Evil Genius Folds the Laundry
Evil Genius will rid the world of socks.
Like his first love, smothering him in warmth, clinging after he had filled her with sweat and stink.
The way she drew him in on cold winter days, her promise of a soft, warm, dry home broken before lunch, and he, cold and damp, tired, worn, trapped inside.
The way she, threadbare, finally tired of him, hiding the best part of herself behind the laundry chute, leaving only a memory, a reminder of the pain in a pile of leftovers on the dryer.
Evil Genius Scrapes His Windshield
Evil Genius will warm the earth.
Subject to his will the wind that shoves the cold into his skin, clutching his face, nails digging.
"You gonna cry? Little baby gonna cry?"
Its eyes stuck fast to his frozen shell, staring, judging as they etch themselves, a permanent scar of his weakness exposed at the edge of his scarf where the wind kicks its way in, angry, ruthless.
Melt the ice, she, clinging for dear life, trying to protect, suffocating instead, finally turning to tears dripping on his only and disappointingly ineffectual weapon: a cheap scraper chipped and broken from a lifetime of losing battles.
Evil Genius Looks for Parking
Evil Genius will make space.
Crush the bugs that buzz around his head in the park, stealing each moment of peace, transforming them to clusters of anger, daydreams to nightmares, peaceful stares to unending swats at beasts, untouchable, relentless.
Burn the couch too short to stretch his legs, too narrow to roll himself over. He, walled in on three sides, dripping over the fourth, never quite asleep. A sentry afraid of falling.
Evil Genius Snoozes His Alarm
Evil Genius will steal dreams.
Wake her unsated. Lost, naked, falling, a melody silenced before the last bar, resolution just out of reach.
Leave her longing, a piece of her hidden, lost. Let regret creep in, fill the void left by the dream that broke too soon.
Hoard the endings for himself.
Evil Genius Takes out the Garbage
Evil Genius will destroy odor. The stink that invites his banished memories back. Unwanted, unwelcome, invading.
Leftovers growing in the cabinet. Potatoes soft and bruised oozing rancid pus that had gestated inside. Produce she knew how to bless, keep fresh, make tasteful, which now he can only curse.
Vomit, his own, encrusted to the carpet. She, on her knees, scrubbing, cleansing. He, unaware of any smell at all until she touched it, now forever linked with her.
Mold, decay. His smells co-opted, summoning the pain he cannot leave behind.
Evil Genius Studies for a Mid-Term
Evil Genius will destroy poetry.
Teardrops that fall like gentle rain.
Bodies that intertwine, becoming one.
Layers of dust on mantles that carry the weight of days long forgot.
Breath,
flowing water,
talismans,
ancient bridges,
wizened trees,
scents.
Evil Genius will have clarity, mundanity, accurate description.
She smelled bad.
She talked too loud.
She was mean, boring, careless.
She lied.
He will add words until poems read like technical manuals, describing in minute detail every thought of mankind, until there are so many words no meaning can be found, obscured by a cloud of text so dense no feelings can penetrate it.
Ripping the N from his varsity sweater, he will turn poetry to pnoetry.
Leave the world to know, but never to understand.