Tuesday, February 27, 2018

Michael Prihoda And A Whole Lotta Love On Shot-Gunned Stationary And An Ocean Muffled By Sawdust

whole lotta love

i. 
whatever

ii.
not today

iii. 
i thought we agreed
cruise ships
were
for sissies
&
the point
of Nasa
is the same as SSRIs
for those
unwilling
to notice

iv.
the sound
of
the garage door
opening
made auto
by wiring
i do not
understand

v.
are you going or coming?

vi. 
will you pick up some milk
on
the way
home?

vii.
just because
the seven
names
for children
i created survived
& we
lost
yours truly,

viii.
i thought we agreed

ix.
agreed

x. 
we

xi. 
i


everybody knows this is nowhere

the dog
ripples

his tongue
over teeth & lips

as a stream
across random stones.

a moment is only
as brief

as our disengagement
from imprinting

allows.
are we alone?

no, i am
looking at it.

are we
alone?



Proposal (a pineapple thrown into the Seine)

the meaning
of events

saving us
from a riot.

look to the hefted
mountains

in this thistled
spring

of showers
of malady &

the elegance
of just trying

to tell another
person they matter.

the day is ending.
the day is almost over.

i’m wide awake,
ready to introduce

a dragon
to these lands

of shot-gunned
stationary.

Proposal 6

of former
thoughts

in other
lives.

a mug cupped
to ear

sounds of
an Atlantic

muffled
by sawdust.

a taxonomic
defense

for haha,
the openness

in being
mortified

& feeling
alright

with the treatment
of animals.

you act in service
of a Byzantine panoply,

a simulacra
of gods.

our creations
tail us

through
dimensions,

invite a worry, a sorrow,
a cork

in bottles
untrapped by messages,

floating, briefly,
on the front porch.

dereliction hiding
rusted cutlery

& an insufficiency
of bandages


Michael Prihoda is a poet, editor, and teacher living in central Indiana. He is the editor of After the Pause, an experimental literary magazine and small press. In addition, he is the author of five poetry collections, the most recent of which is The First Breath You Take After You Give Up (Weasel Press, 2016).

John Dorsey Returns Speaking of Stars Covered In Rust, Woody Guthrie, And A Heroin Needle Sun

Highway D 



here the sun is a hot spike

a needle in the arm

of some lonely field

grown over with stars

covered in rust



your stomach is always half full

& the car never starts 

before your first cup of coffee

it wouldn’t dare.





California Blood Money 

for david smith 

 

woody guthrie tasted its soil 

dancing in starlight 

he winked at the skyline 



what is it like   

to run your hands 

through so much regret?




John Dorsey lived for several 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), Tombstone Factory, (Epic Rites Press, 2013), Appalachian Frankenstein (GTK Press, 2015) Being the Fire (Tangerine Press, 2016) and Shoot the Messenger (Red Flag Press, 2017). He is the current Poet Laureate of Belle, MO. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.