blah blah
he does it most nights
stands a stone’s throw
from my living room window
talking nonsense into his cellphone
blah blah blah
murmur murmur
his fat ass jiggling in the estuary breeze
he is always pleading with someone
in undertones that are still loud enough
to ruin my neil young records and solace
sometimes i’ll stand at my window and watch him
thinking…
who is losing hours of their night
talking to him on the phone?
blah blah blah
murmur murmur
incantations of unrequited love
on his way home with another lonely pizza box
the last time he did it
i couldn’t stand it anymore
i’m getting that fucker, i said to my wife
i slammed down the vodka glass
and shut off the neil young
i opened up the window and stuck my head outside
hey, you fat fuck
some of us are trying to have evenings here
some of us are trying to escape a suicide
but that didn’t stop him
blah blah blah
murmur murmur
he didn’t even know
that i was speaking to him
his fat ass kept jiggling in the estuary breeze
when i popped my head
back in the living room
my wife shook her head at me and said
that was mean
fuck him, i said
i was a fat ass once too
but i never stood in front of anyone’s window
and tried to kill them with words
well…that lead to a fight
my wife said things that she’d regret
i said things that i’d regret
the vodka did a lot of talking for both of us
she stormed off to bed
and i made my own on the couch
i tried to put the neil young back on
but all was lost
so i just laid there in the dark
listening to another bullshit brooklyn night
fart out an ending
blah blah blah
murmur murmur
as he finally waddled past my window
and down the block
incantations of unrequited love
and his fat ass jiggling in the estuary breeze.
burnt pizza
it was pulling teeth
to get a good day lately
it was mornings
sitting in front of the machine
wordless and devoid of talent
it was your book rejected
the overall malaise of city life
some call these “first world problems”
but fuck them…what do they know?
our sorrows are roses
poking blood red out of a scorched terrain
of our own doing
all we wanted was pizza
and vodka, copious amounts of wine
the music of old gods on the verge of death
as we lived on the couch like a soused king and queen
with no worries and responsibilities to speak of
yet there we were an hour later
promises of a speedy delivery broken
our heads poking out of separate windows
like expectant dogs
the two saddest, hungriest idiots in brooklyn
our gums numb
from cheap liquor and loose words
waiting for the pizza to arrive
burnt and cold and not worthy of a peasant
staring up at us from a winedrunk coffee table
like the mocking face of a serpent in hell
daring us to make another plan tomorrow.
fear and loathing at the ATM machine
i’ve surely
come at worst times
to find this ATM machine down
like when i needed a drink
more than i needed human contact or love
or i hauled my ass over three avenues
hungover with no headache medicine
in the cabinet at home and no cash in my wallet
but why in the hell are you down
at noon on a thursday?
certainly a conspiracy
with the credit card companies
that or you never had your debit card
compromised by little shits at the grocery store
who spent four-hundred bucks on camera equipment
and video games
and you were afraid to use the card again
this is horseshit
this beats all
your little haiku of denial can piss itself
sorry for the inconvenience
but this machine
is out of order
what in the fuck
am i going to buy my turkey sandwich
and nasal spray with?
my charm?
we live in a world where people
can have things in an instant
where people buy and sell each other over lunch
but i can’t even take
twenty bucks out of this crummy machine
to fill my belly and clear my nose
i’m so missing out on the bounty
of self-serving greed that is america
and yes i know i can use my card
at several other banks
but there’s a service fee
and you people have no clue
just how cheap i am
and why should i pay for your incompetence?
your institution must be republican owned
screwing over the little guy like this
you know what?
to hell with you…i’ll starve
we live in an era of protest
and today an aching belly will be mine
a runny nose to show the world
that the people won’t take it anymore
least of all from a piece of shit bank worth billions
who can’t even do their jobs
who can’t even fix a machine for christ sake
who don’t even have the decency
the moral currency and certitude to…
oh wait
there’s ten bucks rolled up in my back pocket
fuck it
never mind.
John Grochalski is the author of The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), and the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016). Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where the garbage can smell like roses if you wish on it hard enough.
heart
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
Wednesday, March 21, 2018
Alan Catlin On Padded Walls, Cave Paintings, Drinking In The End Times, and Kafka's In The Making
The Voice at 3 A.M.
after C. Simic
is the Lunatic after he has
escaped the asylum, after
he has bent the bars of a solitary
life as an acrobat would,
scribbling in the dark the code
of warped genius gone bad
on padded walls before he
finds a place to reside where
only changeling wolves
will go. Here, among friends,
he stutters, but all who gather
to hear his words know how
easily prophecy may be confused
with truth. Paintings on cave
dwelling walls tell an epic tale,
but what does it mean?
Adios Amigos
After all the false alarms,
it was just another End Times
gathering, even with embossed
invitations, that seemed like
just another excuse for
a party. Not only had
the novelty worn off,
but the pretense as well.
If a nude descended a
staircase, no one would
have noticed or cared.
After awhile, even the black
humor, sick jokes about
death and the hereafter,
felt like hollow testimonials
for a deceased office colleague
everyone openly despised.
Only the drinking was real.
The drugs.
Working Class Country Children 1914
after August Sander
There is something curious,
something not quite right
with these children.
The two boys dressed in
their Sunday best, heads
shaved to the nubs like
junior Kafka’s before
the metamorphosis or
after the kinder-transports.
The girls are not exactly stunted
but have eyes that are too far part
to be normal, seem unusually intense,
are the kind of growing curiosities
that would be out of place
in a Borges bestiary.
There is a kind of native
intelligence in all these
children’s eyes. The kind
that is harmless now
but in adults, unspeakable.
after C. Simic
is the Lunatic after he has
escaped the asylum, after
he has bent the bars of a solitary
life as an acrobat would,
scribbling in the dark the code
of warped genius gone bad
on padded walls before he
finds a place to reside where
only changeling wolves
will go. Here, among friends,
he stutters, but all who gather
to hear his words know how
easily prophecy may be confused
with truth. Paintings on cave
dwelling walls tell an epic tale,
but what does it mean?
Adios Amigos
After all the false alarms,
it was just another End Times
gathering, even with embossed
invitations, that seemed like
just another excuse for
a party. Not only had
the novelty worn off,
but the pretense as well.
If a nude descended a
staircase, no one would
have noticed or cared.
After awhile, even the black
humor, sick jokes about
death and the hereafter,
felt like hollow testimonials
for a deceased office colleague
everyone openly despised.
Only the drinking was real.
The drugs.
Working Class Country Children 1914
after August Sander
There is something curious,
something not quite right
with these children.
The two boys dressed in
their Sunday best, heads
shaved to the nubs like
junior Kafka’s before
the metamorphosis or
after the kinder-transports.
The girls are not exactly stunted
but have eyes that are too far part
to be normal, seem unusually intense,
are the kind of growing curiosities
that would be out of place
in a Borges bestiary.
There is a kind of native
intelligence in all these
children’s eyes. The kind
that is harmless now
but in adults, unspeakable.
Alan Catlin has published many chapbooks and full length book. His most recent chapbooks are the movie inspired Hollyweird and Blue Velvet winner of the 2017 Slipstream Chapbook Competition.
Sunday, March 18, 2018
Ken Allan Dronsfield Sees The Orbs In The Weeping Willows, The Waltz Of Quartz Crystals, And The Bones In Old Red Clay
A Besieged Mind
A crack in the wall lets in the light from the stars.
Music echos through orbs in the weeping willows.
Dust in tears leave tracks in the fresh fallen snow.
Please Igor, can you give me just a little more light?
Dark holds my candle hostage at twilight's crescendo.
Contemptuous dreams through incessant screaming,
I can't feel strings with my hands of sanded mounds.
Quickly Igor, turn up the bass and let the walls crumble.
Insolent soulless itinerants trap a shard of burning sky.
Toss the aged planets into the blender creating a black
hole of unequivocal despair and treacherous margaritas.
Igor, hit the red button and watch me rise into the nebula!
Jellied stars with glimmering diamonds danced in the night.
Dingy creamy marshmallow giants stomped upon shells
of glowing peanuts long into a harvest on whiskey road.
Light another candle Igor, the night is still wanting her dead.
Remove a black top hat from the parlor rack, white gloves
aside, all these days of triumph and red transfixed illusion.
Waving the black obsidian wand, a magical fantasy exists.
Damn it Igor, I said the top hat, this conjures only clowns~!
As Dead Birds Circled
On a coolish night in late December
an odd stiff breeze was blowing from the North
we sat by the damn with gin and juice while
singing sonnets of warmer days now past.
We sang loudly while the old man strummed then
laughs on the right just as screams echoed left
the levee broke and all drift in the floods.
Cleanse my soul in the fierce muddy waters.
Weeping willows joyously laughed that night.
Tender were the sounds of bare footsteps in
darkness upon the slick moss covered rocks.
Leaves shimmered in a purple twilight as
the levee broke, and tears cascaded down
the breezes died to a whispering chant
windowless walls of tall earth and rock moved
crumbling into the water's great swallow.
Cleanse my soul in the fierce muddy waters.
A thousand eyes watched in a harsh horror
while great birds on the wing circled slowly
the damn broke and music faded away.
church bells rang out, wrapped in misty attire
blistered sacramental pious whimpers.
Quartz crystals resonate a timeless waltz
rust colored waters moved lifeless bodies
while dead birds on the wing circled slowly.
Cleanse our souls in the fierce muddy waters.
The weeping willows just laughed and rejoiced
as the great levee broke; we were still there
singing dirges; dead birds circled slowly;
baptism of souls join fierce muddy waters.
rising skyward; it's raining muddy tears.
An Absent of Present, Version 2
Has anyone seen me?
I know I used to be here,
perhaps there, somewhere.
I feel so lost, gone like
bones in old red clay.
Dust in a strong breeze.
I feel like a cat nine tail,
standing straight and tall
then bent over in marsh winds
waving to all around the lake,
lost fantasies rise skyward.
Passion blooms; life après.
Depth of a cranky shade
of listless yet excited bliss.
Blessed by the thoughts and
prayers of strangers, love
enhanced by a whisper.
But has anyone seen me?
Elders cry to the children
begging souls return home.
Keep of life's clock, turn the
key and spike the pendulum
humming a sonnet in rhyme.
I'm a musical note, sky-born!
As the demons and hunger
invoke sincere repentance
for thieving loaves of bread.
Will all distressing lives calmly
exhale their last well before the
hot ovens inhale your dead?
Into a grave with 7 million others!
Feel the chills of those evenings
long forgotten, repent your worst,
tarry along to knit your burial throw
forgive a fleeting wishful thirst,
look into the corner, next to the bin.
But, has anyone found me yet?
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, poet and fabulist from New Hampshire, now residing on the southern plains of Oklahoma. Ken enjoys music, writing, walking in the woods at night and spending time with his cats Willa, Hemi, Turbo and Yumpy. He has one poetry collection, "The Cellaring" and is Co-Editor/Cover Artist for 2 poetry anthologies titled, "Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze" and "Dandelion in a Vase of Roses". His work has appeared in Literary Orphans, The Burningword Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, Black Poppy Review, The Blue Heron, The song is..., EMBOSS Magazine and more. Ken is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and twice for Best of the Net 2016-2017. Ken Loves Life!
A crack in the wall lets in the light from the stars.
Music echos through orbs in the weeping willows.
Dust in tears leave tracks in the fresh fallen snow.
Please Igor, can you give me just a little more light?
Dark holds my candle hostage at twilight's crescendo.
Contemptuous dreams through incessant screaming,
I can't feel strings with my hands of sanded mounds.
Quickly Igor, turn up the bass and let the walls crumble.
Insolent soulless itinerants trap a shard of burning sky.
Toss the aged planets into the blender creating a black
hole of unequivocal despair and treacherous margaritas.
Igor, hit the red button and watch me rise into the nebula!
Jellied stars with glimmering diamonds danced in the night.
Dingy creamy marshmallow giants stomped upon shells
of glowing peanuts long into a harvest on whiskey road.
Light another candle Igor, the night is still wanting her dead.
Remove a black top hat from the parlor rack, white gloves
aside, all these days of triumph and red transfixed illusion.
Waving the black obsidian wand, a magical fantasy exists.
Damn it Igor, I said the top hat, this conjures only clowns~!
As Dead Birds Circled
On a coolish night in late December
an odd stiff breeze was blowing from the North
we sat by the damn with gin and juice while
singing sonnets of warmer days now past.
We sang loudly while the old man strummed then
laughs on the right just as screams echoed left
the levee broke and all drift in the floods.
Cleanse my soul in the fierce muddy waters.
Weeping willows joyously laughed that night.
Tender were the sounds of bare footsteps in
darkness upon the slick moss covered rocks.
Leaves shimmered in a purple twilight as
the levee broke, and tears cascaded down
the breezes died to a whispering chant
windowless walls of tall earth and rock moved
crumbling into the water's great swallow.
Cleanse my soul in the fierce muddy waters.
A thousand eyes watched in a harsh horror
while great birds on the wing circled slowly
the damn broke and music faded away.
church bells rang out, wrapped in misty attire
blistered sacramental pious whimpers.
Quartz crystals resonate a timeless waltz
rust colored waters moved lifeless bodies
while dead birds on the wing circled slowly.
Cleanse our souls in the fierce muddy waters.
The weeping willows just laughed and rejoiced
as the great levee broke; we were still there
singing dirges; dead birds circled slowly;
baptism of souls join fierce muddy waters.
rising skyward; it's raining muddy tears.
An Absent of Present, Version 2
Has anyone seen me?
I know I used to be here,
perhaps there, somewhere.
I feel so lost, gone like
bones in old red clay.
Dust in a strong breeze.
I feel like a cat nine tail,
standing straight and tall
then bent over in marsh winds
waving to all around the lake,
lost fantasies rise skyward.
Passion blooms; life après.
Depth of a cranky shade
of listless yet excited bliss.
Blessed by the thoughts and
prayers of strangers, love
enhanced by a whisper.
But has anyone seen me?
Elders cry to the children
begging souls return home.
Keep of life's clock, turn the
key and spike the pendulum
humming a sonnet in rhyme.
I'm a musical note, sky-born!
As the demons and hunger
invoke sincere repentance
for thieving loaves of bread.
Will all distressing lives calmly
exhale their last well before the
hot ovens inhale your dead?
Into a grave with 7 million others!
Feel the chills of those evenings
long forgotten, repent your worst,
tarry along to knit your burial throw
forgive a fleeting wishful thirst,
look into the corner, next to the bin.
But, has anyone found me yet?
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, poet and fabulist from New Hampshire, now residing on the southern plains of Oklahoma. Ken enjoys music, writing, walking in the woods at night and spending time with his cats Willa, Hemi, Turbo and Yumpy. He has one poetry collection, "The Cellaring" and is Co-Editor/Cover Artist for 2 poetry anthologies titled, "Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze" and "Dandelion in a Vase of Roses". His work has appeared in Literary Orphans, The Burningword Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, Black Poppy Review, The Blue Heron, The song is..., EMBOSS Magazine and more. Ken is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and twice for Best of the Net 2016-2017. Ken Loves Life!
Sunday, March 11, 2018
Jonel Abellanosa Handles Snakes, Star Apples, Moon's Glow, And Venom
King Cobra
And where do I bring this smell
Of reticence, this O of olfactory
Greenness? The wind knows
How I linger, the ways I dwell
In what I might be forced to remember.
The wind always tosses the shapeliest
Fruit, most of the time mango or starapple,
Teasing my nose to inhale the circulars.
I bring my crudest ways
Of recall to the violets.
It sometimes disappoints,
But often makes me realize
I’m a monarch without a kingdom.
Coral Snake
And how do I keep myself hidden
In leaves when I smell the violets?
The rain lends its invitation
And I follow the smells of moss
And lichen. In the forest
Water, when it rises, often
Wears its royal robe of glimmers.
How convincing its argument
That if surfaces are glassy
Transparence is its depths.
I soak myself in the gurgling flow,
Out of my heart’s reticence
And into the moon’s glow.
Taipan
And if my reputation moves faster
Than the wind? You don’t know me.
I’m shyer than the bandicoot, living
Inland, invisible as the homeless man.
I prefer to be left alone, slithering
In abandoned moonlight. The floral
Wind balms my hunger, and I often
Spend the night hungry. Starlight
Is my nourishment, water my soothing
Prayer. They say my venom is the
Deadliest, but I don’t have to defend
Myself, until I’m driven into the corner
Where ignorance, prejudice and irrational,
Unfounded fear might mean
The end of my life.
Jonel Abellanosa resides in Cebu City, the Philippines. His poetry has appeared in close to two
hundred journals and anthologies including, Rattle, Anglican Theological
Review, Poetry Kanto, Filipino-American Artist Directory, The McNeese Review
and Marsh Hawk Review. Early in 2017 Alien Buddha Press published his third
chapbook, “Meditations,” His latest poetry collection, “Songs from My Mind’s
Tree” is forthcoming (Clare Songbirds Publishing House). He is a Pushcart
Prize, Best of the Net and Dwarf Stars Award nominee.
Saturday, March 10, 2018
Michael Lee Johnson Observes The Common Horse Fly As A Parisian Adventurer In The August Wind And No More Stepping On Him
Heaven is My Horse Fly
A common horse fly
peripatetic traveler
vacationing in my world
into my bathroom,
(ride me cowboy, fly)
it’s summer time-
lands on my toilet seat
pit stops at Nikki’s Bar & Grill,
kitty litter box, refuels.
Thirteen round trips
buzzing my skin and skull-
he calls them “short runs.”
Steady pilot, good mileage,
frequent flier credits.
I swat his war journey,
splat, downed, then, an abrupt end.
Alexandra David-Nee
She edits her life from a room made dark
against a desert dropping summer sun.
A daring traveling Parisian adventurer,
ultimate princess turning toad with age--
snow drops of white in her hair, tiny fingers
thumb joints osteoarthritis
she corrects proofs at 100, pours whiskey,
pours over what she wrote
scribbles notes directed to the future,
applies for a new passport.
With this amount of macular degeneration,
near, monster of writers' approaches,
she wears no spectacles.
Her mind teeters between Himalayas,
distant Gobi Desert.
Running reason through her head for a living,
yet dancing with the youthful world of Cinderella,
she plunges deeper near death into Tibetan mysticism,
trekking across snow covered mountains to Lhasa, Tibet.
Nighttime rest, sleepy face, peeking out that window crack
into the nest, those quiet villages below
tasting a reality beyond her years.
No Longer a Swinger
This painted cat
on my balcony
hangs in this sun,
bleaches out
it's wooden
survival kit,
cut short-
then rots
chips
paint
cracks
widen in joints,
no infant sparrow wings
nestled in this hole
beneath its neck-
then falls down.
No longer a swinger
in latter days, August wind.
Oh Carol, Poem
You treat me like soiled underwear.
I work my way through.
I gave up jitterbug dancing, that cha-cha-chá,
all my eccentric moves, theatric acting, poetry slams.
I seek refuge away old films, nightmares
you jumping from my raspberry Geo Chevy Tracker
repeat you stunt from my black 2002 S-10 Chevy truck, Schaumburg, IL.
I toss tarnished photographs out windows of hell
seek new selfies, myself.
I’m a rock-in-roll Jesus, a damn good poetry man,
talent alone is not enough storage space to strip
you away from my skin, distant myself from your
ridicule, those harsh words you can’t take back
once they are out like Gorilla Glue, as Carl Sandburg spoke about.
I’m no John Lennon want to be;
body sculptured David Garrett, German violin masterpiece,
nor Ace Hardware, Midwest, CEO.
All I want to be respected in heart of my bright sun,
engaging these shadows endorsing these gray spots in my life.
Send me away from these drum beats that break me in half,
jungle thunder jolts dislodging my heart
popping my earlobes over the years,
scream out goodbye.
No more stepping on me cockroach style,
swatting me, a captured fly.
A common horse fly
peripatetic traveler
vacationing in my world
into my bathroom,
(ride me cowboy, fly)
it’s summer time-
lands on my toilet seat
pit stops at Nikki’s Bar & Grill,
kitty litter box, refuels.
Thirteen round trips
buzzing my skin and skull-
he calls them “short runs.”
Steady pilot, good mileage,
frequent flier credits.
I swat his war journey,
splat, downed, then, an abrupt end.
Alexandra David-Nee
She edits her life from a room made dark
against a desert dropping summer sun.
A daring traveling Parisian adventurer,
ultimate princess turning toad with age--
snow drops of white in her hair, tiny fingers
thumb joints osteoarthritis
she corrects proofs at 100, pours whiskey,
pours over what she wrote
scribbles notes directed to the future,
applies for a new passport.
With this amount of macular degeneration,
near, monster of writers' approaches,
she wears no spectacles.
Her mind teeters between Himalayas,
distant Gobi Desert.
Running reason through her head for a living,
yet dancing with the youthful world of Cinderella,
she plunges deeper near death into Tibetan mysticism,
trekking across snow covered mountains to Lhasa, Tibet.
Nighttime rest, sleepy face, peeking out that window crack
into the nest, those quiet villages below
tasting a reality beyond her years.
No Longer a Swinger
This painted cat
on my balcony
hangs in this sun,
bleaches out
it's wooden
survival kit,
cut short-
then rots
chips
paint
cracks
widen in joints,
no infant sparrow wings
nestled in this hole
beneath its neck-
then falls down.
No longer a swinger
in latter days, August wind.
Oh Carol, Poem
You treat me like soiled underwear.
I work my way through.
I gave up jitterbug dancing, that cha-cha-chá,
all my eccentric moves, theatric acting, poetry slams.
I seek refuge away old films, nightmares
you jumping from my raspberry Geo Chevy Tracker
repeat you stunt from my black 2002 S-10 Chevy truck, Schaumburg, IL.
I toss tarnished photographs out windows of hell
seek new selfies, myself.
I’m a rock-in-roll Jesus, a damn good poetry man,
talent alone is not enough storage space to strip
you away from my skin, distant myself from your
ridicule, those harsh words you can’t take back
once they are out like Gorilla Glue, as Carl Sandburg spoke about.
I’m no John Lennon want to be;
body sculptured David Garrett, German violin masterpiece,
nor Ace Hardware, Midwest, CEO.
All I want to be respected in heart of my bright sun,
engaging these shadows endorsing these gray spots in my life.
Send me away from these drum beats that break me in half,
jungle thunder jolts dislodging my heart
popping my earlobes over the years,
scream out goodbye.
No more stepping on me cockroach style,
swatting me, a captured fly.
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the
Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is
a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in
Itasca, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published
in more than 1016 publications, his poems have appeared in 35 countries, he
edits, publishes 10 different poetry sites.
Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL, nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards
for poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/and 2 Best of the Net 2017. He also has 154 poetry videos on YouTube:
https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos. He is the Editor-in-chief of the anthology,
Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762 and Editor-in-chief of a second
poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses which is now available
here:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089
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).
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.
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.
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