Thirteen Variations / Slight Returns on Dr. William’s Red Wheelbarrow (or, How the Hell Does a Japanese Fighting Kite Wind Up in The Middle of Missouri?) apologies to W.C.W. by Jason Ryberg

Posted in Jason Ryberg with tags on May 1, 2018 by Scot


So much depends upon
a red tricycle left crying in the rain
beside four grinning
garden gnomes.

So much depends upon
a red Radio Flyer wagon overflowing
with tulip bulbs and garden tools,
to which a bull-mastiff pup
has been chained all day.

So much depends upon
a red windmill, doing nothing
but lazily churning
the bright blue wind.

So much depends upon
a red, rusted-out pick-up truck stuck in the weeds
(bees in its belly, mice in the muffler,
a thick forest of sunflowers in its bed).

So much depends upon
an old, red barn, barely holding up its own weight
beneath the ever-shifting weight of the seasons.

So much depends upon
a red dirt road winding its way
through the hills and valleys of Oklahoma,
beneath a storm-grey sky.

So much depends upon
a pair of faded red Chuck Taylors
hanging from a power line,
(with a bird’s nest in the left).

So much depends upon
a red tail-light, barely visible on the road ahead
at five in the morning (don’t ask why)
on the way to Atchison, KS.

So much depends upon
a red-gold koi, circling
the stem-like leg of a Great Blue Heron
in the middle of a stream.

So much depends upon
the foot-tall, day-glo red liberty spikes
on top of the tiny punk rock girl
with the baby blue Doc Martins.

So much depends upon
childhood memories
of the giant, red tomatoes
your neighbor grew every summer
in soil sown with iron filings
from his machine shop.

So much depends upon
a Red Tailed Hawk floating
on a current of wind
in a sky the color of a sky blue workshirt
that’s been washed a hundred times.

So much depends upon
a red Japanese fighting kite,
wrecked and ruined in the rib-cage
of a lone Willow tree on a hill
in the middle of Missouri,

and no one, not a single soul around
to answer one simple
question …


Poem for Brittany by John Dorsey

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on May 1, 2018 by Scot

have seen you on the streets of new orleans
taking photos with well meaning tourists
for half finished beers on bourbon st
crossing venice blvd wearing blue socks
in a shroud of rain
chasing moloch
in a famous blue raincoat
shouting moloch
praying to moloch
that when morning comes
your shadow will recognize your smile
& that my heavy heart
full of forgotten cities
will be able
to carry the weight
of your love.
on its shoulders.

At 3 a.m.  by Sarah Russell

Posted in Sarah Russell with tags on May 1, 2018 by Scot
after one more day
without words, Paris
takes you in like a whore,
not surprised you’re back
for another fuck in the dark.
November.  Brittle rain
scrapes the bone.
You walk the sheen of cobbles
to the Seine, where bodies,
freshly guillotined, once floated,
heads left behind in baskets,
past the great cathedral, gargoyled,
buttressed, to the boîte
on St. Louis where absinthe
and jazz make love, and a girl
comes to rub against you
like she knows your name.

nada mas maybe something more by SPLAKE

Posted in Splake with tags on May 1, 2018 by Scot


death often comes fast
life ending quickly
collapsing on treadmill
running to eagle river
body pitching in tall grass
rocky wilderness path
climbing in the clifffs
face down
kitchen table ending
unfinished poem
left in mid-sentence
final act without
meaning or conclusion
poet’s reputation
rapidly disappearing
collection of writings
gathering dust
in university archives
remote possibility
zoschke’s literary remarks
“city lights” bibliography
will make others note
another henry darger
writings and paintings
finally recognized
after quiet driven life
sad artistic despair
after years of working alone
starving artist solitude
everything suddenly lost
creative works forgotten
but something might exist
between reality and nothing
in different dimension
poet discovering
richard brautigan real
living with pauline
gentle life together
piney woods wilderness
working on new book
writing in little shack
north of ideath
learning much wisdom
from grand old trout
living upstream
near statue of mirrors
enjoing black watermelon days
delicious soundless feasts
often exploring forgotten works
finding special things
apple pie coffee breakfasts
sweet bluebell flowers
warmly embracing pauline
trout hatchery dances
watermelon sugar happiness

Sent from my iPhoneI Talk To My Hebrew God by Neeli Cherkovski

Posted in Neeli Cherkovski with tags on May 1, 2018 by Scot

         For Alan Kaufman

I talk to my Hebrew God
Everyday now,
I tell him how sick it is
To see anti Semitism
On the rise in Europe

He says I must write
My poems
About butterflies and
Tulips, he tells me
I do good with pine trees
And my dog
On a
Leash at the beach –
He asks me to
Forge it, so a few
People are killed

He says he has
A universe to run
And it’s not easy
You never know
When a galaxy is
In trouble

I felt bad, I still feel
Bad, the world
Never learns its
Lesson, bad ass people
Step out of the
Shadows an murder
Thousands of work-a-day
People,  all ages, all sizes

One woman in France
Was 85, Holocaust
Survivor, slain to pay
For the sins of the Jews
2018 a civilized year
She is called me? No
She is many, she is endless


veteran in Flint by David LaBounty

Posted in David LaBounty with tags on May 1, 2018 by Scot


it was a do good
kind of day
those of us
doing good
our kids
had to
for the

and there we were

a collection of
honor students
on hand
to help
out a middle
with a
adult son
and a recently

and we were in that part of Flint

north side,
just past
Hurley Hospital

a collection of
vacant lots
like a salad
of ignored
tossed together
in it and

fluoride, he said

makes your
brain soft
and they
put fluoride
in the
to make the
just more
than passive

and he told
me all this
and his
were yellow
and there
were gray
and black
hairs coming
out of the
of his

and he
asked me
about my
coat, about
on my

what’s Columbia? he asked

and me,
I was
for a moment,
that my
body was
my heart

I said
that… that’s just
a thing

oh, he said
I remember Columbia,
it was a college in the sixties
a lot of the
back then
went to

and the day
passed that
way and
later in
the afternoon
I headed
out of the

my son
off back
to his
suburban home
and I headed
back to my own
suburban home

but I had to
stop at Kroger first

I needed
for dinner

they have those
pre-prepared meals
at Kroger now
all of the
right in the box

I was torn
between the
pan-seared salmon
or the
lemon-glazed flat iron steak

I couldn’t pick either one
so I listened to my heart
my heart said
it wanted a
Tombstone pizza

so I got that instead

I took it home
and heated it up

I ate while flicking
through the
200 channels
of my cable tv

and no one
said anything
on the tv
that night

200 channels

no one
at all

Rearview by Antonia Clark

Posted in Antonia Clark with tags on March 15, 2018 by Scot


As far back as I can see,
there’s no one coming, just
a long, long stretch of Iowa road
unwinding behind me. No trace
of what I’m leaving — a house
I need to believe is full of absence.
We always made love in the dark
in case we needed to pretend
it hadn’t happened.

Dry grass and rusted fences
rush by like bad memories.
I have to keep reminding myself
that I’m the one in motion.
This road’s so straight, all I can do
is accelerate, watch for a sign,
an exit. Still, from time to time,
I adjust the rearview mirror as if
I might catch sight of you, crazy
with pain and desire and change
of heart, gaining on me.