Song Smith

 –

 –

As we stand at the bus stop

I intone my quiet song

fingers to reach

into the void and

find purchase

a kindred ear

where stirrup

anvils and hammers

vibrate harmoniously

FAKE YOUr OWn Death

FAKE YOUr OWn Death

–

–

like a wind-up toy whose feet catch

and whose plastic parts seize,

 –

tapping on the table

a tiny tune of tragedy,

–

and when the child’s eyes

sallow with A.D.D.,

–and wander for turkish delight–

 –

and when the cat

misplaces his interest,

–his white kid gloves–

 –

Whir away.

Unstick your molded feet

and whirr away. Off the

table with a mighty clatter that

fetches Anna the dog. Whirrr away

under the sofa

Where you’ll build your Eldorado of dust

And wear your fruit loop head piece,

And finally find time

to make (your own) believe.

tha blu projektor screeen

tha blu projektor screeen

it grwos beofre my eyes

egdes expnadnig

 –

theer’s a cluod of blu

aurond it, vauge

is it a windoh? A p­­–o-ol?

 –

–tha profsseor’s shaodw

thowrn dacning llike demons carwling outt of tha f-eye-r

danm drity walplaper

 –

Screeming

–it-‘s flat

 –

Eye’m thowrn intu m’I seet

llike comnig ouwt of tha rabit whole

backwords

Excerpt from the upcoming “Serial Comma”

Hello dear readers. Here’s a brief look at the upcoming short story “Serial Comma.”

 

The back door was ajar, so Murlow stepped up on the stoop and pushed it full open. No body lay in the kitchen, but where there ought to have been a white tile floor was a shallow blood swamp, like some horrible toilet of carnage that had backed up and flood the place. “Shit.” he took a step back, and some of the blood lazily followed him onto the stoop before sliding into the street.

Bus Driver

Calm

Calm

 –

The butterfly souldier unfurls his tongue like a bedroll

And pierces the flower as quickly as a fixed bayonet

breaks through the skin of an apple.

(What it was doing there I don’t know.)

He pierces the bubble of the nectary, the crystal ball foretelling

Babies and coffee cups.

His sugary fix trembles a bit in his delicate dancer’s feet and

he leaps up into the air, blackflipping,

elated with a sense of temporal wellbeing,

the worries of the calendar at bay.

For now.

At least until he’s floated down the stream

that carries every butterfly away from his flower.

Thinking Ahead

Thinking Ahead

 –

 –

I think

my hand on

the small

of your back

 –

Feeling your

warmth

through the

flannel shirt

 –

was a memory

taken

from tomorrow

by me

 –

I like watching

movies by

myself

just fine

Lust

Lust

–

–

Little Red Riding Hood’s looking at the wolf,

The Wolf is behind a newspaper,

dragging on his fag,

with two telephoto lens cameras,

whom he calls Hansel and Gretel,

hanging on his sides,

Red knows he’s waiting.

–

Little Red Riding Hood’s staring at the wolf,

The Wolf is holding a newspaper,

smoking a cig,

with two wide angle cameras,

whom bring the bread crumbs,

draped about his sides,

Red unwraps her cloak,

it falls on the floor like a crumpled semi,

Red crawls onto the bed,

the silk sheets against her thighs;

–

Red dances in front of the fountain,

A shrine to grandmothers, and the earth,

Red steps in the cool water,

Its cold embrace embracing invasively,

The shimmery metallic mermaid-scale coins slide under her feet,

The waters reflect her face,

Red wishes . . . a wish . . .