Let’s go where it’s warm and do chores
We’ll count the horizons
And brush the air clean
We’ll find water to wash
And everywhere everywhere feel gravity
​
Let’s go to the bees and do chores
We’ll correct the passive
And leave food
We’ll number letters
And all the time iron
​
Let’s turn around and do chores
We’ll try roasted pollen
And clap tree leaves
We’ll name our worms
And ever to ever polish and sand
Michael Hoag writes poetry and prose in rural east central Illinois. He has published in the Science Creative Quarterly, New Stone Circle, CC&D Magazine, Exact Change Only and in the 2014 anthology One Solitary Word.
Boil ocean water
And cook the sea
Rub with salt
And make our cabbage cake
Make our cabbage cake
And ice with sea foam
Halve and forth it
And count the eighths
With you at a table
And me on the floor
Together we’ll talk to warm colors
And separate orange from green
And together we’ll spray sand clean
And resuscitate leaves
Let’s boil ocean water
And cook the sea
Let’s rub with salt salt salt
And make that cabbage cake
On December 5th 2012, Michael Hoag featured at the poetry open mic at the Gallery Cabaret in Chicago.
Give me those pens
Don’t throw them away
Let me test them
I’ll make little circles
On a scrap piece of paper
I’ll make piddling back and forth scribbles
I’ll find those still good pens
And after I finish
It won’t take long
I’ll give you back still good pens
Now you don’t have to go to the store
And buy pens
Now you don’t have to spend money
On new pens
Keep them safe in your drawer
Use them to write things down
I’ll just keep this scrap paper
I’ll tack it up in my kitchen
So I know what back and forth looks like
I’ll put it next to my bed
So I know what piddling scribbling is
Just look at that scrap paper
Just look at those pen moves
I’ll never write again
I’m only testing pens now
I’m waiting for my piddling future
When back and forth gets recognized
I’m waiting for scribblers
And for those who vie for these little circles
Excerpt from Dot Dot. A novel about a baseball player:
George remembered the almonds and chewed. The mouth moved, but George tasted nothing and felt only resistance as if eating tongue. The trainer rubbed, and suddenly the inside left upper corner bottommost ligament of the left forearm hurt. The assistant returned with a file. The trainer glanced at George, looked at the file and read:
“How’s the elbow, left, inside right upper left corner?”
“Fine.”
The trainer checked the file and continued:
“How’s the groin?”
“Fine.”
“Do you want a shot?”
“No.”
“Do you want sunscreen?”
“No.”
“It’s partly cloudy.”
George shook no.
“How’s the callous, right upper left quadrant…”
The trainer checked the file.
“…left forefront index finger right side?”
“My leg hurts.”
“Where?”
“To the left side upper bottom right front quadrant.”
The trainer and the assistant bent over and felt up and down George’s leg. The trainer checked the file again.
“It shouldn’t hurt there,” said the trainer.
“It hurts,” said George.
“There’s nothing there to hurt.”
“The hurt’s moving up. Now it’s behind my calf.”
“It could be a lateral meniscus tear of the tibiofemoral joint,” said the assistant.
“It’s spreading. It’s undulating,” said George.
“How’s it undulating?”
“Off on. Off on. On, off, off—on—on.”
“It could be an avulsion,” said the assistant.
“It’s spreading. It’s spreading,” said George.
“Where is it now?”
“It’s at my groin. It’s at my groin. Ahhhh.”
The trainer pulled down George’s pants.
“Get it off. Get it off. Ahhhh.”
“There’s nothing there.”
“—It’s gone—It’s gone,” said George staring blankly at the ceiling.
“It’s gone?” said the trainer.
“It’s gone.”
The trainer stared hard.
“Listen, you. This is a twenty-five-team roster soon to be a forty. You’re my eighty-third limb today. I’ve no time for your comedy. Do you want the shot or not?”
“No.”
George suddenly remembered everything and felt the left elbow flare.
“Maybe I need ice.”
“We’ll apply heat.”
Excerpt from Dot Dot. A novel about a baseball player:
​
Cantor, that Cantor. Cantor worked hard to like third but ached for second. Second was prestigious. Other positions were prestigious but lacking somehow. Pitcher was prestigious but always under scrutiny. Centerfield was prestigious but boring. Mascot was prestigious but too bookish. Only second was not boring, not under scrutiny and prestigious. Third was a coal mine. Every throw from third was a long throw. And every hit ball to third was hard and shockingly fast. Cantor fought against third but always played third because Cantor was third. Cantor was stocky like a longwall coal shearer, and Cantor was sprawling like an Illinois strip mine. Cantor was just perfect for third. But that Cantor still pined. Sometimes Cantor sneaked on second.
“Cantor. Get off second,” assistant coaches would yell.
“But, coach. Listen, for a favor.”
“Get back to third.”
“Yes, coach.”
And Cantor walked back to third slowly singing.
​
Coal miner, won't you wake up
And open your eyes and see
What the dirty capitalist system
Is doing to you and me
​
Sarah Ogan Gunning
​
Coach never like Cantor singing union songs at practice and once complained to the owner.
“Cantor sings union songs.”
And the owner answered with the perfect question to end all further Cantor complaints.
“What’s a union song?”