Four Poems by Bill Gainer

Dark Skies, Turkey Vultures,
and Somebody’s Uncle

On hot days
the Turkey Vultures
turn the sky dark
circling the house.
Somebody
could have died here
but it would have been
a while ago.

We bought the place
from an old guy and his wife
who inherited it
from his dead uncle.
The neighbors said
he was
peculiar.

We never got the details
on how the uncle
passed.
If it was an ugly deal
they did a good job
cleaning up the mess.

We leave the back
kind of in shambles.
Oh, I mow it down
per the fire code
but I’m not about
to go around
digging holes
planting things
cultivating.

There could be a pet
cemetery
back there
or a dismembered
x-wife
down a few feet.

The Turley Vultures
know something.
It’s their secret
we’ll leave it at that.

____________

 

Fire

I don’t dance
with the angels
not anymore.
Not unless
they like bourbon –
Harvey Wall Bangers
and when the money’s
tight –
beer
and don’t care.

I dance with them
the girls
who raisetheir arms up
high
make fists
point at things
that aren’t there
and laugh out loud.
The ones whose hips
pulse
when the music’s – hot.

I dance
with them.
The girls
whose bits and pieces
have their own kind of smiles –
know when to show
their teeth.

Angels –
Angels
are your escorts
to heaven.
Not sure
I’ll be invited.

I dance with them.
The girls.
The ones who leave you
to ask the morning
if she had a name
or
if you should expect
fire.

____________

How I Heard It

 

Rich Bethany –
a friend
hung himself
up in Oregon
in an apple tree
of all goddamn things.

They said
it was over a girl.
Could have been.
I always thought
he had sharper teeth
than that.

But I do know
there are times
when the weight
of the world
is balanced
on one
“I love you.”

And when she takes it back
everything under your
feet
rocks.

An apple tree?
I guess
it’s as good as any
when it’s time
to call it quits.

____________

Private Things

The night’s feeling empty.
There’s a wound there
I wish I could fix.
But she likes her sorrow
won’t let it happen.
She’s not mine to repair.
Not that I’ve truly
ever tried.

I don’t look like
him
sound like
him
or burn like
him.
Just an old man
turning
chrome
in the beard.

All I know about love
is:
Sometimes
you have to forgive
somebody
before you can
move on.
And she ain’t ready.

There it is –
a tall, skinny, tattooed
girl
heading west
alone
back to the coast
her safe place
waiting.

She’s bringing
moments
to drift away in
a car packed
with ash and dreams
and private things
not
to be talked about.

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                         

 

Three Poems by Bill Gainer

A Broken Window, a Cheap Hotel, a Stranger

The manager will want to know
how it happened –
I’ll tell the truth –
we lied to each other
and believed it.
Mostly.

A cheap hotel room
one glass to split
the bourbon
a cigarette
an empty beer bottle
to drop the butt
too much smoke
and a window
painted shut.

She’ll think
I can love you
and you’ll say
come here baby
we’ll worry about that later.
Right now,
just keep me warm.
The blankets
are thin.

____________
From a Bar in Kansas City

I’m in a bar
in Kansas City
having a burger
a drink.
It’s cold here
18 degrees outside.

I’m reading poems
across town
a little later.

Just wanted
you to know
no matter how far
or cold
it gets
you’ll be
keeping me
warm
tonight.

Missing you
lots –
from a Bar
in Kansas City …

____________

 

An Evening’s Intrusion

On the porch
wishing a cigarette
the first sip of bourbon
he looks few minutes
younger.
With the second
at peace.

The neighbor lady
Ruth
widowed a decade
from her porch
waves
he waves back.

The street lights
hide the sky
as they stagger
to life.
One by one
the stars go out.

Poems by Bill Gainer

A Broken Window, a Cheap Hotel, a Stranger

The manager will want to know
how it happened –
I’ll tell the truth –
we lied to each other
and believed it.
Mostly.

A cheap hotel room
one glass to split
the bourbon
a cigarette
an empty beer bottle
to drop the butt
too much smoke
and a window
painted shut.

She’ll think
I can love you
and you’ll say
come here baby
we’ll worry about that later.
Right now,
just keep me warm.
The blankets
are thin.

____________
From a Bar in Kansas City

I’m in a bar
in Kansas City
having a burger
a drink.
It’s cold here
18 degrees outside.

I’m reading poems
across town
a little later.

Just wanted
you to know
no matter how far
or cold
it gets
you’ll be
keeping me
warm
tonight.

Missing you
lots –
from a Bar
in Kansas City …

____________

 

An Evening’s Intrusion

On the porch
wishing a cigarette
the first sip of bourbon
he looks few minutes
younger.
With the second
at peace.

The neighbor lady
Ruth
widowed a decade
from her porch
waves
he waves back.

The street lights
hide the sky
as they stagger
to life.
One by one
the stars go out.

____________

 

 

Wearing the Clown Nose by Bill Gainer

If you want to be taken seriously
you have to get their attention
first.
Once you do
bring in the monkeys.

BOOK REVIEW: Church: Retrospective by Missy Church

Reviewed by Bill Gainer –

 

 

Missy Church – is someone who knows how to pull herself through the muck, slush, beauty and passion of life’s mind fields.  Her poems are woven from the fiber of what makes her breath. She allow you to feel, touch, see, be part of, and search through that jumble of emotions that passed through all of our days.  Church doesn’t waste time telling you the who, where, or why she is – she whispers her rage, her vulnerability, the emotional content of her every day. Reading her is as if she’s sitting in the room with you waiting to be held, waiting for you, the reader, to help contain the emotional explosion of a young woman spinning in the chaotic jumble of what is.  Read her, love her.  In Church: Retrospective se give you that “more” of what poems are supposed to be.  She goes to the inside of things. And it’s beautiful.  Did I mention, Church and her work are easy to fall in love with?  Read her and you will – too.

*photo by Cassandra Dallet

 

http://www.amazon.com/Church-Retrospective-Missy/dp/1514664194/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1449561551&sr=8-1&keywords=missy+church

Two Poems by Bill Gainer

An Afternoon Nap

The flight didn’t really last that long
but there was that moment
that one moment when it felt like the sky
had no bottom.
Looking down
there was nothing to see
blue, gray, a mist of pink
no birds, dust, leaves blowing
just me, for a moment free
from whatever it is
chains me to myself.

____________

 

The Long Goodbye

She had that smile,
you know that smile,
the bad news smile.

She told me what they said
the best results
possibilities
things they could try.

I wanted to say
I’ll miss you
but you don’t
you don’t
say those things
at least
you’re not supposed to.

We set close
one tear away

wanting to know
why
and hoping
goodbye
would take a long
long time
to say.

____________

 

Bill Gainer holds a BA from St. Mary’s College and a MPA from the USF.  He is the publisher of the PEN Award winning R. L. Crow Publications and is the ongoing host of Red Alice’s Poetry Emporium. Gainer is internationally published and is known across the country for giving legendary fun filled performances. His latest book, Lipstick and Bullet Holes, is from Epic Rites Press, Canada (2014). Visit: billgainer.com.

the poetry of Bill Gainer

The Last Time We Talked

(for José Montoya)

Stopped by to see him
drop a few books off
chat a while.
We hit on this
and that.
Nothing too important.
Asked how he’d been.
“Man, whatever it is
I got it so bad
even my skin hurts.”
I told him he looked good,
he grinned,
showed me his sketch book.
We sat in the little room
off to the right
in the front.
He said the chair there
was better
he had a TV
said
we could listen to the news
if I wanted.
When I left
he gave me a little salute,
two finger, a tilt of the head,
said, “Fly high man – adios.”
I haven’t been over
to that part of D street
in a while now.
No reason.

____________

Of Good

Nothing good happens
till after the crucifix
and St. Christopher
come off
and you forget about
not wanting to be bad.

____________

A Place in the Quiet

The hour
when the one
exhale
changes it all.
Nothing before,
if it ever did,
lives.
The light’s
angle thins,
the day’s eyes
close – slow.
You’re left
to yourself
finally.

____________

Lima Beans

When the old man died
we quit eating Lima beans.
Still, they’re there
in the canned goods aisle
and he’s still here with me.
He used to love those things.
Me, not so much.
Milk-toast sometimes,
when the money’s short
and you gotta make do,
but Lima Beans, no …

_____________

 

The Sum of Less

There wasn’t
a quiet moment
with her –
were you expecting
more.

____________

 

Frail Flowers

Her grandmother,
the frail flower
sits in the same chair
asks the same question
what channel’s
Merv Griffins on
today, yesterday
everyday.

She hopes
when they meet
in heaven
it will be different.
Maybe Merv
will be there
sit with her
hold hands
watch old reruns
talk about the events
of the day – 1962
a good year
for flowers to bloom.

____________

 

The Fool’s Market

Souls,
once used thrown
in the barrel
at the end
of the counter.
Marked down
cheap.
Now and then
they go through
throw the ones
at the bottom
out.
They’re hard
to sell
when they get
squishy.

A History of Broken Love Things by SB Stokes

Punk Hostage Press, ISBN: 978-1940213927
review by Bill Gainer
visit Amazon.com

From his A History of Broken Love Things we are quick to realize SB Stokes knows things. He knows about things that are done, but never finished. It’s these complications he writes about: love, loss, longing, wishes, dreams and the memory of a touch from a first encounter. At times he’s the playful child teasing a weary sister, bouncing his words with a mischievous heart. He strings them together like Mardi Gras beads, leaves them hanging on bedside lamp shades – reminders of things that do not end.

Stokes knows love, loss and longing are things we do, never finish, there is always another time to reach out – touch what could have been, hold what is – blow into the embers. He knows wishes, the last always stepping on the next – time making each more specific as it pushes us through its ever narrowing slot – wishing for what could be. Dreams, he knows about dreams – the keepers of possibility, each night awaking new, each morning another opportunity for a secret lost. And her, he knows her, that someone always waiting to be met, always a hand outstretched, always the offer of a forever – I love you.

Stokes knows a breath can pass empty as well. Maybe this is why some hold on so tightly, refusing to leave when called, hoping to finish something that can never be. Stokes leaves this question for another time. His concern is the now, the doing. He knows it is the doing that gives life its reason, love its grace, a wish its promise, a dream its magic and the memory of a first touch its forever. SB Stokes knows the History of Broken Love Things. Read him, enjoy him, I did, I do.

Bill Gainer, Lipstick and Bullet Holes

Two Poems by Bill Gainer

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?

Relics of Lust by Lynne Savitt–reviewed by Bill Gainer

Available  at amazon.com
When reading Savitt’s Relics of Lust you soon learn there is always one more secret to tell. To find it – turn the page. She has a way of not saying it, but allowing it – to touch you in those places that tremble from the inside out. She writes with a short breath, dares you to catch yours and reminds the world everyone is looking. Then there’s that thing about touch; when-where-how? Now, there, gently – but it is okay to bite. Just a little. Savitt doesn’t always have to be first, but she does want her turn. Relics of Lust is the scattering of the pieces of a life lived – loved well, just far enough from sin to almost be safe. She confesses, “… danger lurks in the potpourri of my / love I carry a 9 mm glock & sage / scented candles in my summer purse.” After reading Savitt I wanted to touch my finger to my tongue, breathe out slowly and just sit awhile. If you chose to read her, be careful. The secret she tells might be yours. I liked mine.

Bill Gainer, Lipstick and Bullet Holes