when the songs you sing
have someone else’s lovebites on them
you are flush, burning:
though not from passion,
but embarrassment.
this here whores den
you rail against,
frequent.
not only as a customer
but as proprietor
you write the checks
your saddle sore
ass
can’t cash.
moseying down
poking ‘round
back stair
fire escape.
hell,
throes of passion
deep breaths
lying
in the bed you’ve made.
you sleep the sleep
of death.
you know your guilt.
feel
the thrum
of a ruffed grouse
mating call
as it
beats
beneath my breastbone
asking after me.
ruffled my feathers, too.
***
pine boughs
like a lover’s caress
feather
down
my back.
spent, red
bed
of needles
whispering promises
of the green winter to come.
***
foliage
fanning flames
burn orange, scarlet, yellow
screaming
peals of atomic thunder
lick
‘cross the ridge.
Been tryyyyying to make me a schedule during this pandemic with all the ups and downs. This gives me some hope.
By Kirsten Voris
I was going to let this anniversary go unacknowledged.
I must have known it was a big deal. I wrote it in my calendar. One year out. July 26th, the day I took the decision to sit down for a specific amount of time, on specific days every week, to write. No matter how I felt or what else was going on.
Guess what?
For one solid year I have been sitting down, for a specific amount of time, on specific days of the week to write.
I wasn’t going to mention it. But that’s just false modesty. And feeling shy about outing yourself is counterproductive when you’re in the business of writing personal essays.
You might be wondering how I did it.
I had some help. From the Tucson Writer’s Table. What we do, is write. For two hours. Together. At a table. Every Monday. After…
View original post 780 more words
What’s Donne is Done
John Donne is done.
Perhaps
buried alive
a poet
who didn’t
quite
know it.
The denouement
rock
flawed
headstone
to be made known
where he lie
yet in all fiction
we unearth
clods of truth.
The bell’s final peal
tolled for he.
Pavlov’s coffin:
measured
in dog years.
Schroedinger’s casket:
nine lives.
Alone, we all must
answer half-hearted riddles
dig our own holes
with the rest
a dirt nap
spooning
Mistress Death
the other half of the coin
such is life.
The summer solstice
perches
atop the highest
spot
in the sky.
Scavenger
spies
its carrion crawl
across the horizon
of the porch.
Zorched
in the heat
the months tumble by, dry
husks.
Empty days
quarantining
against the unseen,
enemy
such is age.
The deliberate
forgetfulness
playing games
with growing shadows
as our days
linger
longer.
We rock here,
spittle
dripping
from our chins,
the curvature
teetering back and forth
between
past
and present,
a see-saw
for us old-timers
set
in our ways
from remembering
why we came out here in the first place.
I am but an insect
toiling away
at social media
a fly
ho
ver
ing
about the desecrated bodies
a spoiled
movable feast
they’ve laid out for us
in the heat of the moment
the day
whatever is
the latest drama
they can cook up.
Caught in this kitchen
unable to stand the heat
thmp
thmp
thmp
against a window
the pane but a screen
yet the mesh suffocating
circulated air of
heavy
breathing pleading
for an escape
asking the same masters
for answers
with productivity apps
and fitness trackers
winging it, buzzed
just enough to feel good about ourselves
flitting to another pile of shit.
Always such a nice time with my partner-in-crime.
In 2016 I was winding down Man Voyage IV with my best pal and Echo & Sway comrade, Jared A. Conti AKA The Oracular Beard in the upper reaches of New York’s Finger Lakes. We were chatting at length on the last stop of our three day beer & brewery pilgrimage with a knowledgeable server at Genesee’s Thirsty Pug Craft Beer Market when he wholeheartedly recommended, nay commanded us where to go next: Vermont.
His claims that Vermont breweries were churning out some of the best beers in the country weren’t entirely unfamiliar to us. Any craft beer drinker worth his/her weight in IBUs knows The Alchemist Brewery’s Heady Topper is one of the most highly rated & sought after IPAs on the market, and it more than lived up to the hype when a friend gifted us a few cans years ago. My wife & I received a…
View original post 5,007 more words
she relays to me
that I’m odd
(not that I haven’t heard that before)
and that I’ll always
be that way
(yah, I’ve heard that too)
and this is why
she likes that chapter:
some steamy romance
going nowhere
because it’s not yet written
or maybe
the plot
dried up
as with my tears
accusing fingers
holding your place
between
the part I played
and the mock-up
of a man riding in on a white stallion
saving you
from God knows what
open hand offering, reaching
out to you,
and to look upon
you, your favorite
of all the pretty-boy
poster smiles
long, stately mane
flowing in the breeze,
my wizardly ways
which have seen
the world
and the knowledge
that this too shall pass.
Art credit: Harrison Dale Conti, age 4
“The sun and Daddy at Gumpy and Nini’s”
Marvels
The old rugged cross
splinters and all
thorn in one’s side
festering
‘fore it let go.
Devoid of the deity
destined to be there,
simple sheep
beast
burdened.
1.
he used to imagine:
The Hulk.
Hues, shades
unable to see the forest
we walk among,
for that one
damnable
tree. Low-hanging
fruit, making all of paradise
one sticky situation.
Anger of the Father
flaming swords and all,
gamma-induced
mean streak,
counting to ten.
Commanded from the first
judge, jury,
and executioner,
throwing the Good Book at them.
Idle worship
of this,
that,
and the other
makes Him
green with envy
GOD SMITE!
His incredible wrath
setting sin upon his Son.
That day the sun,
stopped shining.
Veil torn in two,
yet this was but one of three.
2.
he used to imagine:
Spider-Man.
Nothing spectacular
or amazing
in appearance
that we should be attracted to Him.
Swinging in,
a man of sorrows
and acquainted with grief
your friendly neighborhood
Savior. “A menace!”
shouts J. Jonah Pharisee.
Suspended there, webs
hold our hero in place
until he nailed things down
got his story straight
all the world
and all the weight
“With great power comes great responsibility.”
3.
he used to imagine:
Vision, blinding
light
and sound–
a voice
disembodied.
Road to Damascus
neural pathways
synapses
flash
mental math
making leaps of faith
tinkered tin can,
less
than a man.
The 1s and 0s
do not compute
aligned
within the mind
and the soul
is but a stone
the builders rejected.
The weight of it
brought him to his
knees, dirtied
hurried, a hasty pace
placed
‘pon simple Simon
scuffs of dust
on shoes not yet walked
floorboards.
It shows in his own scars.
