illusionist by Bree

Posted in Bree with tags on July 22, 2016 by Scot

we sit on a bank covered in
sand after you covered me
in it. i smile despite the grit.
you are a part-time prudent
sort of snaking river charmer,
one hand on the basket, the
other on my breast. the
basket opens nevertheless,
like by some magic. inside
are two empty caskets.

GIVING UP THE GHOST by LYNNE SAVITT

Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on July 22, 2016 by Scot

 

for a.m.

did you get the card for the memorial
our friend, noel, “celebration of a life
most thoughtfully lived” what will they
say about us i ask you as we raise
martini glasses & light a joint looking
at photos of all our old lovers eleven
boxes in the decades we’ve known each
other’s lovers cowboys, convicts, poets,
professors, artists, mechanics, doctors,
chefs, motorcycle racers, an indian chief
& an actor we never thought this day would
come as you are to the service for once
illuminating beauty but dulled by wind &
sun mapped faces once juicy as our sex lives
now dry as feet we cream with aloe & shea
butter me up with kind words praising a life
of thoughtless pursuit & dwindling resources
oh, but the sweet memory & exaggeration of
love lies in stories bloated purple with details
how gentle & obsessed he was, how virile &
devoted our tales become classic swill but
our mirrors don’t lie look at us corpses in
training big red smears for mouths never
close the coffin & sing me a dirge wrap me
in gold-flecked red velvet use movie camera
to capture event i promise if you go first i’ll
take the sea green tulle & sequined scallop
shells float you on a gardenia covered kayak
either way, sweet pal, don’t let the legends
fade crying old lovers pulled from graves &
life to mourn us most dramatically queens
of poetry & passion may we live forever

Listening All Alone To Deep Purple In A Pittsburg Bar (Kansas, That Is) by Jason Ryberg

Posted in Jason Ryberg with tags on July 22, 2016 by Scot

-as texted to the author (more or less) by Al Ortolani

Well, there’s the bartender, of course,
pouring me another drink
even though I’ve still got one
in front of me (half full and un-paid for),
and there’s big screen tvs to the front,
rear, left and right of me (no escape,
apparently, so I guess I better just
deal with it and have another drink)
and Stevie Nicks is silently dancing
in all her ‘80s, gypsy-black, gauzy,
gossamer glory (Lord, just send me
Stevie in my dreams and maybe
keep all mamas and babies safe
for atleast one more day) and now
the Red Hot Chili Peppers
are really funkin’ and rockin’ out
and the Dodgers and the Angels
have hit the 7th inning (at 7 to 7,
no shit, guess we’ll see who gets
lucky tonight) and the Goodyear blimp
is in retrograde as the ghost of Kurt Cobain
is coming to us live and unplugged
(did he really mean to unplug and
sign off for good when he had his
ultimate dark moment of dispair or
was there something else going on there?)
and I could use another drink about now
and the bartender has been MIA for sometime
and the conspicuous odor of pot smoke
is wafting from the men’s room (seriously,
am I the only one noticing this!?)
and there’s an old gal who looks
a lot like my mother (unnervingly so,
in fact, like separated-at-birth similar)
saying HELLO!? HELLO!? into the payphone
and now some old boy is moaning
the Medicare blues, bent over the trashcan
by the backdoor with a bloody nose,
who, it turns out is an old harp player
I used to know, as he sits down on
the bar stool next to me (vodka on the rocks)
like nothing ever happened (pretty sure
we chased a possum together down Broadway
one night in 1995 behind the Stillwell Hotel)
and I say Hey man, you’re part of my poem!
Bending his ear lower and closer to me,
he says I had a feelin.

The Wireless Scream by David S. Pointer

Posted in David S. Pointer with tags on July 22, 2016 by Scot

 

You can huff
false-narrative paint
on a thousand problems
until your face is red as
a penal colony rash, and
the increased militarization
of the police protecting one
percent mega-property
responding to desperate
economically excluded
areas dons a reconfigured
fur-suit called reasonable
man doctrine digging the
graves for rainbow privilege
inside ongoing globalization
tricking the masses not at all
experienced enough in hot
button diversionary issues
to sort through concentric
circles of class warfare
reverberating off markets
to offer more than blood
and vast cyber-blindness

existential sickness by Mj Taylor

Posted in Mj Taylor with tags on July 22, 2016 by Scot

 

all the boys here
got no one
to go home to
even if they do.

bellied up
over their glasses

eyes stained with
hi-tech porno,

bird in
their throats
haggard crow.

all suffering from
a mutual sickness
of existence :

a dismay in knowing
exactly what tomorrow

will hold.

Prayer Cards by KC Bosch

Posted in KC Bosch with tags on July 22, 2016 by Scot

Baseball cards
of the dead
They give them
away for free.
Well at least you don’t
pay with money.
Folded hands, or Jesus, or
a dated portrait with
some invocation.
No chewing gum included.
I got my rookie card
when I was still
in middle school
and have been collecting
them ever since.
The players come from
all parts of my life.
Most of them are drafted,
but a lot are walk-ons.
Some even from
the same team.
It has been a busy season
and we are not even
at the all-star break.
I thought I had a full set
but every year
they keep printing more.
I guess the only thing
that could be worse
is if they start sending
save the date cards.

IN A 1000 YEARS by R.M. Engelhardt

Posted in R.M. Engelhardt with tags on July 22, 2016 by Scot

In a thousand years
Time shall
Change you
Into a small animal
Who shall be eaten
By a larger animal
That a thousand years
Before his birth
Was the unwashed homeless guy
That you with your
Money, car and 3 piece
Suit ignored walking past
The corner of Church & 7th
Street as you drank your
Starbuck’s Cafe Latte as he
Asked if you could spare
25 cents so he could buy a
Cheaper cup of coffee
3 blocks away at the convenience
Store in a shitty, crappy urban
Neighborhood

And just like when
You responded to his
Plea a thousand years before
He shall quietly
And without words
Simply respond back
By slightly
Shaking his head
And attempting to
Dislodge an annoying piece
Of meat

From his
Teeth

 

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