Doc Luben is a writer and performer in L.A and AZ since way back in the ancient 90‘s. His stage plays have been featured productions at the Arizona Classical Theater, and he was the Tucson Poetry Slam Champion in 2009. He recently completed an extended multi-state poetry tour with the officially brilliant Lindsay Miller. Doc was a panelist and performer at the 2010 Phoenix Comic-Con Nerd Slam, and has taught subversive youth workshops in writing and performance for two decades.  Doc trained at the freakishly progressive California Institute of the Arts, where they absolutely do NOT have Walt Disney’s head frozen in the basement.

Two Poems (September 20, 2010. Issue 21.)

Paul

It is Friday morning, and I am still gigantic. 
I tower over the split level houses. I don’t ever wait
for the crossing signal to change. 
I am not sure how I got this way,
        if it was a sudden attack of gamma radiation,
             or if I should just have cut back on the cupcakes, but
now I have to keep from getting my hair tangled in power lines. 
I have not adapted well; I keep expecting 
that I will wake up, and my hands
and face and brain will all be the normal size again. 
I am sure it will happen, even though I do not remember 
a time before I was like this. I cannot picture a childhood 
where I was small. All the lovers I can recall commented politely 
             on how difficult it is to get their arms around my shoulders. 
Still, it seems any moment it will be over.
   
I have not found a house that is the right size, or a helmet, or cooking utensils. 
There is no city with correct proportions,
             parking spaces for those of ridiculous size, 
I have not found a good radio station or a dog park
where I do not stand out
for having no dog. 
How could I have a dog? I wouldn’t know what size to adopt. 

I sit up on the hill behind the high school. 
There are no showers and not enough rain, my skin is all dirt. 
I have planted some small trees along my forearms. 
I’m thinking of establishing a butterfly habitat 
in my chest hair, just for the meantime, until I am told what will happen next. 
I am having playground equipment installed on my cheeks. 
Probably some time next week I will be normal sized again. 
Until then anyone is welcome to come have a game of catch on me,
or just sit on my forehead and watch a sunset and hold hands 
             with the boy they just started dating.
I would like to at least be a romantic spot for others.
As long as I am waiting, I would like to wait as a garden.
I’ll spread out here until I become a forest. 

Pets

People are scared. They have just heard the news
that pets are coming back to life.
They are not zombies. 
Technically, maybe. 
But they are not decayed, they do not lust for kibbles and brains. 
They are regular pets, 
just as they were when they were alive. 
They are healthy. They are not creepy or sinister, 
except for the cats, who are creepy and sinister 
in the same way they have always been.

They arrived all on one day, laying on the porch, or digging up 
years-old bones in the back yard. 
We woke to them in the morning, sniffing at the place their food dish used to be, 
flying back and forth in the room where they used to have a cage,
running side by side with the new pets 
as though they were all expecting each other. 
It took hours for some people 
to realize; they did not recall their mourning, they followed 
        all the old habits, until they reached for the leash
and remembered why it was not hanging by the door. 
Young children were delighted and clapped their hands. 
Older children were afraid, and sat by the pets without touching them. 
Couples met in the bathroom to ask “what do we do now?”
whispering so the animals would not hear them. 
There are no pets anyone can remember 
that have not come back. 

We want to know what it means. 
We want to know if we are being rewarded, of it is a punishment 
we do not yet understand. Are we supposed to buy new pet toys,
or is it gross to use the old ones in the garage? 
There have been a lot of awkward telephone calls between ex-wives and husbands.

People with families, most of them just put out a new bowl, 
and carry on with their regular plans; they don’t have much time.
It is just one unplanned event among many, 
like a call from the school nurse. 

But single people, or those in brand new couples, or
those whose wives died before them,
many start long road trips back 
to the old house to find the boston terrier who was killed by a coyote there. 
Cheap highway motels 
tonight all host people
hoping to reunite 
with the rabbit they held in their arms all night as his breathing grew more and more labored.
The pets all returned at the place where they lived. 
None of them have turned up in the back room at the vet’s office,
and we hope it means we are forgiven. 
   
Churches are full but the ministers do not know what to say. 
We are afraid to get attached. We do not know how long it will last, 
if there will be a price. 
We catch ourselves staring out the window
thinking about the rush to adopt that gorgeous border collie
before we knew how many shoes and bras and couches would be shredded, 
thinking about how impossibly soft 
Purrincess Of Kittendale was when she first was born,
and about that one bedroom house, 
and grandmother’s spice cabinet,
and that pair of oxblood boots and our first concert at the Greek theater,
and the last time making love as the sun was rising

wondering if it is okay to love them,
if they will be alive now forever,
if losing them again would be too much to endure. 
It is hard to sleep,
with the new tap of claws on hardwood floors in the hall,
the quiet chirping, 
the warm damp breath back at the foot of the bed.