Poems by Richard Weaver

What Night brings

often leaves us amazed and sometimes bewildered. We’re doing our nightly rounds, our business as it were, what we do to be alive in the short light and we have to be. Some years we feast. More spoils than we can handle. Other times are thin. We starve. There are fewer bins to rumble and ramble. And more competition. Territorial invasions. We will eat our brothers if it comes to that. Even our young. You do what must be done. Or you too will be done. That said, there is something strange here. Strange even for the 2 legged creatures. Multiple reports have confirmed that the Strange Ones, humans as they call themselves, are appearing late at night where we feast, and throwing objects, smelly and tasty, according to early reports, there are scattered incidents in which 2 or more humans are intruding into our harvesting places, and hurling tasty temptations down concrete rivers. It’s mystifying to say the least. Although, I do have to report that there have been casualties. Sorry to say we have no eye witness accounts of what may have happened. It is odd behavior for any 2 legs. Not that we understand most of what they do. If they have added us to their already abundant menu, we may have to call a Meeting. We have a long memory as the rat race. And don’t have to remind you that “The rat nibbled the egg and let the light in. And the world began.” We are our future and destiny.

 

Hobbie-J, the smartest rat on earth,

has no memory of his achievement. No awareness of his special nature. Or that he was named after a transgenic Chinese cartoon character. He’d had genetic material injected while an embryo, specifically, the NR2B gene, the gatekeeper that controls the speed at which cells communicate. And how long something is remembered. He’s able to remember 3X his peers and amazes in the maze. He remains unaware of the whys of Him. The whats and what ifs in terms of humans. Disorders? Dementia? Alzheimer’s? He’s never met his competition, the average Long Evans female rat, considered by those who have nothing better to do, the smartest rat strain. Hardly an endearing label. A strain of rats. That he best remembers the path to chocolate heaven after one minute is a feather in his non-existent cap. After 3 minutes, he alone succeeded. After 5 minutes all bets were off for all rats. Ditto the more complex challenge of the water maze. He suspects that a treatment for human style brain disorders (rats have their own little understood ones, thank you very much), will not be as easy as a walk in a maze, or water bath. Not that they have thought to consult with him. He has given much thought to the idea of animal uplift, and would happily download a steaming sample for any and all.

 

Half-a-Rat

is searching for its other half: the top head whiskers ears teeth front legs and upper chest are gone. Missing in action. Discorporate. Its proud 10” tale remains calmly curved and attached as it should be though no longer twitching. What Half-a-Rat remembers seems impossibly improbable: crawling along in the wet dark. Nose and whiskers at full alert. And then no nose no whiskers. Its head and half of its torso removed. Sheared off. Sliced away. Not ripped or torn apart. A single organ still attached but laying on the ground as if searching for the missing chest cavity. Alas, not the heart. No blood. How could there be no blood after such trauma? Had it been drained by some beast? What could kill so efficiently and leave behind such tasty bits? A rat’s ass with tail is a delicacy in many countries when properly prepared. And was once a unit of barter during plague years when rats were plentiful, so plentiful that they became valueless. Half-a-Rat doesn’t waste time reviewing such thoughts since time is no longer relevant. It’s cold and getting colder. It feels the sun creeping its way. They may be acquaintances but are not friends. Darkness being heretofore more reliable and safe. Half-a-Rat wishes for eyes to close or a nose to snort, and teeth to grind. Ears to hear. He hopes to be found by a two-legged and not a slobbering, maddened dog. It knows and always has that its life was always measured as shorter than its tail, or the length of its teeth. It holds on for the new light. Hopes he’ll find comfort at home in the earth’s great burrow.

 

During the Year of the Rat 鼠年

the Hour of the Rat must be midnight, the middle of the double hour, just as the 1st Zodiac sign of the 12 has always been 子(Zi). Every 12 years rats are the first animals to hear the Jade Emperor’s call, not that Rats give a rat’s ass what people believe about them. Even the lowest rat is smart enough to laugh at the ungnawed platitudes humans lay claim to. Timidity. Greed. Stubbornness. Deviousity. They may be red-green colorblind, but see right through pomposity, grandiose delusions, and the inconvenient blues. It’s favorite color is the full dark of midnight. Rats have no time for pretense or hoarding. There is a life to be lead, however short and adventurous it might be. A rat born at this time is wise enough to know it will never see the next cycle. Given a choice it will always head North by whatever means, by ship or container, pipe or wall. Though each year begins with an new elemental sequence, or Heavenly branch, wood, fire, earth, water, or water, a good rat knows instinctively what is what and prefers its philosophy to be flavorful and its theosophy chewable. For any rat there is no time like now what life allows, and hunger demands.

 

Solemn Rat sits alone

in a theater now empty of echoes. He gnaws an armrest as he contemplates whether he dreamed the final scene, entirely cheese-filled and scented with ripening female heat. He ignores the buttery smell of always stale popcorn loitering on the carpeted floor. Only the un-popped kernels are of interest; over-salted and reeking of burnt margarine. Add MSG for a triple artery clogging trifecta. Not tonight, he thinks. His teeth need no exercise. He is chewing and rechewing what he now knows to be what was said by the actors who hadn’t died by their own hand or been summarily executed by the willful protagonist, who’d already rewritten Act One, Scene One to include the Director’s death and the Producer’s long drawn and quartering. The audience had applauded greedily each time. Solemn Rat alone feels the dark encroaching, the lights flickering, resetting to blackout mode. Not that he gives a dog’s ass about said dark. His senses thrive when deprived. Never did he wonder who Godot was, whether he existed at all, or why anyone, living or thankfully dying, should give an unappetizing Damn. Still, the voices he hears are compelling. The Words once uttered, once heard, pile nicely one atop another. The silences between are exact and worthy. This Critic is pleased and commends heartily the surviving cast, and wishes them well at the mass funerals.