Friday, April 15, 2016
A Near Miss with Vincent's Ear
I figured he was
following a personal
torrent of spring
into the bar, a refugee
from a South Eastern
Asia range war he was
still fighting in his mind
as if he had been to
the real thing and in
homage to his ghost
buffalo soldier bros,
he had donned clean
a red hair covering
bandanna and a pair
of aviator glasses con-
veniently missing lens
for up close and personal
seeing the nitty gritty
of how his latest scam
was coming down,
"Check these out.
This is the kind of
alcohol you should be
stocking and drinking.
All the celebs are doing
it: Tom Jones, Barry White
Otis Redding, Jim Croce----"
"You forgot Ricky Nelson."
"What?" "Never mind.
Van Gogh Vodka, huh.
What is this? Flavored
firewater to cut your ears
off to?""It's what the Brothers
drink, my man. I don't see
no brothers here, now, do I?"
"You don't see anyone here.
Especially with those glasses on."
"Are you dissrespecting me?"
"Don't see anyone else
around to dissrespect so it
must be you."
"That's just what I would
expect from someone who
'wants to turn the country
of Yugoslavia into Otis
"The only country Otis is
turning into these days is
Atlantis, ten thousand leagues
under the dock of the bay."
It was a crappy, mixed metaphor,
but it seemed to strike a lot
closer to home base on Planet
Nine or wherever he was,
than the Vincent's ear one,
so I had to label it a successful
one, as these things go.
I didn't even have to
explain to him how much
better he would be able to
read his brochures by street
light, standing on the double
yellow lines of Western Avenue
then he could in here as
I usually did, just before
The Other Side of Nowhere New York
She spent her time between
Long Island and Paradise and
he divided his between New York
and Never Never Land, their primary
functions in life: clubbing, texting,
doping and screwing, often all at
the same time, like performers in
a new kind of Wild Wild West Show
on the Lower East Side of a depleted
ozone layer in their brains curdling like
milk left in the sun so long the smell
was just this side of Johnny Rotten three
days dead and unattended, a rankness
that went unnoticed by everyone that
they came in contact with, all suffering,
as they were, from the same kind of disease
of inattention and excess, all claiming
to know the real story of what happened
with Syd and Nancy, how the body double
died and the happy couple escaped upstate
to do time in the foothills of the Adirondacks
and the Twilight Zone.
They Came Back
The last few people that came into
the bar were like characters out of
a Hermann Broch novel, Sleepwalkers
and circus acts, side show performers
with their one trick ponies, their novelty
tricks learned at the feet of illustrated men,
bearded ladies, ten penny geeks nothing
was too degrading for. After awhile it felt
as if someone had isolated the bar and
the drinkers, by drawing a kind of sheet
between them and the outside world to
show movies on, creating two dimensions
in one, overlapping realities almost
indistinguishable, one from the other.
Wee Gee’s off duty black and white
performers sipping cocktails at the bar,
images transposed on their faces of all
those people who had died now inexplicably
revived, legions of them parading in the street,
laconic, wan, non-threatening but intent
on resuming lives interrupted, lacking only
a vital animation that made them human once.
Their failure to interact, to readjust, finally
compelling them to seek their own kind,
the people sitting at the bar, drinking as
if there were no yesterday, no tomorrow,
all of them listening to music, in silence,
only they can hear.
Bats Out of Hell
They came forth from a darkness
No mortal ever knew.
They brought with them
A full grown rage
More intense as it grew.
It simmered for millennia
To perfect them for their time.
Tireless in their cause,
They manifest onto the earth
To work their cruel dark will,
Punishing earth inhabitors,
As they torment, hurt, and kill.
John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice nominated for Best of the Net, his work has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/
spotlight/whiteskybooks. Check out his experimental lit-rap video at https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.
Admirable Chesty Numbnuts
Admirable Chesty Numbnuts, hermaphroditic sailor of the leavened seas, sashays through streams of finest seasick youth, from bulkhead bilge to boatswain’s bilious bicuspid, lisping nautical behind mildly concupiscent smile.
Eight bells are ringing, have rung, and now go silent. Vibratory haze, electric fragment of salt-conditioned life, immerses us in ambient noise, twelve feet above the rails. Rows of encapsulated thunder rumble along, speckling deadwood rodeos with our favorite memories, spilling lifeblood folios in headstrong impetus to varied circumstance unseen.
A dotted climb, parietal chain, holistic blend of spurning taint to crested chasm, filling gaunt fishermen with webby tracks of shipyard dusk and looted storefront glass. Sharks caress the ocean floor with dorsal avenue invention, peaking often silent there beneath the graying sea-green slide.
Slipping now before theatrics buried, glimpsed unconscious bravely stumps for everyday impulsive drift of snowbound bottled fiction, gated cataclysms, conchs in jubilee destruction, fine serrated pension hearings, flickered fractal lecture notes, and keynote chapel doorsteps.
Hatches open, closets ooze eternal choices, belles resell in periodic gaze to casual gazebo trance to bus stop bottom-numbing set to wicker basketball saloon to tourist dust frenetic whimsy, bubbled into threaded skew.
Cushioned cashew sings along with long-departed urchin feet, sipping cool unfrosted melodies in silent dignity of golden sweat on sun-soaked isles of carousel erosion meat to tawny beachfront bassinet in thunderhead exfoliation.
pallbearers at their places
one eye, still open
six feet under
in my final resting place
worms come a’knocking
beside a burrow
on a wooded bluff
beside the Mississippi
singing hymns of well-being
for that which lives therein
perhaps even a goddess,
yes, the goddess of
some small creatures
ayaz daryl nielsen, veteran, former hospice nurse, ex-roughneck (as on oil rigs) lives in Longmont, Colorado. Editor of bear creek haiku (25+ years/130+ issues) with poetry published worldwide, he also is online at: bear creek haiku... poetry, poems and info
Monday, April 11, 2016
Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry & her poems appear
in Shot Glass Journal, The Provo Canyon Review, Dead Snakes, Ink, Sweat
& Tears, Pyrokinection & others. Of mixed ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-
Shawnee] she was born in Queensland, Australia. Stefanie’s latest poetry
title “The Vanishing” was published by Walleah Press & is available from
Walleah, Amazon & Fishpond Books.
On the day the sun cried
The good red earth,
The jasmin’s diminutive
Comings and goings
Words, overheard – as
Of ashes fell...
“It’s the Bee’s Knees
Of B-grade movies
In toto with
Now, did you... do you
What it is
WHAT IT TAKES
Back in the days
Tuesday, April 5, 2016
It hits me hard
like a fist.
How you walk away
after you say goodbye.
your step is quick and light,
your feet rise
above the ground.
You lift towards the sky that
turns radiant blue
as you look up and smile.
objects begin to drop
through the air,
from your turned-out pockets:
Some of my teeth
tipped with flecks
of your skin/
A smooth fat stone I polished
nightly, my love;
to hold you
My fingernails; they always
And a blood-colored
the size of a fist
that screams out
at my feet.