Saturday, August 7, 2010

Reno Rain

Burrowing into bliss
two lovers
God’s children
aboard a downy raft
of pillows, comforter
soft flannel sheets
hearing only
hearts pulsing
in time
with rooftop
two lovers
praying this
never stops
knowing this
fleeting moment
this heat
these tandem
heartbeats are
as precious
as rare
as Reno rain.

Our Lady of Mustang

Curiosity drove me here

wondering who would be

worshiping at this temple

on the Lord’s day.

Church lot is full

here at the shrine.

Ranch girls are busy

plying love’s trade

with Sunday morning horn dogs.

I sit parked and scribbling

in the lot between heaven’s gate

and the souvenir shack

which is painted pink

as the sea of flesh

that undulates inside.

Outside, wild mustangs roam.

Inside, wild fillies buck Bronco Billies.

Back at home

mom’s set up

Sunday School.

Here, ten minutes drive east

of all that praying

other prayers are voiced,

“Oh God,

Yes! YES!”


Night Owl Special

I came to Vegas

for the ham steak,

Seigfreid und Roy be damned.

Black pyramid, fake Chrysler building,

Eiffel tower, San Marcos plaza,

exploding pirate ships,

these are all fine – all good –

but ham’s what drove me here.

Loose slots, looser women,

they have their Vegas place

but pale next to honey glazed,

Virginia smokehouse ham steak.

Steak for god’s sake!

The joe’s O.K.,

hash brown could be crisper,

sour dough toast...

– toast is hard to get wrong –

and the eggs,

the eggs threaten to edge out the ham.

I will sleep easier (when I finally find a bed)

knowing there is one short order cook

left on planet Vegas

who knows exactly what

Over easy really means.

Ham, the soul of Vegas.

Not dining under Picasso’s Dora,

not scaling the mad Pole’s needle downtown

not getting rubbed the right way

in the shadow of the city limits sign,

Vegas is ham steak... and eggs... four bucks.

New Vada

Sage brushed

ore dusted

neon naked

in full sky paint

torrid landscape

barks to Luna


Free of day


life forces

spring from her

desert floor



Cookbook du Mal

You’re across the table

writing for Elaine

author of dinner

president of pain

founder of time

and she

feeds off

your words

belching them

back at you

without one

“Excuse mois.”

Henry "Hank" Sosnowski, South Chicago born Polish-American followed his gypsy heart across America from Alaska's Aleutian Islands to North Carolina's shore. Following Brecht's edict that an artist must "First feed the face, then talk right and wrong," Sosnowski worked as a newsboy, caddy, fry cook, steel worker, blues musician, pipefitter, pool hustler/card shark, landscaper, railroad brakeman, auto part salesman, actor, warehouse manager, woman's clothing rep, waiter, missionary, writer, Alaskan game warden, book store manager, morning DJ, corporate VP, marketing director, dishwasher, factory worker, car salesman, handyman, customer service rep, janitor, teacher, hot rod show promoter, Internationally published poet.

Sosnowski currently lives and teaches in Reno, Nevada, inspiration for his one-man traveling show: "Write Before Your Eyes! Hank the Revelator - Live on Stage 24/7!" For one week, Sosnowski comes to town to write/perform/live on an outdoor stage replica of a 1930s writer's; garret, melding written, spoken and performance art.

Sosnowski is the winner of the 2006 Sierra Arts Foundation Writer's Grant and voted back to back Reno's best poet by Reno News and Review.

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...