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Dr. k
by Scott Tucker
On my way to work each day
I see an old man
who kneels and prays to a stone
as we all race by.
When I come home at night
he is still there praying
and will pray there again tomorrow
and the day after.
But he is not the mystery.
No, he is not the mystery.
Oh creator, thank you for this world
by Scott Tucker
For impossibility, feeling doubt;
suffering stupidity.
Lying hatred murders death.
Hallelujah
Whale Songs
by Scott Tucker
Music class starts late again today.
My phonograph is not the
mellophones, percussion or
glockenspiel that lets them feel
their shy effect. (I have promised and now they're late.)
But, today that's all there is.
We listen to the whale record.
We listen to their
haunting bray.
These watery ghosts
rising from the livid depths
have chilled the souls of
fiercer hands.
My students tell me that the
whales are lonely, sad
forgotten.
(why do they say this?)
Tomorrow or the next day,
I will sit at lunch and watch
Vercillia with her
charred hands
probing the shiny
glockenspiel.
But today
we sit transfixed,
listening to dark
leviathon
speak with the
lips of children.
Hanging Together in Minnesota
by Michael Lee Johnson
Two thousand men on death row
in the state of Texas. I've never
been here, still I'm worrying
myself to death.
Webs of worry travel fast,
scan over my memory bank
back and forth like a copy machine.
I refuse to get out of my bed
I'm covered with burnt dream ashes
held in custody my cobwebbed anxiety
sheets waiting for the on looking armed
system of justice to take me away.
Their loud speakers keep screaming channeled
commands through vibrating my eardrums;
their messages keep cross-firing against my own desires.
There must be a warrant out for my arrest.
I will not listen period. I will shut out the sounds
period.
Insanity echoes with stressed sounds.
It's Sunday morning, prayer time, I swear I will block
out
the church bells ringing on Franklin Avenue, ringing
at St. Paul's Baptist Church.
Religion confuses me like poetry or prose.
I curse I will hang where Christ used to dangle;
wooden cross-post in a Roman Catholic hole,
or was it protestant reformation?
I'm the thief, not the Savior.
I don't want to die in my worry, my words, stranger
in this world alone.
I want to resurrect the dream before the wounds came, and placed me
in exile.
Long before the sounds of cell phones came ringing.
There must be a warrant out for my arrest.
Mixed in war, thunder, and sentence fragment.
The Break-up.
by Dorothy Burk
It doesn't make the night any shorter
to know history is blossoming in the darkness
between us,
it just makes me
miss you more,
your future greatness
fruitless in my empty womb.
Orange County epiphanies:
by Dorothy Burk
She is like all these women:
spunky blonde ponytail
blue contact-lens eyes
rhinestone-studded tank-top;
when I pass her
she gives me the look
I reserve for muggers & rapists.
And however strange the epiphany,
I wonder at the wound you've cut me,
how you care so little
while you stare with your mouth gaping open
and say there is nothing to say.
I am not one of you,
I am not from here
but suddenly I
have nothing to say
either.
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Stars through my Whiskey Glass
by Lisa Liles
I tip my glass up to the sky
and bid the day’s demands good-bye
I see stars through my whiskey glass
surrounded by an icy mass
cool ... sharp ... and crisp
a flavor that is intensely brisk
feel the warmth the whole way down
listen to the slowing of every sound
and sing ... you don’t know how it feels ...
you don’t know how it feels ... to be me
Anyone can be famous
by Art Paul Schlosser
Anyone can be famous, in the limelight, or a superstar
But can you be a janitor?
Can you be unknown?
Can you be in the shadows?
Will you accept less pay?
Why does everyone have to win?
Why do you have to date someone handsome or beautiful?
Why are skinny people better looking than fat people?
You say you want to be a rock star?
You say you want to be king?
Well, who’s going to drive the cab?
Why won’t you put out the fire?
Who will catch the crooks?
Oblivion
by Serena Spinello
In my mind they’re escorts
affixed to us
like aspirations;
sprightly and zealous
euphoric and iridescent.
Perhaps one is a vexing
phoenix perched
upon our capabilities;
disenchantment veiling
its noble wings
until we are able to rouse
our dormant esteem.
All of them covet panoramas
amid obscurity.
They feed on could and should
and prey on chance and option-
hearing my protests
and parodying
my persistent discontents.
It could’ve been them.
Their murmurs
My whispers
Their harmony
My ballad
What distinguishes my assertions-
in the midst of strident
assemblages
of appeal?
Three O'Clock
by David Allen McGinnis
At three o'clock I think I puked.
I can't be sure,
But something like your
Face
Shaped up in
The swill.
I like your face
At three o'clock.
It makes me think of
Elvis
With chops and glitz
And vomit to spare.
I chewed some pizza to
Infomercials
That told me I needed
New knives.
Six more shots to go.
Four o'clock. Blacked out.
Pigeon pathos
by Corina M. Haywood
I am the descendent of a peaceful beast
I was never a predator
I left my own home of rocky hillsides
to serve your whims
and you built mansions to replace my humble nests
I did whatever you asked of me
And grew coarser for it
My feathers glisten against the backdrop of your soot and garbage
I am not responsible for your scorn
I strut and scan the street with the children who have escaped your
domestication
Have come to prove their freedom, their resilience
We bob and weave through your feet together,
Finding a bit of street peace on the concrete
We have accepted as our territory
You Sigh Like I'm Acting Insensibly
by Michael Clyne
You sigh like I'm acting insensibly
I feel up your thinks and you think down my feels
Your shape distorts incomprehensibly
Feet first gnarling into the mold of black heels
Wrapped by the duct-tape-gray of that tall suit
Your dimples recede and your eyebrows ascend
Pacing the room on a circumscribed route
Your sadness dries up and your spirit unbends
You feign this proud change as inevitable
and I strain to smooth out your sharp sense of fate
Our old unsaid plans gone forgettable
Your pretend agenda laid out nice and straight
You're right I admit that I'm not being fair
but we're both all worked up over what isn't there
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