from Attack of the Earth Mothers


Everything from here on out is about a square.

Please, forget all the Tom’s you know. Plees for less make up. Hundreds of pleats in 

these pants. Airliner. Old timer.

“Pantomime” is a word I just learned which to me expresses judgement.

Like the hand of a scale. Like a bridge with one lane.

I’m not sure where I come from.

In one direction sugar cane the other corn and other stuff and more corn.

You need to get back to that place and convince your friends to bite at each other until 

it’s a room full of featherstuffs and I’m bashing your head in and you’re bashing mine 

and we are smiling with broken faces and kissing with open eyes. And we think this is 

love, obviously.

You should make yourself one dress and wear it endlessly.

Until the earth mothers take over.

Until our life logs are read back to us.

Until our youngest child realizes that that breath was it. A sigh and that’s it.

And the sea lays calm and most is silent except for a humming out there. I call it 

humming and you say inching, whatever. That’s when we’ll know.



We hold our breath and time it, play the piano nice and chipper when it rains

and then search under the lake for whoknowswhat. I pour the rest of the milk into 

some glasses, now inside each glass is a milk shaped glass. What’s more is that I’ve 

been picturing milk shaped everything. Milk shaped cows cooling off in the river. 

Milk shaped breasts above milk shaped infants grabbing with milk shaped hands.


Switch your hug light ‘On’ and I will dance a jig. Wear that tulip skirt for goodluck 

and I won’t miss you. I’m endlessly boothed in a Diner ordering glasses of milk 

then ordering for another Diner. I order a brass section to call “home” the milk 

shaped cattle back, but when they return they’re cattle—as is.

Now, watching Attack of the Earth Mothers for the fifth time this week I realize 

I was better off otherwise.

      “The best way to use your brain is to (1) build a fort (2) grow a moustache 

(3) pose near a monolith, and (4) groove it, baby, groove it,” says Earth Mother 

Margaret to the human POWs.

In my windmill, I will appear to be crying and pine-ing for yesteryear until it 

happens for real.


Phillip Muller's poems appear in Jellyfish Magazine, H_NGM_N, and are forthcoming in Forklift, Ohio. He lives in South Florida.