—with the others—into the over-crowded train car.

As the doors slid shut, I heard the coyote cry.

BEYOND THE BLACK RIVER (Click to download PDF)



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