Tumble Weed Blues – David Lohrey

There can be bebop and billowing skirts,
hot pastrami and cold beer, but only if
we’re good.

That’s the catch. We’re weighed down by doubt.
Can all this wonder be had for free? It’s
time to take stock.

All the pretty horses can’t put humpty dumpty
together again. It’s partly a matter of will
power, sure.

It’s mostly a matter of power, pure and simple.
And the will is half-hearted. There’s no
zeal. There’s no roll.

Ketchup, but no mustard. There are eggs, but
Benedict died last June of a stroke. Whoever
said we could have it all, lied.

The billowing skirts were not the first to go, but
the girls get tired of playing. They’ve
been recruited by the army.

Now women carry guns. Our next loss is jazz.
Without the blues, there’s no rhythm. The
country’s lost its beat.

Everyone is out of step. The problem
is not the booze. It’s the money. We’re all
too rich for our own good. We’re unhappy.

Louis Armstrong was elated. Count Basie, giddy.
Think back. You remember. Jazz was rollicking: horns
toot-tooting, the pianist on his feet, the drums exploding.

We’re all miserable. Fattened up for slaughter. Now
we wait for the other shoe to drop, as the centipede
crawls toward the exit.

We know it’s just a matter of time. It can’t go on like this forever.
We’ve become too refined, far too delicate, too fat for
good music.

Anyway…no one has the oomph. It’s all petered out.
We’re out of gas. There’s an energy shortage,
you know.

For the most part, pictures will be enough, for a while,
like those of farmers. Nobody wants to get his hands dirty,
digging in flower beds, plowing, changing diapers.

No one wants to turn potatoes, feed the pigs or geld the stallions.
What is there to celebrate if there are no children?
That’s the question.

If there’s no harvest, what’s the point of drinking? And
now they say there’s no purpose in planting flowers.
The suburbs are obsolete, no pleasure in squirrels.

No need for dogs to bark. No need for evening walks. No
need for games of catch. Eliminate the lawns, they decree,
which are nothing more than symbols of Farmer Brown.

There’ll be nothing to remember, not even the sound of crying babies.
Family life is finished. Dirty floors, mother’s milk, chicken pox
are all a thing of the past.

Now the smell of grass must go. It’s no longer the Age of Aquarius;
it’s the age of exhaustion. We’re entering America’s very own
Cultural Revolution. At the end of the day, they’ll be hell to pay.

It’s the age of recrimination. People stand around pointing fingers,
as the time French women were made to pay for bedding
enemy soldiers. They were driven through the streets, naked.

It’s an age of exculpation. We all want to wash our hands of it.
The only music left is what we demand to see others face.
Otherwise we want silence.


[David Lohrey is the Shadow Lord of brain-seizing, heart-piercing poetry, and a medium for the ether words. He was born on the Hudson River, but grew up on the Mississippi in Memphis. He currently teaches in Tokyo. He has reviewed books for The Los Angeles Times and The Orange County Register, has been a member of the Dramatists Guild in New York, and is currently writing a memoir of his years living on the Persian Gulf. Also, he’s freakin’ awesome.]


Continue reading “Tumble Weed Blues – David Lohrey”

Diorama-Max Meunier/Dissociative Void

i stepped into a diorama

walking through pellucid clouds

 

the air was tight

sky was shallow

voices, still, in static freefall

 

the light of day was overshadowed

jilted, lumbering eclipses

 

an atmosphere so stifling

 

like starfish lost in the sahara

 

fear had strung the leash that tethered me

to the abandoned mine

 

overhead were expectations

looming like the unseen eye

 

quietly, i moved below

like fetid water seeping

from a broken fridge at midnight

 

had i drawn their consciousness

my words would have become subverted

 

so it was, my tongue did stay

 

never would such thoughts again

beset my addled mind

returning to the ocean and the sand whence i arose

 

for i could not recall my name

 

every eve as death awaited

 

watching from a borrowed window

 

perched upon the impasse

 

of the broken wing of time


Max states: “I write about the things going on in my life. I am a feminist, humanist, cat loving musician bound by whimsy and the incessant analysis of hyper-vigilant observations.  I am obsessed with words and rhythmically woven wordplay.” We are honored to have him as a member of our tribe.  He writes at Max Meunier Dissocative Void

The Weight of Time- Bishop Hermes

bishoptime

The Weight of Time – Bishop Hermes

Watch as we do
As the sands pour through the glass
In a stream steady
Unable to determine which will be our last
For the top half stays hidden from our
Morbid curiosity
While we strive to slow the stream and
Give fortunes for prophesy

© Bishop Hermes 2017

[Bishop Hermes is an poet/musician who resides in the Houston area. He has wonderful poetic sensibilities, and we are honored by his participation.]

Via Dolorosa- Bishop Hermes                                               

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Via Dolorosa- Bishop Hermes

Walk do we sluggishly
Dragging our mistakes shortcomings regrets
Ever so slow and closely behind
Pleading that it will not
Come along side or skip ahead
Our crosses displaying the horrendous
For the multitudes to see and scoff at
They drat through there clenched teeth
Not understanding they will soon
Too be on exhibit
But what will our Golgotha render us
Who won’t break then fad away
Our crosses will transfigure
The grotesque into the beauteous
If we embrace them without buffering
And find our hope as we travel down
The way of suffering

© Bishop Hermes 2017

[Bishop Hermes is an poet/musician who resides in the Houston area. He has wonderful poetic sensibilities, and we are honored by his participation.]

Swarming Voyage to Impregnate the Five King Hermits-Charlie Zero/Charlie Zero The Poet

Charlie Zero The Poet

Onomatopoeia stolid –
moon dryer glockenspiel,
Cicada puffs the imagery –
behold the smokeless chrome.

Who exodus meatballs?

Youthful anchorite –
halo glued your chasm
and it spoke discretionally –
thoroughly, mouthed, & sine.

Impregnate voyage…
birth screams…
and the five king hermits clap.

Carmelite queens…
Mascara sperm authenticity…

Meanwhile,
Elijah grooversim
stirred the record possessed –
back to envy
back to subsequent.

The author in you –
disturbed by electronic samsara,
castanets gasp
comb the air backwards
its patapinion licking blear.

Leonhard Euler –
reciting websites,
to mammal feeding…
to Captain mythical crabs…
to Moses four-footed committee braids.

Pet the harking bishop –
of swarming empires
eating at Cistercian eremitic.

Archduke Exuvia –
you Faustian clone,
don’t mention the tenth wrinkle.

Pentateuch diaphoresis –
its rings shy
as fly-infested cenobium.
Trappist Camelopardalis,
decameron spite foe,
away you, dice this facile motley just.

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Zero the Poet

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With Starlight For Dessert-Ward Clever & Aurora Phoenix

Ward Clever

Written in comments, of all places, with the amazingly talented Aurora Phoenix at Insights from “Inside”

We’ve been eating word salad
With obfuscation vinaigrette
At a table set with bewilderment
In a confuse booth
With the daze de resistance
And an after-dinner cafe misto-fied
Will we ever get our just desserts?

He set it up
And she fell for it
He caught her just in time
Buckling his legs
Stopping them both at the last second, with a wink
She swoons, overcome with giggling
He gently lifts her to her feet,
And with his smile promises
He’ll never let her fall
She hesitates…..smiles in return
Arm in arm, they go off to look for champagne
Since they are feeling bubbly
And effervescent
They toast in silly self reference
Giggling at everything, the bubbles tickling their noses
Sipping tendrilled wisps of joy
In due course
In the afters
Before the accomplish…

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Am I Still Here?/Jasper Kerkau & Nicole Lyons

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Emaciated by tortured flowers,
Bored expressions of expired emotions.
Stinging, charred words
dangling in thick air,
poisoned by expectation
Withered and violated
by meaningless conversation
he speaks softly,
vapid illusions
she lingers,
listens,
slowly decaying—
death beckons

I am still
here, pacing
through doorways
under a fluorescent sun.
My battle
cries flat,
pulled to hang
grotesquely
from cracked lips
plied into
an accommodating smile.
I am still
here, existing
behind shadows
inside a false twilight.
Or perhaps
I have eclipsed.
I am still.
Am I still here?

They don’t see me
swallowing knives as
they dance and laugh,
popping balloons while
I ingest their poison,
burning with acidic words
stinging the back of my throat,
I smile and nod to the world
look past the back-slapping
and soft kisses,
I disappear while they dine
on superficial conversation,
slivers of gold mixed with
trivial condiments smeared
over their delicacies.
The belching…

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