C. C. HANNETT
C. C. Hannett is the byname of Kris Hall; a poet who writes and lives with his
wife and their animals in the PNW. He is the author of the chapbooks, Notes
for Xenos Vesparum (Shotgun Wedding, an imprint of Alice Blue Books), and
Dillinger on the Beach (Horse Less Press). He is the former curator of the
reading series Da’daedal and Ogopogo. Both series took place in Seattle, WA
(USA), focusing on showcasing interdisciplinary work. His next book, Triune
(Spuyten Duyvil), will be released in the Summer of 2018. He can be found here.
Upon leaving the courthouse,
[post-voir dire dismissal]
the smallest unit of meaning
steers us into the cyclical vortex of
proterozoic stigmas, skeletal truths
and possibilities that contradict
the core of our sensibilities,
our very nature; it reinforces
the narrative; the coalition of saboteurs,
the personal reckoning that will obstruct
our view of the end of the world.
And so here we are again,
cradled and skeetered
by the maternal guise of Ativan
and Sertraline, Cognitive Behavioral
Therapy; talking to unmask the mind,
a web of conjoined cephalopods
irking at the freedom beyond the sack
of tension for a more comfortable
position to embrace the concept
of a versatile, inner value.
An impressive observation:
You might possibly be a good person.
Say it again,
you might possibly be a good person.
An authentic tone lingers
until we realize that the mirror
is not a palindrome.
"Love My Way" by
The Psychedelic Furs
melts me into the casual
haze of resting my eyes
as we ride
the soothing grain
of traction & speed.
The internal registry of location
hadn't budged for quite awhile—
decades in dream speak.
I thought it had something to do
or multiple wheelchairs boarding
and getting off.
But people were running.
The next thing I knew,
the bus was empty.
The driver had told me
a man had been screaming
and threatening to shoot
everyone, including me
& I was sleeping,
tucked away in the
barely a wafer away,
but eons just the same.
What is your life on paper?
Invincibility: two ways:
Six months of
sober, paramount calculations;
raising an empire
of holy fuck the wind is so
Head through the hole—
I've never entered an elevator
There's not a scratch on me.
I scratch anyway,
for two months, out of boredom.
It's me again, me.
Slipping into antiquated
spinning the decorative globe
on the end table
so fast, trying to lose
the peony covered colossus
You can conquer both worlds.
I had been meaning to water the plants
with a glass of water I had been drinking from
when the glass of water slid
across the coffee table all on its own.
I thought it was a trick of the eye
ere I saw the trail of condensation twinkle
in the autumnal sun.
The room was still,
& nothing had fallen
from the shelves.
I checked the level of the table
by rolling a coin on its side,
and it was straight.
I don't have those kinds of powers, I thought.
But it didn't stop me from trying
to move the glass of water again.
Deified by my superior mirage.
But nothing happened.
The glass didn't move.
The water didn't ripple.
Perhaps it could be related to the series of strange
occurrences that have been disturbing the tenants of
my apartment complex lately, myself included.
Someone is pulling the fire alarms at random times, late at night.
We're grabbing our cats out from under the bed,
frantically stuffing them into their carriers.
We're leashing up the dog at 3AM.
3x a nite, 3x a week.
Someone found a broom on fire in a hallway.
A flaming roll of toilet paper in the stairwell.
Cryptic messages weighed down by tiny pebbles on windowsills.
They are pelting billiard balls at pedestrians from the rooftop.
We don't know who it is because the
surveillance doesn't exist.
At first I was convinced
it was a rouge,
but all signs point to the ghost
of Gregory Sherl
& his snowman pajama
He has some poems about pandas
& they're giving me nightmares
about the futures of my friends
& all the doors coming to a close,
& the many more bound to open.
Back to Front.