Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Howie Good Within The Walls Of Jesus Signals To Us To Read The Brad Pitt Cookbook

Assemblage of Damaged Goods

There was sea.
There were rocks.
I used to fish.

All there are today
are 185 empty chairs.

Have you seen Betty?
She has disappeared.
She has big boobs.
They’re beautiful shapes.

I’m so lucky
I talk a lot.

Sex is also
a great form
of exercise.

And it doesn’t
require a lot
of knowledge.

Now I’m the one
behind the window.
The walls are covered
with pictures of Jesus.
This is being offered
as evidence. This is
supposed to be proof.

God, I was stupid.
But here's what I think about it now:
the earth protects, man destroys.

When Fake News Becomes Real

It’s important to test during the day whether or not you're dreaming. You probably won't look like the real you. Chances are you will be in somewhat of a panic. Check that the doors and windows of your house are locked. Start naming the things in the room. Is there a window where a painting is supposed to be? Remind yourself that you are not going crazy. Try to notice the cold, wet sensation. If you can't after fifteen minutes, just sit or stand there. Signal to somebody to help you as best you can.

A Loss of Faith Brings Vertigo

What kind of conclusions can you draw when you’re watching the sun go down? Or you’re watching the sea or the forest? They’re certainly things that keep me up late. I want to go totally nuts, shout “Fuck yeah!” But, of course, what happens? I begin to feel dizzy. There’s now a cookbook of everything Brad Pitt has eaten in a movie. The guy who runs the souvenir shop in the basement next to the bathrooms seems unimpressed. He pictures himself lying in the shade of beautiful trees. It’s a place I’d go as well if I just knew how to get there.

Howie Good's recent books include A Ghost Sings, a Door Opens from Another New Calligraphy and Robots vs. Kung Fu from AngelHouse Press. He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely. 

Mike Zone With Solar Hair Ignites Shaman's Flight Singeing Cherry Blossoms In A Vodka Haze

Teenage Space Sex-Dream

The ship is alive!
we switch organs
sleek chrome vulva shape
stretching toward- the galaxy
disturbing black holes, disentangling quasars
celestial energy spiraling deep
into heavenly speared egg-shell minds- cracking
the perceptions of exploring- tongues along arched bodies
cold laughter- searing adrenaline
“they won’t make our movie
with our candy colored rooms.”
it’s the herald ordeal all over again
the letdown of a cosmic saga
solar hair ignites the bedroom
perspiration secrets the deadly milky way
stardust rain upon Kansas plains
the Sentrynauts strike!
They hide in our schools! Bag our Groceries! Wait our tables!
Jerk our sodas! Wash our cars! Nympho at the funeral parlor!
Watchers of Worlds- Explorers of Emotions
Mushroom delights- Alien orgasms
Among the trees
behind pastel colored
bug zapping subdivisions
incendiary planetary mania 


There’s a whole bunch of transmissions
from out the noise- the funk
it can’t happen here
the plot against Amerika
when the plot should be-
EXIT- the borderlands
Establish the free-zone
kiss the tips of psychic cosmo percussion tendrils
devour sunflower cacti
hooting and hollering at commerce carnage
inducted viruses
hammers are for war
hammers are for building
I’m the madman
speaking to the grass and the trees
let the others suckle
at the foundations of glass
and concrete towers
mindless definitions
some will speak to the elements inside
invoke the natural chain of being
climbing down Mount Meru
flowing down the jeweled river- Nirvana
maybe, that’s what all the suffering
is- was
chaos never flows without order
perception, just
a sliver of fractal reality
rays of sunlight
bless the skin
ignite fire of mind
souls unite
in grand evolutionary manner
in the triumph of doom laden might
shamans’ flight
a vulture overhead- inspecting
were not dead…yet

Green Tea Bedroom

Lost in the moment
 the sight of C’s saucer shaped eyes
void dark
anything but desolation
millions of galaxies
splendid illumination
entwined nudes like a cosmic serpent
staring at cherry blossoms
on a blue canvas background

Rigid Clarification

Gnarled tree
attempt to hug the Aztec sun
encased figures
glass and steel- sealed
pay no mind- sip coffee
stuck in screens- trivial talk
a sign informs me
“cascara is the fruit of the coffee cherry”
a blonde fidgets in her chair
short skirt- bare thighs
eyes wandering toward the painted sun
on this pitch black night
informs me the desire
 of that cherry pie
vodka cranberry on the side
I get up and leave

in a safe but uncomfortable haze

Mike Zone is the author of Fellow Passengers: Pubic Transit Poetry, Meditations & Musings andBetter than the Movies: 4 Screenplays. His poetry and stories have been featured in: Because Eileen, Horror Sleaze Trash, In Between Hangovers, Synchronized Chaos, Triadae Magazine and The Voices Project. He scrapes by in Grand Rapids, MI

John Dorsey Explores Ghost-Shaped Things Even Though Stars Are Not Miracles And There Are Never Enough Bricks To Pave The Way To Heaven

Missouri is a Ghost Shaped Thing

conventional wisdom says
that missouri is a ghost shaped thing

that your heart has no straight lines

that chain-smokers dot the landscape
with the blood of kings
& 9th grade charcoal barons
who collect dust in our memories

that the meek
shall inherit the earth
& sell our dreams
for their mineral rights

that stars
will fall short
of becoming miracles

it says everything
very softly.

On Eva’s Birthday
(for annie menebroker)

we drank red wine

ate flourless chocolate cake
for cardio

sunlight beamed
like a commodity

our hearts grew strong
with love.

15,000 Tulips

spring up from the earth
give song to bluebirds
& palsied spaniards
swilling mixed drinks

while 13,000 bricks
can’t even pave
a single driveway.

John Dorsey lived for many years in Toledo, Ohio. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Teaching the Dead to Sing: The Outlaw's Prayer (Rose of Sharon Press, 2006), Sodomy is a City in New Jersey (American Mettle Books, 2010), Appalachian Frankenstein (GTK Press, 2015) and Being the Fire (Tangerine Press, 2016). He is the current Poet Laureate of Belle, MO. He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.