Archive for September, 2014

Two Poems by Bill Gainer

Posted in Bill Gainer with tags on September 26, 2014 by Scot

Fuck Hope

How long
can you believe
in an empty faith
before saying
fuck hope
pulling the pistol
telling the clerk
to hand it over
wishing
for a clean
getaway.

Yeah –
go with
the wishes.
They’re easier
to accept
for the longshots
they are –
seldom break
hearts,
and there’s always
the chance
of coming up big.

Hope –
fuck hope.
There’s too many strings.
You have to believe
in things:
The mysteries of god
why leaves are always
orphans
and that the death of Jesus
wasn’t
a suicide.
____________

Because God’s Never Done

After the wars are gone
and all the bombs searched for,
some kid will chase
a worn-out soccer ball
down a makeshift field,
kick something just hard enough –
because that’s what kids do.
The old folks will argue
about the crater,
fill it in, plant some grass,
call it a safe place,
a gift from God.
Somebody’s mom
will be left wondering
why?

FILLING STATION POEM by Michael Thompson

Posted in Michael Thompson with tags on September 26, 2014 by Scot

Questionable-looking hoodlums
linger like sewer rats
in the parking lot
of a filling station
next to I-80

It’s not Bethlehem
they’re slouching towards
when the highway patrol
stops in for coffee

Around the corner at Chris’ Bar,
ex-cons unable to get straight
set up a base of operations,
but beware that undercover narcs
are never in short supply

Someone’s mother
whose shirt is grossly inadequate
for the belly she’s acquired
pulls up to the curb
on her son’s Huffy

A pregnant working girl
knocks on every windshield
to rustle up business
and blithely offers
to wash windshields
until the proprietor
chases her off the premises

There’s nothing incognito
about these turns of events

Hussy Moon by Pris Campbell

Posted in Pris Campbell with tags on September 25, 2014 by Scot

That hussy moon peeks
into hotel windows,
steamed up cars, locked offices,
snaps photos of adulterous men
touching bared thighs,
speaking of promised roses
and days that will never arrive.

You told me about her.
Said her ass was too big,
when undressed, to appeal,
that her breath smelled of garlic
when you kissed.

You hoped the moon
would entice me to forgive,
make me leap into your arms,
rub salve into disappointment, but

already the moon has my photo, too.

INTERVIEW WITH THE POET by Paul Corman Roberts

Posted in Paul Corman Roberts with tags on September 25, 2014 by Scot

I sat down to interview the poet

They said:

Don’t be fooled by
the gorgeous bucolism
of the rural countryside:
It IS trying to kill you.

Don’t be fooled by
the homicidal feints
of the big city:
really it’s just lonely
and is looking
to take someone home.

Most big city murders
are the product of uncertainty
or buyer’s remorse.

A crime of passion
is much more frightening
& desperate
& likely to happen
in a moment of beauty;

City people take their kids
to the zoo
to demonstrate
a facsimile of nature
which only really happens
when nature breaks free
for a few moments.

I checked my watch
to find twenty years had gone.

I wondered if the poet and I
were now common law married

I wondered if the poet and I
had copulated & then realized
it didn’t much matter
as these matters go

We shall both know our passing
by the latest gaggle
of photons arriving
for load in
before they pulse
& fragment away.

BUENAS AIRES 1 by Neeli Cherkovski

Posted in Neeli Cherkovski with tags on September 25, 2014 by Scot

we see how ugly the moon can be
frozen in place

these stars are not mine anymore
I abhor them

how sad a woman will be
when her son
is lost

we feel the incomprehensible nature
of the inner core and shake our manes
like horses

the old driver will save us
as we descend from the luminous
abyss

he takes us to the secret room
where love allows
a few silent moments

I live inside of you sometimes
as decades roar
and you turn your back

what I see are streets
and plazas
and the grand theater reborn

amor este es mi mano

I am tempted to impress
the shabby facades of these
big white buildings

what is more important
than my fear? I fear sitting
in a room full of inquisitors

who’ll examine paper
and ink and my entire toolbox
and make me pay for the chance

to be? up the dose
of day by day life
never give-in to the bees

without a struggle
pain and endurance love
and mistrust all the above

then rust nail
on the sidewalk
past the liquor store

the ruins
of a far off galaxy
in the tango bar

lithe Diana
loves to lead in the wind
again to pretend
she is not done
with childhood

the whores gather
and prevent the light
from entering

slow slowly the women
enter the funeral parlor
on a serene noon

in the cafeteria
miles of lonely men
sipping soup

Café Tortoni
opens at one p.m.
always

like the army
in a dead empire
we dream of now