Jeffrey Zable and His Request For Population Control, Tupperware and Bicycle Allowances, and His Appeal to the Presidency

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Jason Baldinger Enjoys A Poor Man's Apple Cobbler, A Nest Of Copperheads, And A Trucker's Tan With a Green-Haired Waitress

Lee’s Famous Fried Chicken

Josh works the counter
at Lee’s Famous Fried Chicken
he’s got long, stringy hair
no front teeth, he compliments
my Bowie shirt, says it’s his favorite lp

Dorsey and I take a booth
Josh is wiping down tables
he’s got a bow and arrow
tattoo on his left calf
a primitive line drawing
perhaps a prison tattoo

he asks how the food is
says he’s worked there nine years
he loves his job
his favorite is the two thigh meal
with red beans and rice
and macaroni and cheese
he says sometimes he gets
the biscuits and the apples
if you mix them together
he says, you get a poor man’s apple cobbler



Ballad of Thirty Hours

I jumped in a car
two pm
left Belle Missouri
for Saint Louis
for a reading
then drove to Effingham
Illinois to sleep in a Baymont
pinned to the interstate
the whine of semi’s
rocked me to sleep
I didn’t mind
the desk clerk
blonde and sweet
seemed as kind
as any angel

I woke up in Effingham
ate key lime pie in Greenfield
Indiana, said hello and goodbye
to Ohio, Pittsburgh popped
through the tunnels
at 7pm and I hit a mayday
celebration, read poems
to anarchists, socialists
and other ne’er do wells
the room was electric
the blue grass old tyme band
was great and capitalism
is still bad

then time seemed a nest
of copperheads
I fell into the night
and hoped like hell
home might find me



Truckers Tan and the Midwest Night

I got truckers tan
one half beet red
the sun only shines
on one side of the world

walleyed, almost 500
miles, blue highways
not wanting to get dropped
nowhere

but nowhere all the same
some died about
the time of sundown
town, where there’s
nothing quality
about the inn

exhausted
hundred a night for a bed
in a sea of strip malls
sleeping, second
Mexican restaurant
teenage waitresses
with green hair

there’s a hole in the evening
              a hole in the night
              a hole in the sky
         pretty sure
      you can fit
the Midwest inside





Jason Baldinger is a poet hailing from Pittsburgh and recently finished a stint as writer in residence at the Osage Arts Community. He’s the author of several books, the most recent are This Useless Beauty (Alien Buddha Press), The Ugly Side of the Lake (Night Ballet Press) written with John Dorsey and the chaplet Fumbles Revelations (Grackle and Crow) which are available now. The collection Fragments of a Rainy Season (Six Gallery Press) and the split book with James Benger Little Fires Hiding (Spartan Press) are forthcoming. Recent publications include the Low Ghost Anthology Unconditional Surrender, The Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry, Uppagus, Lilliput Review, Rusty Truck, Dirtbag Review, In Between Hangovers, Your One Phone Call, Winedrunk Sidewalk, Anti-Heroin Chic, Nerve Cowboy Concrete Meat Press, Zombie Logic Press, Ramingo’s Porch, Rye Whiskey Review, Red Fez, Blue Hour Review and Heartland! Poetry of Love, Solidarity and Resistance. You can hear Jason read poems on recent and forthcoming releases by Theremonster and Sub Pop Recording artist The Gotobeds as well as at jasonbaldinger.bandcamp.com

Laura Johnson Drunk on Karaoke, Catching Pillow Quills From Heaven, and Vultures Skulking in the Rising Sun

Milestone

Stephanie’s driving and the music’s blasting;

We’re setting fi-i-re to the rain, singing karaoke

like drunks. My mother always kept it low—

To hear the sirens, she said.

I’m lying back; one foot resting on

the open window, wind whipping through my toes.

My husband would explain what would happen

to my leg, should we crash.

He didn’t want us to go alone. “Let’s

do it anyway,” Steph said. She slows.

“Look, Mom, the Florida line.” I lift and tap

My iPhone, capture the sign.

Mystery

The moon half fills my rear-view mirror, 

pale blue fading into the blue of morning. 

Soon it will be gone, and where and when it

will reappear is almost the mystery

I recall from long ago. A child, I

sat on the lawn and pointed to the empty

sky, "The moon was right there yesterday,”

“Where is it today?"  I've forgotten

the answer I didn’t comprehend.

A couple of computer clicks, and

I could know whether it will soon

loom large and orange on the horizon;

shine through backyard branches, full and bright;

turn up sliced-in-half, an after-party cake;

teeter ghost-like on my neighbor’s chimney;

freeze mid-fall, a pillow quill from heaven;

or hide out for a while—a weary celebrity.

I could study its hows and whens and whys...

In my mirror, almost faded away--

It’s an outline of loss and wonder.

I won’t be visiting NASA dot G-O-V today.

Driving to Work       

                                            

Up ahead, the sun rises, cracking the bottom

of a tall white wall. The splinters capture color

and spill it over wheel-holding sitters

in glossy machines. I drive through pink air,

thinking of manila folders and the forms inside

to be filled, copied, scanned, uploaded, and filed

so the state auditors can nod the accommodations

for my English learners--enough, but not too much--

and the numbers and names to back each decision.                 

Far above the sunrise, an airplane inches

over the white like a tiny black bug

crawling across an immense sprawl of sheetrock.

And across the mist, vultures hunch, boss-like,

anticipating what they will pick at today. 

Bio

Laura Johnson is an English/ESOL teacher at Fayette County High School in Fayetteville, GA. She earned her MFA in Creative Writing in 2017, and her

work has been published in Time of Singing, Blue Heron Review, Snakeskin, The New Southern Fugitives, and others. Her first collection of poetry, Not Yet, will be released by Kelsay Books next spring.