even the dead can see the lights from the highway
i imagine you were an olympic swimmer
that you once kissed a girl from zelienople
on a first date at baldinger’s
who had sugar sweet lips
you were a lucky guy
that’s further
than i’ve ever gotten.
stepping in a fresh pile of dog shit
on a warm fall morning
has to be a metaphor
for something.
Steve Goldberg Gets Another Death Poem
a hummingbird rests its wings
on a container of sun tea
thinking it sees its reflection
maybe found its soulmate
trapped in a mason jar
all kidding aside though
it’s only death.
____________
The Way of Dandelions
for Ron Kolm
everything is wild here
heavy rain & children
who grow like weeds
the sun on your back
you don’t even have to like it
it’s almost better if you don’t.
____________
Poem for Sue
for a few short hours every week
you helped me forget
about the plastic leg brace
that i had to squeeze
into my right shoe
every morning
helped me work muscles
i’ve let turn to fat
in middle age
the year i turned thirteen
i ran into you
at a pizza parlor
on my birthday
when you told me
you had cancer
it’s your laughter
i hold onto now
good therapy
when i need it most.
____________
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) and Your Daughter’s Country (Blue Horse Press, 2019). His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.
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) and Your Daughter’s Country (Blue Horse Press, 2019). His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.
even as a kid
i can remember
that my mother’s sister
could never let go of anything
spending thousands to
to keep a dying german shepherd alive
for a few more months
a beagle for a few more fleeting weeks
& now sitting outside
drinking iced tea
on a warm spring day
my mother says that she
is thinking about making me
the family executor
it’s not because of the cold killer instinct
that i jokingly claim to have
that thing that pennsylvania winters
just seem to instill in you at birth
like having to let your favorite sports teams hopes
go out with the frost
it’s only that my father
is not a labrador
& she is not a teacup poodle
no matter what her latest haircut
might lead you to believe
it’s just that they
don’t want to die
like dogs.
Rodney was Afraid
to have a kid
“that’s why i waited so long,” he says
now in his 40s
he points to a framed picture
of his daughter dangling on a loose nail
in the hallway
“she could’ve ended up just like me,”
he says talking about our days
in a classroom for kids with learning disabilities
he tells me she has a real head for numbers
& here he is with a 9th grade education
afraid now that soon
they’ll be coming for our guns
i tell him that the world ended years ago
that they just forgot to tell us
he just laughs
saying “that if custer’s last stand taught us anything,
nobody is getting out of here alive”
the numbers just don’t add up
& here he is making 80 grand a year
driving a fuel truck in the dead of winter
the bones of sunlight
crushed out under his boot soles
just waiting
for someone
to light a match.
waiting for history to moan our names
to carve our initials into a tree
that we can no longer find
the moonlight is no longer happy
just touching the skin of generations
& the road back home
is muddy with blood
there is very little peace
in any of it.
Rodney Says
the one thing he can’t stand are niggers
that the only colors we should be concerned about are-
RED
WHITE
&
BLUE
we grew up a mile apart
with the same dirt
under our fingernails
he tells me about his heart attack
we have known each other
since we were ten years old
& looking at him now
there is a civil war raging
inside my chest.
A Fistful of Pie
it was halloween
in old city
as david and i drunkenly skimmed pebbles
across the cobblestone
and looked up to see
a group of middle aged men
waving at us to join the party
being young and stupid
we waited to be buzzed in
and climbed the stairs
toward experience
the owner of the building
was an architect twice my age
who offered me a drink
he said it was his job
to build character
brick by brick
in the hearts
of young men like me
as i looked over at david
he was getting uncomfortably felt up
by a lawyer dressed as a sugar plum fairy
when the single solitary woman there
approached me by the punchbowl
and told me we’d better get going
if we wanted ro remain untouched by time
i placed a bottle of scotch and a pecan pie
in each of my trenchcoat pockets
and motiioned for david
to follow me down the stairs
toward our dorm room
running from the possibilities
of nameless men
a while later
i reached into my pockets
for my keys
forgetting all about the pie
crushed to gooey bits
of crust and baking shrapnel
now covering my fists
looking up at the sky
i thought about how
we’re all dying stars
trying to build character
while searching for beauty
before quietly burning out
in the moonlight.
____________
Singh’s Song
singh had been called a hindu
an arab
a towelhead
a terrorist
decades before the twin towers
ever quivered
and collasped
onto the pavement
and into the pages
of history
he had been born
in the streets
of fresno
driving a cab
almost before he could walk
a sikh
he followed a guru
to center city philadelphia
in search of true human equality
while the rest of the world
followed ronald reagan
through death valley days
and beyond
he would walk into dirty frank’s
on the corner of pine st.
and start singing
after a single beer
as the patrons groaned
and threatened to fight him
on the sidewalk outside
at three in the afternoon
he would plead
with the bartender
to just let him stay
for one more song
on the jukebox
and somehow sarah
came out cheryl i love you
after someone had left
a weathered cheryl teigs calendar
on the backseat of his jitney in 1987
as his face filled with tears
because he knew
equally was too much
to ask for on a sunny day
in a world
where happy hour
rarely comes
for anyone.
Imaginary Foxholes by John Dorsey is selling out fast. No need for a sales pitch. If you know John’s work, you know it is good. This one may be his best yet. Illustraions by Janne Karlsson appear throughout the chap and interpret the poems with just the right amount of edge. You may purchase this chap published by Rusty Truck Press through John at archerevans@yahoo.com
$10.00 in the U.S.
$15.00 outside
