Four Poems by Heikki Huotari

Guilty Of Existing
In accord with on/off switches wishes, no one takes debriefings seriously. To protect my innocence I use the pronouns that the sergeant chooses. Enhance it with prejudice or tolerance or not, the body is a block of marble to the bones, the face a blade, the brain a lathe and everywhere an empty vase. When culturally sensitive, some dogs will act as cats, as cats are not allowed in public places after reveille and after taps. There’s nothing more to my geometry than your discretion. That discretion is the table I’ll dance naked on. My final answer is I do still have my sore throat/civil war but it’s not sore and it’s not civil any more.
Not Guilty Of Existing
On a ventilator I maintain it’s just the flu. No variable is explanatory or derogatory until scheming makes it so. The more the synchrony the more the plausible deniability. At gaps in mental maps are stand-up comics having laughs at my expense. To optimize I seek to shock. The half-life of absurdity is measured not in years but days. Give me a place to pirouette. It is an honor to be othered. In a movie theater I’m one of three. The contour line may neither fall nor rise. As cognitive my dissonance is, so logistic is my nightmare. Virtue is derivative but sin original. Therefore identify ye flying objects while ye may.
Rootin Shootin Rhizome
What was necessary and sufficient then is necessary and sufficient now. As in the hot house and the walk-in cooler Newton’s laws are but suggestions, I advise new graduates to run from dreams. As it’s a theory, none dare call it gravity, it’s lumpy, as yet incompletely stirred, a thousand Shakespeares with a thousand Dictaphones, one monkey, independent variables all around nor one explanatory, wet wheelbarrows, not one red. My fashion sense says I’m the one to recon with, the enemy’s attention drawn to me. As between briefing and debriefing only briefly real so your arrival changes nothing your departure does. If I had known your motorcade would pass by I’d have baked a pie, therefore, where there are flowers there are flowers over ears.
Bless Your Heart
The epitome of irony and vice versa, I adopt each calculated end of time with equal fervor. Saying we are chosen is equivalent to saying I am not. The butterfly outside of space and time is my co-pilot. Pretend I’m not here. It’s more the chore to frame the asymmetric so it’s more the chore for mortals to imagine tangent planets. Taking pictures, I say to my subject, Pretend I’m not here. The logic of the butterfly bimodal, one day everything is true, the next day everything is false. The anthem has no overtones, the emperor no clothes. You don’t believe what I believe so clearly you believe in nothing.