A New Pair of Shoes
It’s 9:30 and the ticking of clock was getting exponentially annoying with every movement of the dial. The grandfather clock in the middle of the dining room obviously did not care about how much I want time to stop. I want it all to stop. The time between when he was supposed to be home and the present is just gradually getting slower and slower. It seems that every time I look at the clock it has barely changed the position of its arms. In these three and a half hours I have gone completely through all the stages of grief.
First the denial: the thoughts that he must be stuck in traffic, he’ll be back any minute, and then the thought that he must be working late again for the well being of our family. During this stage I warmed up the lasagna three times and prepared another salad for his hard work. Then after about 45 minutes of this, the lasagna could not take anymore and neither could I. The stage of anger took over the denial, and I called him over half a dozen times just to hear his voice, which got increasingly annoying each time it told me to leave a message. So of course I did; left a few messages, and very angry ones. If not for Andrew, who was in his room doing homework, I would have liked to throw a couple of plates, preferably at the cause of my anger.
The anger stage is too exhausting, and within 30 minutes I was bargaining already. If he just calls right now I promise to God I will not throw the lasagna in his face and instead throw the salad (not to mention tomato base stains are hard to wash out). I then raised the stakes: if only he comes home now and begs on his knees I will not file for a divorce. I guess some of this might sound a little like blackmail and female manipulation, but I would like to assure you that this is just part of bargaining and negotiating with God on getting your husband home.
Then the depression part kicked in; I was kicking myself for making the mistake of not only getting married but more so for getting married to him. Then I was kicking myself for thinking that if not for him I would not have Andrew. I couldn’t think anymore and grabbed the bottle of wine I prepared for us to have after dinner. I still had not eaten when the acceptance stage kicked in. My head was lightly spinning and all was great. The thought of men and shoes being similar kicked in, and when one pair is broken, no much how much you love them, you need to either fix them or trade them in for a new pair.
I woke on the couch to the sound of things falling in the kitchen. I got up and walked to the kitchen to find him drunkenly searching through the fridge, while my lasagna that I left for him on the table was now in the garbage. It seems that even on our 5th year anniversary day his poker buddies were more important than me.
“I think I need a new pair of shoes,” I said out loud, startling him into dropping the plate of cheese and crackers on the floor.
“For Christ’s sake, you scared me half to death. You don’t have to wait all nigh to tell me that, just get yourself a new pair. You got the money,” he said angrily, gathering the cheese and crackers off the floor. The plate amazingly didn’t break, and it struck me that this ceramic plate was much tougher than it looked; even being fragile it still didn’t break after being dropped by this man whom I once knew.
“I think I will,” I said, which seemed to have startled him again.
“You will what?” he asked.
“Get myself a new pair.”
Anya Hommadova
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Band Name: Pool Party
Interview with the leader of the band: Stinky Fingers
The interview took place at a hotel pool, half in a beach chair, half on the high dive in-between gainers, triple lindys, jack hammers, cannon balls, flying squirrels, arch angels, pencil dives, flips back and forth, cherry bombs, belly flops, and a few Olympic quality beauties. I held his vodka in my left hand, and he had placed his “stash” in my underwear. He had hair way past his shoulders and was wearing a neon pink leopard print Speedo.
So do you think only playing at actual “Pool Parties” limits your playing?
Stinky Finger: “Not at all! If you aren’t willing to come to a pool party every time, than you just don’t get it.” He did eight jumps at the end of the board, and then finally into a beautifully leg straight, arms tucked flip. “And fuck’em if they don’t get it.”
Some say your band, although the following is decent, is not actually talented, but draws crowds for other reasons. What do you think about that?
Stinky Fingers: “Well we rock, I’m definite on that. But what we lack in talent is made up for with strippers, and heroin clouds, sure.” Sprint into a gainer.
Okay. Do you find it at all ridiculous that your band has a dress code for your Pool Party concerts, either neon colors or naked?
Stinky Fingers: “NO.” Dope fiend languidly walked into a god inspired back dive, full twist, straight position. “If you come to a Pool Party concert in a black fucking T-shirt I will spit on you.”
What do you have to say about your tattoos?
Stinky Fingers: “Fuck it, who cares if they are shitty. They are tats none the less. I still get boned for them.”
When is your next album going to come out?
Stinky Fingers: “Well, I say never. I want to ride the last one out. But, the rest of the band wants to do stuff,” he grabbed his vodka away from me and slugged casually, “I am fucking sick of doing stuff. Everybody is doing stuff. I want to be different. I did something a while ago and I am still sick of it.” Casual, as always, long hand stand in a perfect hold, back triple summersault tuck, and the extremely straight minimal splash entry into the water.
A lot of people and fans our worried about your long time girlfriend, her being missing for six months now, and you seem unconcerned. Do you care to comment about that?
Stinky Fingers: “Dude, Whatever…” And then he sprinted into a really cool, and fun looking squirrel jump, he had a great hold, it seemed like it lasted ten seconds, his legs pulled behind his back. He was in fact gliding.
Everyone knows that you like to play different instruments; can we be expecting something other from you out of the next album?
Stinky Fingers: “Were gonna take a break on the interview for a while. Do me something titties and call the Concierge. Tell them Stinky Fingers is ready for his room service but I changed my mind on the order. Tell them, two blondes, and two brunettes, and any and all exotics. They will know what I’m talking about. I explained it to them in great detail earlier through a two hour conversation; the whole thing was kind of an ordeal. They just weren’t getting me.” He reached in my crotch and grabbed his “stash,” and went through it, “And tell them now.” He forced me to comply before we could continue the interview.
Is there a reason that all of your stage names our sexual? As in Stinky Fingers, Titty Bop, Anus Gun, Filatio Rose, and most notably Necrophilia Nick.
Stinky Fingers: Laid out in a beach chair, towel over his face except when drinking. “Yeah, there is a reason.”
Do you care to elaborate?
Stinky Fingers: “Well, we each like to attract a certain type of female,” eating out of his “stash” like it was a bag of M&M’s.
Doesn’t Anus Gun get sick of wearing only a towel around his waist for every show?
Stinky Fingers: “No.”
I mean the towel gets ripped off of him every show by some girl in a neon bathing suit.
Stinky fingers: “That’s kinda his point man. I wish I had thought of that one.”
What is the truth, about the dead and sodomized bluefin tuna found in the closet of your smashed up hotel room?
Stinky Fingers: “Who cares about the truth? I say it was Necrophilia Nick. See, we had a Pool Party show, and it was a salt water pool, so we thought we would make it a special show, you know, like, deep, and spiritual. Yeah? So, Titty Bop drum sticks thought it would be cool to bring in some wild animals. Yeah? Weird story short, Necrophilia Nick rape mouth job’ed one on my balcony.”
Mouth Job’ed a bluefin tuna?
Stinky Fingers: “Yeah. But, really, it wasn’t that weird. There was much weirder stuff going on in the room, than on the balcony. And besides, the bathroom, people barely could look inside without puking in there. So I mean it was relevant at the time. You see? Yeah?”
And, why did you jump from the third story window into a bush in order to try and get away?
Stinky Fingers: “See it was all relevant. All three hundred of us were trying to get away. It wasn’t even so important, it was more of a mood. Everyone got into it.” He shook his hair over one shoulder and began to pet it.
At this point in the interview, the drugs he had spiked my drink with (without my knowledge) had taken complete control of me, and I was forced to abandon the rest of the interview.
* * * * *
Yes, of Course Eddy Money Could Save The City of Lake Forest, But do we Have The Money to Pay Him to do it
Yes, in short, we do. However another but, but will we give it up? Sudden boredom is a real problem. There is no reason this town can not pay to have Eddie Money sleep at Gorton Community center every night, hand cuffed in the basement to play a show. Why not? It would be great. The last time he played Lake Forest I have not seen so many imposter mullets the next day on “cool” dads, dark sunglasses on wives, sheets in the washer, pants to the cleaners, deleted email addresses, ignored phone calls, plastic surgeries, called bars for missing credit cards, bloody Mary’s, and turned over mattresses. Eddy Money kicked this city in the balls. I went back to high school that night, literally, I tore down the goal post at Lindenmeyer field and smoked menthols till a girl noticed how many I had and I got laid on the fifty. My uncle has not worn a shirt since he picked me up in my tight letterman jacket at dawn and I puked on his Hawaiian shirt. My date never did get a ride home because the D.U.I took so long with all the screaming involved. “Do you know who the clitoris I am? I’m Eddie Fucking Moneys manager, that’s who… You Fucking Ant,” my uncle wobbled out a ton of good yarns while I fingered my date again. “Yeah, Eddie, Fucking, Money, Manager.”
“Yes, Mr. Money seems to have a lot of managers tonight.”
A friend of mine, Brian, even said he went down to the beach to crank some Eddie after the show, and ended up skinny dipping with some chicks from the college because he said he was a roadie. After blow jobs in the woods and shit, he said he got fresh and through a glass of beer in her face, and says it was the best night ever in this town. You can not find a guys bedroom in this town with out a Jesse Money poster above the bed, and an Eddie on the door.
I guess the police station was the place to be. All the best partiers in town were there, Bill Donlon in a cowboy hat, a straight jacket on Chip Whiteside, a muzzle latched to the jaws of Sheila Dennet. It was a blow out blast.
Reportedly, Eddie Money blew a blizzard of cocaine off of moms. So, you know they had fun. Its just what this town needed, and needs again. Lets put Eddie on call in our wine cellars. All we would have to get him is cool shirts, a hair stylist, and vodka-sea-breezes. That’s all he seems to require as a human. Maybe the occasional tambourine he breaks. Anyways, its my suggestion to the town, that we lock up Eddie Money at the Gorton Community center for our daily use. Even when he’s not scheduled to play, people could go look at him or drink beers all day with him. Thank you.
* * * * *
The Maroon Mustache
A romance language classic by: Captain S.
His Cadillac was maroon colored, interior and exterior. And so was his mustache. He drove from gas station to gas station across America to eat poorly, show off his wheels and face, and fuck the women America had to offer. He said gas stations were the cheapest places to look rich.
The Maroon Mustache was somewhere just inside of Wisconsin, near Kenosha. He pulled his maroon wheels into a white gas station with signs for cider and cold beer. He always parked blocking the front doors to the gas station. His first step was to ask for the bathroom key, for two reasons. One, to have it in case a woman needed it, and two, to have a room to bring a woman to.
A red head of no great appeal came in and was eyeing cigarette prices. The Maroon Mustache came right in behind her, sniffed her back, and then yelled at the gas attendant while pointing his gold watch to the pumps, “Are those pumps topped off, Damn it. They need to be. Do you understand? My god you must know absolutely nothing about gasoline, oil, and whiskey.” The attendant and the red head looked at him incredulously. He continued with pride, and now louder that he was sure he had an audience, “Make sure the gas pumps are topped off. And the premium gasoline, my god the premium, get some better premium gasoline. How many times must I tell you.” He gave a disbelieving face to the red head while pointing at the attendant. Then the Maroon Mustache put his arm around her back and led her outside, “How can I help you today, Miss? Never mind the carton of cigs, they are on me today. Sorry for the miss communication with the premium gasoline today,” he sighed, “you never know who you are hiring anymore.” He opened her car door and let her in and gently shut the door. The Maroon Mustache smiled at her like bull horns, “Say, I will be playing darts over at the closest bar to here tonight around 9:30 if you would like?”
Her chest perked up, “Its called the Meat Rack, I’ll be there at ten.”
She drove off, and the Maroon Mustache went back inside and bought some Red Man and a case of cold beer to stake out in the car. He would still hang on to the bathroom key, gas stations are open forever.
* * * * *
The Maroon mustache sat perched on top of his Cadillac and ate slim jims two at a time. His shirt was off, and as it turned out, his chest hair was a thick carpet mat of maroon fur. The New Mexico sun made his eyes squint like a lynx with mighty whiskers. The squinted eyes were just staring at the doors to the Mobil. Every time a man would come out he would wisp, “Finger-banging, ass-hole, son-of-a-dick,” and suck on some jerky juice, “Fuck.”
When a woman came out, he would swallow the two chunks of Slim-Jim whole, and smile his maroon bull horns straight over to her, wiping his jerky hands off on his mat. And he would say, “Listen,” and stare at her for a open ended three minutes, his whiskers in the wind just smiling like a mad dandy. “I think I am over this town. You might want to be to. The next town over is suppose to have the cheapest motel deals in the region. The amenities are 6*.” The maroon mustache grabbed her by the arm and brought her right up to the horns, “This here bristling ass whip under my nose isn’t just going to be talking all day, Mam.”
Her knees had become week, subtly shuttering in awe, “Put me in the car and take me with you, I cant walk, sir.”
“I would be delighted to, mam. I will just be getting some vodka for you from the Mobil, and I like to chew tobacco over blow jobs and news paper readings. Don’t mind giving me a minute?”
He let her arm go, and she collapsed to the floor panting, “Hwa, Hwa, Hwa,” like a butchers dog, and grabbing her groin rolling on the floor in a puddle of gasoline, “Lord, praise be to the light,” she looked to the sky.
The maroon mustache took his hunting knife out of its sheath and went inside to get the vodka, condoms, news papers, Slim-Jims, and chewing tobacco. He had only actually stabbed a few people, he usually just yelled really loud and slapped people around with the side of the blade, while he called himself, “The Maroon Comanche Mother Fucking Psycho.” He would always brag about how many pussy’s he had scalped, Forty-five under age balled vaginas, and three-hundred Mexican vaginas, enough Russians to make a suit out of, a winter hat and mittens from Brazilians, a fur top hat of Europeans, and a quilt of moms. When he left a gas station, he always peeled out and left tire marks, and honked and waved good-bye.
* * * * *
He sucked on a Slim-Jim like it was a cigar and his hands wrested in his jean pockets. The shirt had been popped off again. After the maroon mustache had fought three dogs in the ally he was hungry and kicked open the door to the gas station, and pointed his Slim-Jim at the attendant. “Give me one of those fancy hot dogs from the rack, along with the best mustard you got on the shelf, and a frozen fifth of vodka,” he shook the beef stick in the attendants face.
“No frozen vodka.”
The maroon mustaches face smudged, “Put it on ice, or in a snow cone moron.”
“Me no waitress.”
“You are not befit to be a gas station attendant.”
The attendants hands went up along his sides, “I don’t get?”
He chucked the Slim-Jim at his face, but it hit his shoulder, “Then make it warm, or put it in heavy cream, with kahlua, and stir it up, and hand it to me.”
“No. I don’t get?”
The maroon mustache took the attendant by the ears and bashed his head into the register, climbed over the counter and smashed every bottle of vodka but one over the back of the attendant. Twenty-two bottles of vodka. The maroon mustache wandered outside to wait for chicks, and put the hot dog to his maroon horns. He shined majestically in the sunlight.
* * * * *
Bio: Captain Shipwreck writes in speech patterns that use the inhaling and exhaling of breath to induce third eye visions. His inspiration for the work comes from adoring jerks, beach landscapes, and the taste of premium rum. He is currently rumored lost at sea along the equator.
Interview with the leader of the band: Stinky Fingers
The interview took place at a hotel pool, half in a beach chair, half on the high dive in-between gainers, triple lindys, jack hammers, cannon balls, flying squirrels, arch angels, pencil dives, flips back and forth, cherry bombs, belly flops, and a few Olympic quality beauties. I held his vodka in my left hand, and he had placed his “stash” in my underwear. He had hair way past his shoulders and was wearing a neon pink leopard print Speedo.
So do you think only playing at actual “Pool Parties” limits your playing?
Stinky Finger: “Not at all! If you aren’t willing to come to a pool party every time, than you just don’t get it.” He did eight jumps at the end of the board, and then finally into a beautifully leg straight, arms tucked flip. “And fuck’em if they don’t get it.”
Some say your band, although the following is decent, is not actually talented, but draws crowds for other reasons. What do you think about that?
Stinky Fingers: “Well we rock, I’m definite on that. But what we lack in talent is made up for with strippers, and heroin clouds, sure.” Sprint into a gainer.
Okay. Do you find it at all ridiculous that your band has a dress code for your Pool Party concerts, either neon colors or naked?
Stinky Fingers: “NO.” Dope fiend languidly walked into a god inspired back dive, full twist, straight position. “If you come to a Pool Party concert in a black fucking T-shirt I will spit on you.”
What do you have to say about your tattoos?
Stinky Fingers: “Fuck it, who cares if they are shitty. They are tats none the less. I still get boned for them.”
When is your next album going to come out?
Stinky Fingers: “Well, I say never. I want to ride the last one out. But, the rest of the band wants to do stuff,” he grabbed his vodka away from me and slugged casually, “I am fucking sick of doing stuff. Everybody is doing stuff. I want to be different. I did something a while ago and I am still sick of it.” Casual, as always, long hand stand in a perfect hold, back triple summersault tuck, and the extremely straight minimal splash entry into the water.
A lot of people and fans our worried about your long time girlfriend, her being missing for six months now, and you seem unconcerned. Do you care to comment about that?
Stinky Fingers: “Dude, Whatever…” And then he sprinted into a really cool, and fun looking squirrel jump, he had a great hold, it seemed like it lasted ten seconds, his legs pulled behind his back. He was in fact gliding.
Everyone knows that you like to play different instruments; can we be expecting something other from you out of the next album?
Stinky Fingers: “Were gonna take a break on the interview for a while. Do me something titties and call the Concierge. Tell them Stinky Fingers is ready for his room service but I changed my mind on the order. Tell them, two blondes, and two brunettes, and any and all exotics. They will know what I’m talking about. I explained it to them in great detail earlier through a two hour conversation; the whole thing was kind of an ordeal. They just weren’t getting me.” He reached in my crotch and grabbed his “stash,” and went through it, “And tell them now.” He forced me to comply before we could continue the interview.
Is there a reason that all of your stage names our sexual? As in Stinky Fingers, Titty Bop, Anus Gun, Filatio Rose, and most notably Necrophilia Nick.
Stinky Fingers: Laid out in a beach chair, towel over his face except when drinking. “Yeah, there is a reason.”
Do you care to elaborate?
Stinky Fingers: “Well, we each like to attract a certain type of female,” eating out of his “stash” like it was a bag of M&M’s.
Doesn’t Anus Gun get sick of wearing only a towel around his waist for every show?
Stinky Fingers: “No.”
I mean the towel gets ripped off of him every show by some girl in a neon bathing suit.
Stinky fingers: “That’s kinda his point man. I wish I had thought of that one.”
What is the truth, about the dead and sodomized bluefin tuna found in the closet of your smashed up hotel room?
Stinky Fingers: “Who cares about the truth? I say it was Necrophilia Nick. See, we had a Pool Party show, and it was a salt water pool, so we thought we would make it a special show, you know, like, deep, and spiritual. Yeah? So, Titty Bop drum sticks thought it would be cool to bring in some wild animals. Yeah? Weird story short, Necrophilia Nick rape mouth job’ed one on my balcony.”
Mouth Job’ed a bluefin tuna?
Stinky Fingers: “Yeah. But, really, it wasn’t that weird. There was much weirder stuff going on in the room, than on the balcony. And besides, the bathroom, people barely could look inside without puking in there. So I mean it was relevant at the time. You see? Yeah?”
And, why did you jump from the third story window into a bush in order to try and get away?
Stinky Fingers: “See it was all relevant. All three hundred of us were trying to get away. It wasn’t even so important, it was more of a mood. Everyone got into it.” He shook his hair over one shoulder and began to pet it.
At this point in the interview, the drugs he had spiked my drink with (without my knowledge) had taken complete control of me, and I was forced to abandon the rest of the interview.
* * * * *
Yes, of Course Eddy Money Could Save The City of Lake Forest, But do we Have The Money to Pay Him to do it
Yes, in short, we do. However another but, but will we give it up? Sudden boredom is a real problem. There is no reason this town can not pay to have Eddie Money sleep at Gorton Community center every night, hand cuffed in the basement to play a show. Why not? It would be great. The last time he played Lake Forest I have not seen so many imposter mullets the next day on “cool” dads, dark sunglasses on wives, sheets in the washer, pants to the cleaners, deleted email addresses, ignored phone calls, plastic surgeries, called bars for missing credit cards, bloody Mary’s, and turned over mattresses. Eddy Money kicked this city in the balls. I went back to high school that night, literally, I tore down the goal post at Lindenmeyer field and smoked menthols till a girl noticed how many I had and I got laid on the fifty. My uncle has not worn a shirt since he picked me up in my tight letterman jacket at dawn and I puked on his Hawaiian shirt. My date never did get a ride home because the D.U.I took so long with all the screaming involved. “Do you know who the clitoris I am? I’m Eddie Fucking Moneys manager, that’s who… You Fucking Ant,” my uncle wobbled out a ton of good yarns while I fingered my date again. “Yeah, Eddie, Fucking, Money, Manager.”
“Yes, Mr. Money seems to have a lot of managers tonight.”
A friend of mine, Brian, even said he went down to the beach to crank some Eddie after the show, and ended up skinny dipping with some chicks from the college because he said he was a roadie. After blow jobs in the woods and shit, he said he got fresh and through a glass of beer in her face, and says it was the best night ever in this town. You can not find a guys bedroom in this town with out a Jesse Money poster above the bed, and an Eddie on the door.
I guess the police station was the place to be. All the best partiers in town were there, Bill Donlon in a cowboy hat, a straight jacket on Chip Whiteside, a muzzle latched to the jaws of Sheila Dennet. It was a blow out blast.
Reportedly, Eddie Money blew a blizzard of cocaine off of moms. So, you know they had fun. Its just what this town needed, and needs again. Lets put Eddie on call in our wine cellars. All we would have to get him is cool shirts, a hair stylist, and vodka-sea-breezes. That’s all he seems to require as a human. Maybe the occasional tambourine he breaks. Anyways, its my suggestion to the town, that we lock up Eddie Money at the Gorton Community center for our daily use. Even when he’s not scheduled to play, people could go look at him or drink beers all day with him. Thank you.
* * * * *
The Maroon Mustache
A romance language classic by: Captain S.
His Cadillac was maroon colored, interior and exterior. And so was his mustache. He drove from gas station to gas station across America to eat poorly, show off his wheels and face, and fuck the women America had to offer. He said gas stations were the cheapest places to look rich.
The Maroon Mustache was somewhere just inside of Wisconsin, near Kenosha. He pulled his maroon wheels into a white gas station with signs for cider and cold beer. He always parked blocking the front doors to the gas station. His first step was to ask for the bathroom key, for two reasons. One, to have it in case a woman needed it, and two, to have a room to bring a woman to.
A red head of no great appeal came in and was eyeing cigarette prices. The Maroon Mustache came right in behind her, sniffed her back, and then yelled at the gas attendant while pointing his gold watch to the pumps, “Are those pumps topped off, Damn it. They need to be. Do you understand? My god you must know absolutely nothing about gasoline, oil, and whiskey.” The attendant and the red head looked at him incredulously. He continued with pride, and now louder that he was sure he had an audience, “Make sure the gas pumps are topped off. And the premium gasoline, my god the premium, get some better premium gasoline. How many times must I tell you.” He gave a disbelieving face to the red head while pointing at the attendant. Then the Maroon Mustache put his arm around her back and led her outside, “How can I help you today, Miss? Never mind the carton of cigs, they are on me today. Sorry for the miss communication with the premium gasoline today,” he sighed, “you never know who you are hiring anymore.” He opened her car door and let her in and gently shut the door. The Maroon Mustache smiled at her like bull horns, “Say, I will be playing darts over at the closest bar to here tonight around 9:30 if you would like?”
Her chest perked up, “Its called the Meat Rack, I’ll be there at ten.”
She drove off, and the Maroon Mustache went back inside and bought some Red Man and a case of cold beer to stake out in the car. He would still hang on to the bathroom key, gas stations are open forever.
* * * * *
The Maroon mustache sat perched on top of his Cadillac and ate slim jims two at a time. His shirt was off, and as it turned out, his chest hair was a thick carpet mat of maroon fur. The New Mexico sun made his eyes squint like a lynx with mighty whiskers. The squinted eyes were just staring at the doors to the Mobil. Every time a man would come out he would wisp, “Finger-banging, ass-hole, son-of-a-dick,” and suck on some jerky juice, “Fuck.”
When a woman came out, he would swallow the two chunks of Slim-Jim whole, and smile his maroon bull horns straight over to her, wiping his jerky hands off on his mat. And he would say, “Listen,” and stare at her for a open ended three minutes, his whiskers in the wind just smiling like a mad dandy. “I think I am over this town. You might want to be to. The next town over is suppose to have the cheapest motel deals in the region. The amenities are 6*.” The maroon mustache grabbed her by the arm and brought her right up to the horns, “This here bristling ass whip under my nose isn’t just going to be talking all day, Mam.”
Her knees had become week, subtly shuttering in awe, “Put me in the car and take me with you, I cant walk, sir.”
“I would be delighted to, mam. I will just be getting some vodka for you from the Mobil, and I like to chew tobacco over blow jobs and news paper readings. Don’t mind giving me a minute?”
He let her arm go, and she collapsed to the floor panting, “Hwa, Hwa, Hwa,” like a butchers dog, and grabbing her groin rolling on the floor in a puddle of gasoline, “Lord, praise be to the light,” she looked to the sky.
The maroon mustache took his hunting knife out of its sheath and went inside to get the vodka, condoms, news papers, Slim-Jims, and chewing tobacco. He had only actually stabbed a few people, he usually just yelled really loud and slapped people around with the side of the blade, while he called himself, “The Maroon Comanche Mother Fucking Psycho.” He would always brag about how many pussy’s he had scalped, Forty-five under age balled vaginas, and three-hundred Mexican vaginas, enough Russians to make a suit out of, a winter hat and mittens from Brazilians, a fur top hat of Europeans, and a quilt of moms. When he left a gas station, he always peeled out and left tire marks, and honked and waved good-bye.
* * * * *
He sucked on a Slim-Jim like it was a cigar and his hands wrested in his jean pockets. The shirt had been popped off again. After the maroon mustache had fought three dogs in the ally he was hungry and kicked open the door to the gas station, and pointed his Slim-Jim at the attendant. “Give me one of those fancy hot dogs from the rack, along with the best mustard you got on the shelf, and a frozen fifth of vodka,” he shook the beef stick in the attendants face.
“No frozen vodka.”
The maroon mustaches face smudged, “Put it on ice, or in a snow cone moron.”
“Me no waitress.”
“You are not befit to be a gas station attendant.”
The attendants hands went up along his sides, “I don’t get?”
He chucked the Slim-Jim at his face, but it hit his shoulder, “Then make it warm, or put it in heavy cream, with kahlua, and stir it up, and hand it to me.”
“No. I don’t get?”
The maroon mustache took the attendant by the ears and bashed his head into the register, climbed over the counter and smashed every bottle of vodka but one over the back of the attendant. Twenty-two bottles of vodka. The maroon mustache wandered outside to wait for chicks, and put the hot dog to his maroon horns. He shined majestically in the sunlight.
* * * * *
Bio: Captain Shipwreck writes in speech patterns that use the inhaling and exhaling of breath to induce third eye visions. His inspiration for the work comes from adoring jerks, beach landscapes, and the taste of premium rum. He is currently rumored lost at sea along the equator.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Hello ,
I am poet from India. Here is my poem for consideration.
Thank you for your time.
Regards
Subhankar Das
Animal Farm 3
As if she will pour the darkness out of her palm
This is the way of birth, the dawn breaks
The mad flight of stairs follow
To take away the alien stone from my face
The night ends folding lights
The wind is stripping off the skins of the walls
Soon, the lights from unknown planets
Will descend to swipe away the stony darkness
This intense fear grips me if I do not remove those
Why I do not know the magic incantation
Let the energies be collected to stifle the darkness
Let my hands get smeared with blood and froth
Tonight the rains slashed its way through the window
So many nights in search for those hands
Still I stand entangled in the night
Bio: Subhankar Das is a writer, publisher and film producer living in
Kolkata, India. He has publishd fourteen collections of poetry in
Bangla though his most recent collection The Streets, the Bubbles of
Grass, is published in English by his arts collective, Graffiti
Kolkata. He has translated Allen Ginsberg’s Howl into Bangla and is
the editor of the stark electric space..., an anthology of
international experimental writing. He has produced six short films
and owns a bookstore.
I am poet from India. Here is my poem for consideration.
Thank you for your time.
Regards
Subhankar Das
Animal Farm 3
As if she will pour the darkness out of her palm
This is the way of birth, the dawn breaks
The mad flight of stairs follow
To take away the alien stone from my face
The night ends folding lights
The wind is stripping off the skins of the walls
Soon, the lights from unknown planets
Will descend to swipe away the stony darkness
This intense fear grips me if I do not remove those
Why I do not know the magic incantation
Let the energies be collected to stifle the darkness
Let my hands get smeared with blood and froth
Tonight the rains slashed its way through the window
So many nights in search for those hands
Still I stand entangled in the night
Bio: Subhankar Das is a writer, publisher and film producer living in
Kolkata, India. He has publishd fourteen collections of poetry in
Bangla though his most recent collection The Streets, the Bubbles of
Grass, is published in English by his arts collective, Graffiti
Kolkata. He has translated Allen Ginsberg’s Howl into Bangla and is
the editor of the stark electric space..., an anthology of
international experimental writing. He has produced six short films
and owns a bookstore.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Deja Vu
Geopolitics
attack geopolitics
altering governments.
The secret war
A strategic endeavor
on a large-scale
tilts on its axis
as we're infiltrated.
Invaded
by this army
of coconspirators
conspiring to rule
the new world.
Sorting raids
the guerillas by night
guerillas by day,
quell rebellions.
Sudden strikes
attack the state.
A bloodless coup
never bloodless.
Politicide occurs
of bourgeois views.
Mass murder
déjà-vu.
All infantryman
skirmish in dark
armor and riot gear
toward democide.
THE END
The Anarchous
To misguide the nations into the great divide
endless oceans of embryon atoms collide
The confusion sets in amidst the battle cries
an eternal cattle list, to an illimitable war,
the boundless secret of the deep, dark hoar:
Lore is the immortal space without dimension,
that maze us mortals in Dementia
Gaze where time and place is lost
Chaos holds the Anarchous.
This Just In
The TV flashes
Propaganda, demonization with rumors
of child sacrifice. A perception
of a bleak future. Disinformation.
A culture feared and brainwashed.
An official declaration of war
inherent violence, troops deployed
outlet to prolong military conflicts,
displacing bias and hatred, top down views,
dictated by politics in different theatres.
The paranoid mentally unstable men launch
campaigns and battles, missiles and bombs.
Seize territory, annilhate the rival,
destroy the prosecutor, subjudicate the state,
commit mass genocide, nullify resistance,
spread pestilence, starvation, influence
until opposing forces desert or surrender.
But it is never over.
Peace never existed
Just time for preparation.
No way to escape it.
War will kill us all.
Accelerant destruction.
Termination, domination.
"For the mother land."
For death's demonstrations
to balance the power.
Diminute nations.
Control populations.
The incentive to deceive:
One man wants to rule us all
One man wants to level Carthage
One man wants to plunder gold
One man wants to gamble lies
The war acquires all our lives.
The people beg for food.
The soldiers position and shoot.
The heroes all get booed.
THE END
Before the End Came
My life is a spirit deep
under the surface of water
moving, separated.
A breath, my soul, the night
blasts darkness in the gloom,
the misty inking blackness.
Time sits in the middle
mourning mourn. The dark stirred
darkened, kindled the obscure.
Kindle is the darken apple.
Eye lids weigh heavily.
The pupils yearn.
Blackout like berries on Tuesday
flies and the skies,
the fear of Bart and
Benjamin Franklin's book
the killer 13,
imitate Jesus and Socrates.
The blemished marks are developing holes.
They have blackened my boots
and the blacksmith made me a chain.
I can taste your Judgment Day.
THE END
Vein of Taunt
Now we see in a dim-mirror, darkly,
a riddle but then face to face.
Partial, yet, fully known-eternity.
A broken reflection of the truth
clear and polished like a simile.
Darkon scatterer uncertainly derived.
The ancient hands of language touch
alluding nothingness, the wicked walk.
THE END
Bring this butterfly to the temple
at the present, on the double.
Ask this of the Bible,
Was I correct when I assumed
the Dark Day would be all gloom?
And if promise walks with Yahweh
in the dark and on doomsday,
when He is discernibly nothing,
then to Him am I also missing?
Or is everything pretending to be
as visionaries have Utopian dreams?
Should I believe amongst the bluster,
another serf stranded as a dreamer,
dreaming the dreams within my grip
on the brilliant seeds of saintship?
Virtue's too scarce! The Snake writhes
constant manipulation for the tithes.
As I bawl, they worship Baal.
O divine deiform, is religion in a clamp?
Could you light a lighter lamp?
Or is everything pretending to be
as visionaries have Utopian dreams?
THE END OF ENDINGS
James Dye
Geopolitics
attack geopolitics
altering governments.
The secret war
A strategic endeavor
on a large-scale
tilts on its axis
as we're infiltrated.
Invaded
by this army
of coconspirators
conspiring to rule
the new world.
Sorting raids
the guerillas by night
guerillas by day,
quell rebellions.
Sudden strikes
attack the state.
A bloodless coup
never bloodless.
Politicide occurs
of bourgeois views.
Mass murder
déjà-vu.
All infantryman
skirmish in dark
armor and riot gear
toward democide.
THE END
The Anarchous
To misguide the nations into the great divide
endless oceans of embryon atoms collide
The confusion sets in amidst the battle cries
an eternal cattle list, to an illimitable war,
the boundless secret of the deep, dark hoar:
Lore is the immortal space without dimension,
that maze us mortals in Dementia
Gaze where time and place is lost
Chaos holds the Anarchous.
This Just In
The TV flashes
Propaganda, demonization with rumors
of child sacrifice. A perception
of a bleak future. Disinformation.
A culture feared and brainwashed.
An official declaration of war
inherent violence, troops deployed
outlet to prolong military conflicts,
displacing bias and hatred, top down views,
dictated by politics in different theatres.
The paranoid mentally unstable men launch
campaigns and battles, missiles and bombs.
Seize territory, annilhate the rival,
destroy the prosecutor, subjudicate the state,
commit mass genocide, nullify resistance,
spread pestilence, starvation, influence
until opposing forces desert or surrender.
But it is never over.
Peace never existed
Just time for preparation.
No way to escape it.
War will kill us all.
Accelerant destruction.
Termination, domination.
"For the mother land."
For death's demonstrations
to balance the power.
Diminute nations.
Control populations.
The incentive to deceive:
One man wants to rule us all
One man wants to level Carthage
One man wants to plunder gold
One man wants to gamble lies
The war acquires all our lives.
The people beg for food.
The soldiers position and shoot.
The heroes all get booed.
THE END
Before the End Came
My life is a spirit deep
under the surface of water
moving, separated.
A breath, my soul, the night
blasts darkness in the gloom,
the misty inking blackness.
Time sits in the middle
mourning mourn. The dark stirred
darkened, kindled the obscure.
Kindle is the darken apple.
Eye lids weigh heavily.
The pupils yearn.
Blackout like berries on Tuesday
flies and the skies,
the fear of Bart and
Benjamin Franklin's book
the killer 13,
imitate Jesus and Socrates.
The blemished marks are developing holes.
They have blackened my boots
and the blacksmith made me a chain.
I can taste your Judgment Day.
THE END
Vein of Taunt
Now we see in a dim-mirror, darkly,
a riddle but then face to face.
Partial, yet, fully known-eternity.
A broken reflection of the truth
clear and polished like a simile.
Darkon scatterer uncertainly derived.
The ancient hands of language touch
alluding nothingness, the wicked walk.
THE END
Bring this butterfly to the temple
at the present, on the double.
Ask this of the Bible,
Was I correct when I assumed
the Dark Day would be all gloom?
And if promise walks with Yahweh
in the dark and on doomsday,
when He is discernibly nothing,
then to Him am I also missing?
Or is everything pretending to be
as visionaries have Utopian dreams?
Should I believe amongst the bluster,
another serf stranded as a dreamer,
dreaming the dreams within my grip
on the brilliant seeds of saintship?
Virtue's too scarce! The Snake writhes
constant manipulation for the tithes.
As I bawl, they worship Baal.
O divine deiform, is religion in a clamp?
Could you light a lighter lamp?
Or is everything pretending to be
as visionaries have Utopian dreams?
THE END OF ENDINGS
James Dye
Friday, March 11, 2011
I have taught in the Department of English at Appalachian State University, in Boone, North Carolina, since 1989, and work in the area of World Literature, with particular interest in Asian culture, literature and philosophy, as well as Latin American literature. I have co-edited An Introduction to Chinese Culture through the Family (SUNY Press, 2001), and edited a volume of Chinese folktales (NTC / Contemporary, 1997), as well as written articles on Argentinean writer Jorge Luis Borges and published poetry. I have taught in Asia, Africa, Europe, and Latin America, and live with my wife Vicki in Millers Creek, North Carolina.
SAVANNAH
Rounding the hill it came into view
Clouds and earth
There are moments
When the body drops away
Then vision slowly settles back
But something remains
Plotinus and Emerson
Tell us so.
WAKING
In the light of memory
This has its charms
Only in memory mind you
Though as time passes
Memory becomes all
Damp air, rhythmic pattering
Of drops drumming
Musky scent of decaying leaves.
SUMMER
A slit of blue in a canopy of green
Fire tower in the distance
You think about your life
The future which seems
Unfairly out of reach
Like fine strands of blown glass
Now out of the flame
You pass the night in a
Small shelter
In a clearing by a stream
Making a fire by night
Then settling down to sleep
Listening to insects and
Night creatures.
CANOEING THE DELAWARE
The torrent’s violent
Crests and eddies
Suck and push
Yet there’s a
Palpable joy
In the wind
The river breathes
A multitude of things
As the shore
Slides along
Rocks diving
And bobbing.
GIZA
Slanted passageway to the
king’s burial
chamber; stone sarcophagus perfect
center
you and I and a gaggle of tourists
in this womb
visible from space
a hole for pharaoh’s soul to
rocket skyward
later we wandered Cairo markets and
sipped tea.
MEDITATION
Snow piled high
Warm inside beside the stove
Sitting breathing being waiting
For the bell to ring
Snow piled high it’s warm inside
Quiet mind
Snow is falling
Mind is wind and falling snow
Snow piled high outside the zendo
Sitting breathing dreaming falling
Snow is drifting wind is blowing
Trees are swaying night has fallen.
Howard Giskin
SAVANNAH
Rounding the hill it came into view
Clouds and earth
There are moments
When the body drops away
Then vision slowly settles back
But something remains
Plotinus and Emerson
Tell us so.
WAKING
In the light of memory
This has its charms
Only in memory mind you
Though as time passes
Memory becomes all
Damp air, rhythmic pattering
Of drops drumming
Musky scent of decaying leaves.
SUMMER
A slit of blue in a canopy of green
Fire tower in the distance
You think about your life
The future which seems
Unfairly out of reach
Like fine strands of blown glass
Now out of the flame
You pass the night in a
Small shelter
In a clearing by a stream
Making a fire by night
Then settling down to sleep
Listening to insects and
Night creatures.
CANOEING THE DELAWARE
The torrent’s violent
Crests and eddies
Suck and push
Yet there’s a
Palpable joy
In the wind
The river breathes
A multitude of things
As the shore
Slides along
Rocks diving
And bobbing.
GIZA
Slanted passageway to the
king’s burial
chamber; stone sarcophagus perfect
center
you and I and a gaggle of tourists
in this womb
visible from space
a hole for pharaoh’s soul to
rocket skyward
later we wandered Cairo markets and
sipped tea.
MEDITATION
Snow piled high
Warm inside beside the stove
Sitting breathing being waiting
For the bell to ring
Snow piled high it’s warm inside
Quiet mind
Snow is falling
Mind is wind and falling snow
Snow piled high outside the zendo
Sitting breathing dreaming falling
Snow is drifting wind is blowing
Trees are swaying night has fallen.
Howard Giskin
Thursday, March 10, 2011
On Utopia Parkway
Cornell’s boxes keep getting
Smaller.
The space inside
Keeps
Getting Larger.
He turns a dusty jar into
A warehouse of light.
A blue comb
A gray marble.
A copper penny,
Pose on the rim of nowhere.
His ruler measures
Eternity in inches.
Greens no explorer ever found
Quiver in boxed shadows.
Discarded galaxies
Sift through a spider web.
The old man peers at his own sun,
Through a window no larger
Than a thumb tack -- clutches A book to his ear, listening
To the endless hive of words.
Mystery is no farther away
Than the robin taking forever
To rise
From the sky hatching
In his cupped
Hands
Greco Coast, Lorca Life
A child's
Moving fist
Traces
Its mother's
Tired veined
Wrist
Along the town’s
Groggy shadow
Bells burnt with cork
Burst,
Burn down
White heights,
Puncturing
Canopies
Of silence
With wish, ash
And winds of whisper.
Spanish houses
Adobe blister
Their way
Through another
Mediterranean
Day.
Castilian shadows
Muscle and crack
Against an Andalusian
Wall.
Wild flowers
Twist and madly
Blue
Hard Feelings
Could be the name of a town
Out in the Mojave,
A place to gas up,
Buy a cold drink and look around;
Telling yourself,
“I sure wouldn’t want to live here.”
But someone
Overhears your thoughts,
And your troubles begin.
Years later, an Eagle Scout ducking behind
A boulder to piss, finds your skull
Emptied of everything.
So when you see the sign,
Keep driving
Even if you do run out of gas.
Even if you have to walk for a while
In the blistering sun,
Someone will stop and give you a ride.
Someone always does.
Leon Spiellieart
The vacant dining room,
The barren beach,
The deserted bedroom,
Those curtains held back by
The wind to reveal
The nowhere of everywhere,
Where did you take the people
You removed from the scenes
You painted?
Everyone has vanished
Down the wooden tunnel of your brush.
At the end of your life
It is said
Your appeared in photographs
With the calm gaze of an exploder
Back from where
No one had been before;
Offering proof in your faint smile
Absence was a disease from
Which you eventually recovered.
Piranese's Prison Drawings
An architect of solitude
Built us a home
Inside no where’s vast address.
The vertical prisons we stare
Into: enormous stone mirrors
Standing up, reflecting us
Alone in prison.
Our stares of comprehension: Shadows begging
Light from walls.
Our words of understanding, Endless spiral
Staircases we mount and follow
Out of view. Wearying
From such a climb, Wanting release from this labyrinth In black & white
We pause, gaze down and see
Only the landscape of darkness.
At the bottom of it all, his name
Glistens in the corner, like a key
Dropped from a great height.
Amy Ginnetti
Cornell’s boxes keep getting
Smaller.
The space inside
Keeps
Getting Larger.
He turns a dusty jar into
A warehouse of light.
A blue comb
A gray marble.
A copper penny,
Pose on the rim of nowhere.
His ruler measures
Eternity in inches.
Greens no explorer ever found
Quiver in boxed shadows.
Discarded galaxies
Sift through a spider web.
The old man peers at his own sun,
Through a window no larger
Than a thumb tack -- clutches A book to his ear, listening
To the endless hive of words.
Mystery is no farther away
Than the robin taking forever
To rise
From the sky hatching
In his cupped
Hands
Greco Coast, Lorca Life
A child's
Moving fist
Traces
Its mother's
Tired veined
Wrist
Along the town’s
Groggy shadow
Bells burnt with cork
Burst,
Burn down
White heights,
Puncturing
Canopies
Of silence
With wish, ash
And winds of whisper.
Spanish houses
Adobe blister
Their way
Through another
Mediterranean
Day.
Castilian shadows
Muscle and crack
Against an Andalusian
Wall.
Wild flowers
Twist and madly
Blue
Hard Feelings
Could be the name of a town
Out in the Mojave,
A place to gas up,
Buy a cold drink and look around;
Telling yourself,
“I sure wouldn’t want to live here.”
But someone
Overhears your thoughts,
And your troubles begin.
Years later, an Eagle Scout ducking behind
A boulder to piss, finds your skull
Emptied of everything.
So when you see the sign,
Keep driving
Even if you do run out of gas.
Even if you have to walk for a while
In the blistering sun,
Someone will stop and give you a ride.
Someone always does.
Leon Spiellieart
The vacant dining room,
The barren beach,
The deserted bedroom,
Those curtains held back by
The wind to reveal
The nowhere of everywhere,
Where did you take the people
You removed from the scenes
You painted?
Everyone has vanished
Down the wooden tunnel of your brush.
At the end of your life
It is said
Your appeared in photographs
With the calm gaze of an exploder
Back from where
No one had been before;
Offering proof in your faint smile
Absence was a disease from
Which you eventually recovered.
Piranese's Prison Drawings
An architect of solitude
Built us a home
Inside no where’s vast address.
The vertical prisons we stare
Into: enormous stone mirrors
Standing up, reflecting us
Alone in prison.
Our stares of comprehension: Shadows begging
Light from walls.
Our words of understanding, Endless spiral
Staircases we mount and follow
Out of view. Wearying
From such a climb, Wanting release from this labyrinth In black & white
We pause, gaze down and see
Only the landscape of darkness.
At the bottom of it all, his name
Glistens in the corner, like a key
Dropped from a great height.
Amy Ginnetti
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 100 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past two years. I am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 450 poems, 270 short stories, and 82 pieces of art in over 128 periodicals, books and anthologies. I have been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. Also I recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. I have been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Thailand and India. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association. I hope you enjoy my work. (My art is viewable at face book, will806095@bellsouth.net)
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com
* Website- Ravenswont.blogspot.com
* Website- FarthermostDream.Blogspot.Com
Sincerely
Ron Koppelberger
Soot umbra
Dampened in tomes of song
And Cheshire trust, the desolate strife of cadavers
In cool enclosures of verdant moss.
A chrysalis, a cocoon in butterfly
Assumptions and unrevealed assay.
The orphan adornments in screams of garden
Snow shine scenery and scarlet patent.
A piece of heaven and a dollop of demon passage,
A charcoal and soot umbra in Siberian ice.
Disheveled Cur
Roaring thought and soils of cost,
A philosophy of vapor and due, a disheveled
Cur in devotions of choice,
Companion and direction.
The border of amusement
And importance,
A mischief in running
Cockeyed temper.
Blooming Sedition
Provided and uncovered by the fortune
Of bearing and boast,
A rare host, a thrill in skills of traveling devotion
And repealed boundless emotion, a referee in fees of fate and spirits
Late , born in berths of occasion and addition, in
blooming sedition.
Wild Wolf
The mournful conviction of love’s desolate
Abandon and passion’s swelling penance,
The useful rant and roar in searing tinder
And special races of tender contrition, the intimate
Whisper in assay and allay, a developing sufferance
In slavering raves and wild wolf fascination.
Brandy Wine
Cultivated by the birth of quiet reserve and parallels in
Desire, in wont. A find in essential parapets of stone
And entrance to decline, an unencumbered
Momentum defined by the eyes of maiden fray
And flaw, by signatures in dust and selfless
Oblivion, initiated in castles and chateaus’, in cool
Crystal goblets framed by flags and brandy wine.
By the Birth of Roosters
Emerging in hesitant expectation of sunshine and dawn’s
Cool mist, guided by the birth of Roosters’ and babies
In real realms of consciousness and loving embrace,
By destiny and amber tuft, by the allowance of cries in nascent
Brilliance, the shape of betrothal unto the day, unto the will
Of laughter and barnyard bassinets‘.
Ron Koppelberger
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com
* Website- Ravenswont.blogspot.com
* Website- FarthermostDream.Blogspot.Com
Sincerely
Ron Koppelberger
Soot umbra
Dampened in tomes of song
And Cheshire trust, the desolate strife of cadavers
In cool enclosures of verdant moss.
A chrysalis, a cocoon in butterfly
Assumptions and unrevealed assay.
The orphan adornments in screams of garden
Snow shine scenery and scarlet patent.
A piece of heaven and a dollop of demon passage,
A charcoal and soot umbra in Siberian ice.
Disheveled Cur
Roaring thought and soils of cost,
A philosophy of vapor and due, a disheveled
Cur in devotions of choice,
Companion and direction.
The border of amusement
And importance,
A mischief in running
Cockeyed temper.
Blooming Sedition
Provided and uncovered by the fortune
Of bearing and boast,
A rare host, a thrill in skills of traveling devotion
And repealed boundless emotion, a referee in fees of fate and spirits
Late , born in berths of occasion and addition, in
blooming sedition.
Wild Wolf
The mournful conviction of love’s desolate
Abandon and passion’s swelling penance,
The useful rant and roar in searing tinder
And special races of tender contrition, the intimate
Whisper in assay and allay, a developing sufferance
In slavering raves and wild wolf fascination.
Brandy Wine
Cultivated by the birth of quiet reserve and parallels in
Desire, in wont. A find in essential parapets of stone
And entrance to decline, an unencumbered
Momentum defined by the eyes of maiden fray
And flaw, by signatures in dust and selfless
Oblivion, initiated in castles and chateaus’, in cool
Crystal goblets framed by flags and brandy wine.
By the Birth of Roosters
Emerging in hesitant expectation of sunshine and dawn’s
Cool mist, guided by the birth of Roosters’ and babies
In real realms of consciousness and loving embrace,
By destiny and amber tuft, by the allowance of cries in nascent
Brilliance, the shape of betrothal unto the day, unto the will
Of laughter and barnyard bassinets‘.
Ron Koppelberger
Ben Nardolilli is a twenty five year old writer currently living in Montclair, New Jersey. His work has appeared in the Houston Literary Review, Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, One Ghana One Voice, Caper Literary Journal, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, Poems Niederngasse, Gold Dust, Scythe, Anemone Sidecar, The Delmarva Review, Contemporary American Voices, the Eudaimonia Poetry Review, Gloom Cupboard, Shakespeare’s Monkey Revue, Black Words on White Paper, and Beltway Poetry Quarterly. In addition he maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish my first novel.
Better Than Anything
Finally, we settled our wishing
Well of glasses joined
On health, there was agreement,
Except for the dualist
In the corner, who smoked himself
Into thoughts, we
Beat on upon that haze,
(I think he did not want the temptation
Of skin and bones alone
Making a good enough home)
And though some of us turned
(As I did)
Away from talk of wealth,
We all could not reject
A body sturdy as bronze,
With no hollow ring to it.
Associative Narratives and Tunes
We entered a line for line,
Fluent in the best known,
Eyes in interest
Over exquisite archaic costumes
Tricky to explore,
We found each other
By an ordinary tree,
Goddesses
Cleft from this point:
Pygmalion, Demeter, Eurydice,
We continued monologues
And dreamy reliance
On our cadences
One Day
One day, young poet,
Words will not be enough,
You must throw away
Thy pen and walk.
I got colors,
But no visions,
Cannot verify change,
Only purchase.
Tear stained pages,
Ink stained pillows,
You’ve got things wrong,
You fill a shelf with books
But not with pictures.
You ask me to forget,
But I never said you had to remember.
I’ve kept the old testaments alive
With a sea of allusions
If you must use your evening
For the day's lament,
Leave the night free
To focus on your intent.
I’m turning off the computer
And getting to bed,
To cover myself with night
And let the laptop have its dreams.
Handling the Future
Some people greet the future in funny voices,
They bend down and make faces,
Hoping the future will remember them
With a memory that puts a warm frame
Around the face they make red for the forthcoming.
And others play hide and seek, a few
Who want the future to grow up quickly,
Set up checkered boards and fight
Callous battles where armies of ivory and ebony
Perish to their delight, and they let the future cheat.
The strict people tell the future to keep quiet,
Tell the future to stay still, hand it pills
They play old songs for the future to learn,
They knit it fine clothes to keep it covered.
And some are very good, always cleaning up
After the yet-to-come, they do it
With a smile and hands that grow coarse,
They live on a daydream that wafts
Through their labor, the closest to intoxication
They know, one day they hope the future
Will feel guilty and look after them.
Police are always on the lookout for those
Who never care about the future,
They watch television all day, make no meals,
Patch up no leaky roofs, they are terrible
With love and affection, and the future
Often sees them with spots on their arm,
Or an empty glass vial in hand.
Personals Ad #47
There is no law against Jonathan,
Because he makes his laws,
Each night he comes down a mountain
And takes two tablets in the morning,
His sins, his crimes, all pass
Through the beaded curtains of dreams,
Remorse turns to reason,
And then he is fine again, free
To live as dictator of his dictates,
But his body o’ flaws ends at his body,
Jonathan is an auto-jurisdiction,
His constitution is strong,
He knows it well, walks on footnotes,
He is leviathan of his commonwealth,
All Jonathans are equal before his law,
He tips the scales and makes them even,
It’s a small kingdom
(It grows from time to time)
But admire him,
He is sovereign somewhere.
Proud to Say
Superficially, there have to be the scrapes,
The abrasions, injuries to spiritual knees,
A job, position, or role leaving me,
One potential after another going to another,
A small desire ripped apart from the skin
And leaving behind only a red mark,
So many small reminders of old attachments,
I am proud to say these disappointments
Left only polka dots on my handkerchief.
Bachelor’s Decree
You have not suffered,
You have not apologized,
You have not come to regret
All that you broke away
Without giving me the chance
To go out and respond.
I do not forgive you, because
You do not need the release,
You look happy enough
In the life you are leading
Every day farther away,
You have no need for me at all.
I only want to do what you
Have already done,
To forget about you and go on,
Able to make a distance
That I can spread out over
And call an accomplishment.
Ben Nardolilli
Better Than Anything
Finally, we settled our wishing
Well of glasses joined
On health, there was agreement,
Except for the dualist
In the corner, who smoked himself
Into thoughts, we
Beat on upon that haze,
(I think he did not want the temptation
Of skin and bones alone
Making a good enough home)
And though some of us turned
(As I did)
Away from talk of wealth,
We all could not reject
A body sturdy as bronze,
With no hollow ring to it.
Associative Narratives and Tunes
We entered a line for line,
Fluent in the best known,
Eyes in interest
Over exquisite archaic costumes
Tricky to explore,
We found each other
By an ordinary tree,
Goddesses
Cleft from this point:
Pygmalion, Demeter, Eurydice,
We continued monologues
And dreamy reliance
On our cadences
One Day
One day, young poet,
Words will not be enough,
You must throw away
Thy pen and walk.
I got colors,
But no visions,
Cannot verify change,
Only purchase.
Tear stained pages,
Ink stained pillows,
You’ve got things wrong,
You fill a shelf with books
But not with pictures.
You ask me to forget,
But I never said you had to remember.
I’ve kept the old testaments alive
With a sea of allusions
If you must use your evening
For the day's lament,
Leave the night free
To focus on your intent.
I’m turning off the computer
And getting to bed,
To cover myself with night
And let the laptop have its dreams.
Handling the Future
Some people greet the future in funny voices,
They bend down and make faces,
Hoping the future will remember them
With a memory that puts a warm frame
Around the face they make red for the forthcoming.
And others play hide and seek, a few
Who want the future to grow up quickly,
Set up checkered boards and fight
Callous battles where armies of ivory and ebony
Perish to their delight, and they let the future cheat.
The strict people tell the future to keep quiet,
Tell the future to stay still, hand it pills
They play old songs for the future to learn,
They knit it fine clothes to keep it covered.
And some are very good, always cleaning up
After the yet-to-come, they do it
With a smile and hands that grow coarse,
They live on a daydream that wafts
Through their labor, the closest to intoxication
They know, one day they hope the future
Will feel guilty and look after them.
Police are always on the lookout for those
Who never care about the future,
They watch television all day, make no meals,
Patch up no leaky roofs, they are terrible
With love and affection, and the future
Often sees them with spots on their arm,
Or an empty glass vial in hand.
Personals Ad #47
There is no law against Jonathan,
Because he makes his laws,
Each night he comes down a mountain
And takes two tablets in the morning,
His sins, his crimes, all pass
Through the beaded curtains of dreams,
Remorse turns to reason,
And then he is fine again, free
To live as dictator of his dictates,
But his body o’ flaws ends at his body,
Jonathan is an auto-jurisdiction,
His constitution is strong,
He knows it well, walks on footnotes,
He is leviathan of his commonwealth,
All Jonathans are equal before his law,
He tips the scales and makes them even,
It’s a small kingdom
(It grows from time to time)
But admire him,
He is sovereign somewhere.
Proud to Say
Superficially, there have to be the scrapes,
The abrasions, injuries to spiritual knees,
A job, position, or role leaving me,
One potential after another going to another,
A small desire ripped apart from the skin
And leaving behind only a red mark,
So many small reminders of old attachments,
I am proud to say these disappointments
Left only polka dots on my handkerchief.
Bachelor’s Decree
You have not suffered,
You have not apologized,
You have not come to regret
All that you broke away
Without giving me the chance
To go out and respond.
I do not forgive you, because
You do not need the release,
You look happy enough
In the life you are leading
Every day farther away,
You have no need for me at all.
I only want to do what you
Have already done,
To forget about you and go on,
Able to make a distance
That I can spread out over
And call an accomplishment.
Ben Nardolilli
Michael Bruce Foster was born and raised in California. A retired veteran of the US Air Force, he has been writing poetry for over 47 years. He has been published in numerous publications, including Record Magazine, Mobius The Poetry Magazine, Bear Creek Haiku, and Pasque Petals. His first book of poetry, "Violin Memories", was published in Sep 2010, by Publish America. He lives in Rapid City, SD, with his wife Ruth and two youngest daughters, Kamerra and Kolleen.
Skin
Old Age covers me,
like a snake ready
to shed its skin.
The only way I can
shed mine, is die.
Gargling Light
For a long moment
I listened to the window
gargling light, and I
thought the sun would
burst out laughing.
But the window stopped,
and the sun went on
to more important things.
You, at 29
(For Ruth)
I remember you sitting
in that square in Munich,
the one with the Glockenspiel clock.
Your face turned towards
me, those big sunglasses
and beautiful lips. Your
long brown hair in love
with the light.
Absurdity
On a street corner in
Rapid City, SD
Richard Nixon sits on
a high backed chair, his head
and shoulders covered with snow,
his metal finger tips touching,
as though he is contemplating
the absurdity of it all.
Last Waltz
In the park an old couple
waltz barefooted in the summer
grass. She, leading tenderly,
he, unable to remember her name.
Their smiles the only memories
that matter.
A Single Snowflake Fell
A single snowflake
fell last winter.
It landed on the
face of a dead
girl, missing in
the woods. She was
found in February,
the snowflake still
keeping watch.
Skin
Old Age covers me,
like a snake ready
to shed its skin.
The only way I can
shed mine, is die.
Gargling Light
For a long moment
I listened to the window
gargling light, and I
thought the sun would
burst out laughing.
But the window stopped,
and the sun went on
to more important things.
You, at 29
(For Ruth)
I remember you sitting
in that square in Munich,
the one with the Glockenspiel clock.
Your face turned towards
me, those big sunglasses
and beautiful lips. Your
long brown hair in love
with the light.
Absurdity
On a street corner in
Rapid City, SD
Richard Nixon sits on
a high backed chair, his head
and shoulders covered with snow,
his metal finger tips touching,
as though he is contemplating
the absurdity of it all.
Last Waltz
In the park an old couple
waltz barefooted in the summer
grass. She, leading tenderly,
he, unable to remember her name.
Their smiles the only memories
that matter.
A Single Snowflake Fell
A single snowflake
fell last winter.
It landed on the
face of a dead
girl, missing in
the woods. She was
found in February,
the snowflake still
keeping watch.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
THE SUBURBAN SAMHAIN
Arching my back to retrieve every last morsel,
plucking that box of mementos from under my bed.
Pissing sunlight aerating my reluctant dream,
through a window set authoritatively over my head.
Clawing calico tumblers spinning a fire rug.
Cooling autumn breeze coaxes my pray for quiet.
Timing a reason, for a time of some reason;
reasoning with myself as I attempt a guess.
The snake parade barely makes the soft corner.
Silly schoolyard plays for our reluctant dead.
Applauding round steamy cups of flavor,
warming my insides with weekend-baked bread.
Smelling the taste of damp flattened leaves,
lurching for supremacy with our tricks and our treats.
Shaking to unload the night-hijacked bounty.
Tabulating pirate counts we still have to beat.
Running with Andy to the end of endurance…
(or ‘til 9:15, three blocks over).
Slipping sheet slipping on my 12year-old poundage;
pretending ‘Little Jon’ loyalty that last day of October.
Surrendering to feelings I forget I forgot.
Rippling Polaroid shows the smile I’ve misplaced.
Leaving Andy to run Sisyphean circles in rhythm.
Throwing up my hands to save time and save face.
Resting that box back to its casket.
Shaking to the breeze in my cold solid condo.
Twisting insomnia, sweat on my pillow.
For when Halloween dies, when will I follow?
GOOD RED WINE
Now, forever, in the sudden summer rain,
I released the line of worn orange silk.
Across the fluted expanse of this new river,
dancing a quick jig as my makeshift boat floated.
Who was that likeness made under me?
I was asked to carry, but not told his name.
When hired I had replied, “For a price, I will travel anyplace.
My luggage is inconsequential, my destination only an end.”
It was a gray three days, but we made the most of it;
silence is a welcome treat for a rusted heart.
He allowed me a fine supper from his wares.
“Contraband on my boat?” I teased, but he only smiled.
There was a contact that met us.
With no handshake, leading us to three tethered steeds.
I commented about the downpour, but only the forest had ears.
Our guide never once looked behind.
I had no care to meet my employer.
I had since puzzled through the hierarchy here.
The man from the castle greeted me wearing a mask of blue velvet.
My charge and our guide gathered the horses inside the drawbridge.
For what seemed like hours-but surely only minutes-
I waited in that mist with the tall man in the blue covering.
He lifted his hand and from it fell another bag of gold:
“Leave before you must stay,” he said and turned.
I rode the horse left me and galloped towards the bay.
I left the horse, then saddled the calm sea.
My hungry boat ignored me, a jealous mistress.
But in the storm I drank from a bottle of good red wine I could now well afford.
THE SMELL AT THE BACK OF YOUR NECK
I see you go out.
All is not well with my wanting;
my fingers stretch to his car,
my eyes burn through his metallic paint,
my fat prick dents his brittle, brand new, short bumper.
Where is his tongue in the dark when you cry that you need me, yet you don’t even know my real name...I am only a symbol to you.
A symbol who watches as you go out.
A symbol that yearns for the smell at the back of your neck.
FOR THE RECORD
Gold records were sent beyond the way out.
A Voyage of hope, a welcoming shout.
From a simple planet, full of people with ears.
Computes listening, for years upon years.
Finally a sign, from uncharted space.
At long last, an alien face.
Interpreted signals the scientists read:
“When you get the time, send more Chuck Berry!”
IN THE LOUVRE
There is a story about Picasso some years ago...
Seems there was a guard, walking his rounds though the Louvre; that big museum in Paris-the too tight city of temper and cigarettes-who stumbled upon an intruder; a gray haired defacer, actually applying fresh paint to one of the Picassos!
Horrified and alerted the guard reaches the old man, quickly disconnecting the fellow from his crime-which of course was no crime at all since the old man was (as you have already guessed, you were always so much quicker then I) Picasso!
When asked for an explanation, the old master replied:
“It’s never finished” or words to that effect; illustrating my point, that...
One can grow very tired attempting to make passable the fruits of diligent unwavering labor, but most people will scoff and regard that fruit indulgent geometric bullshit anyway, and they’ll hang the stuff you think really abysmal, dull and ‘unfinished’ under the brightest lights.
HER BREASTS
I have lost
the ability
to recall
the exact
picture
of her breasts.
Maybe too much time has passed
or there are simply too many other things occupying my mind these days.
Either way.
I have forgotten what her breasts looked like.
It is a bit disconcerting
when I consider
that her breasts
were at one time
the very nectar of my existence.
How could what I once needed to sustain my very life
now be impossible for me to recall?
Ralph Greco
Arching my back to retrieve every last morsel,
plucking that box of mementos from under my bed.
Pissing sunlight aerating my reluctant dream,
through a window set authoritatively over my head.
Clawing calico tumblers spinning a fire rug.
Cooling autumn breeze coaxes my pray for quiet.
Timing a reason, for a time of some reason;
reasoning with myself as I attempt a guess.
The snake parade barely makes the soft corner.
Silly schoolyard plays for our reluctant dead.
Applauding round steamy cups of flavor,
warming my insides with weekend-baked bread.
Smelling the taste of damp flattened leaves,
lurching for supremacy with our tricks and our treats.
Shaking to unload the night-hijacked bounty.
Tabulating pirate counts we still have to beat.
Running with Andy to the end of endurance…
(or ‘til 9:15, three blocks over).
Slipping sheet slipping on my 12year-old poundage;
pretending ‘Little Jon’ loyalty that last day of October.
Surrendering to feelings I forget I forgot.
Rippling Polaroid shows the smile I’ve misplaced.
Leaving Andy to run Sisyphean circles in rhythm.
Throwing up my hands to save time and save face.
Resting that box back to its casket.
Shaking to the breeze in my cold solid condo.
Twisting insomnia, sweat on my pillow.
For when Halloween dies, when will I follow?
GOOD RED WINE
Now, forever, in the sudden summer rain,
I released the line of worn orange silk.
Across the fluted expanse of this new river,
dancing a quick jig as my makeshift boat floated.
Who was that likeness made under me?
I was asked to carry, but not told his name.
When hired I had replied, “For a price, I will travel anyplace.
My luggage is inconsequential, my destination only an end.”
It was a gray three days, but we made the most of it;
silence is a welcome treat for a rusted heart.
He allowed me a fine supper from his wares.
“Contraband on my boat?” I teased, but he only smiled.
There was a contact that met us.
With no handshake, leading us to three tethered steeds.
I commented about the downpour, but only the forest had ears.
Our guide never once looked behind.
I had no care to meet my employer.
I had since puzzled through the hierarchy here.
The man from the castle greeted me wearing a mask of blue velvet.
My charge and our guide gathered the horses inside the drawbridge.
For what seemed like hours-but surely only minutes-
I waited in that mist with the tall man in the blue covering.
He lifted his hand and from it fell another bag of gold:
“Leave before you must stay,” he said and turned.
I rode the horse left me and galloped towards the bay.
I left the horse, then saddled the calm sea.
My hungry boat ignored me, a jealous mistress.
But in the storm I drank from a bottle of good red wine I could now well afford.
THE SMELL AT THE BACK OF YOUR NECK
I see you go out.
All is not well with my wanting;
my fingers stretch to his car,
my eyes burn through his metallic paint,
my fat prick dents his brittle, brand new, short bumper.
Where is his tongue in the dark when you cry that you need me, yet you don’t even know my real name...I am only a symbol to you.
A symbol who watches as you go out.
A symbol that yearns for the smell at the back of your neck.
FOR THE RECORD
Gold records were sent beyond the way out.
A Voyage of hope, a welcoming shout.
From a simple planet, full of people with ears.
Computes listening, for years upon years.
Finally a sign, from uncharted space.
At long last, an alien face.
Interpreted signals the scientists read:
“When you get the time, send more Chuck Berry!”
IN THE LOUVRE
There is a story about Picasso some years ago...
Seems there was a guard, walking his rounds though the Louvre; that big museum in Paris-the too tight city of temper and cigarettes-who stumbled upon an intruder; a gray haired defacer, actually applying fresh paint to one of the Picassos!
Horrified and alerted the guard reaches the old man, quickly disconnecting the fellow from his crime-which of course was no crime at all since the old man was (as you have already guessed, you were always so much quicker then I) Picasso!
When asked for an explanation, the old master replied:
“It’s never finished” or words to that effect; illustrating my point, that...
One can grow very tired attempting to make passable the fruits of diligent unwavering labor, but most people will scoff and regard that fruit indulgent geometric bullshit anyway, and they’ll hang the stuff you think really abysmal, dull and ‘unfinished’ under the brightest lights.
HER BREASTS
I have lost
the ability
to recall
the exact
picture
of her breasts.
Maybe too much time has passed
or there are simply too many other things occupying my mind these days.
Either way.
I have forgotten what her breasts looked like.
It is a bit disconcerting
when I consider
that her breasts
were at one time
the very nectar of my existence.
How could what I once needed to sustain my very life
now be impossible for me to recall?
Ralph Greco
Friday, February 25, 2011
Romance language
Five days in bed with the company of the porcelain princess lurking nearby , I sing Wars "why can't we be friends"I must be feeling better now as I have picked up and am piloting my cynical pen, that has been handed down to me from the past, and am navigating it in any direction I choose once again. It is the crack of dawn Sunday , it occurred to me Friday night , why i have been having such vivid dreams., and shaking like a leaf while searching for an extra blanket here in the tropics.....
I realize I must be experiencing some slight brain swelling, perhaps a bit more then usual. In clouded resolve I decide if no better by morn I will resort to the devices of the hospital in Jaco, Sat: Fever has broken and "Sure feels good feelin good again
Elvin Bishop. etc......
All you can stand like this and more can be found at www.americanworkmule.com and also under my pen name of John Q Smith on our dear friend face book...... At your service. I am looking for a Goddess as well. J.
Five days in bed with the company of the porcelain princess lurking nearby , I sing Wars "why can't we be friends"I must be feeling better now as I have picked up and am piloting my cynical pen, that has been handed down to me from the past, and am navigating it in any direction I choose once again. It is the crack of dawn Sunday , it occurred to me Friday night , why i have been having such vivid dreams., and shaking like a leaf while searching for an extra blanket here in the tropics.....
I realize I must be experiencing some slight brain swelling, perhaps a bit more then usual. In clouded resolve I decide if no better by morn I will resort to the devices of the hospital in Jaco, Sat: Fever has broken and "Sure feels good feelin good again
Elvin Bishop. etc......
All you can stand like this and more can be found at www.americanworkmule.com and also under my pen name of John Q Smith on our dear friend face book...... At your service. I am looking for a Goddess as well. J.
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