THE LITTLE SAINT GERARD
The little saint Gerard
Couldn’t hurt a mouse.
Brother Jack will testify.
The little saint Gerard
In the Lord’s house
Watches over all God’s creatures
Large and small.
Illness got the better of him
On earth, on earth, but not in Heaven.
The little saint Gerard
Feels no pain at all.
The Lord won’t allow it.
The little saint Gerard
suffers no more.
Brother Jack wrote it down
In his Visions of Gerard.
AND I DON’T KNOW WHO I AM
Far away with thoughts of nothingness.
On a cloudlike surface is where my mind
Threads on and I don’t know who I am.
Traveling to distant locales,
A wandering spirit, lost in the world,
And I don’t know who I am.
My face is unrecognizable to me.
Could you shake up my mind?
I don’t know who I am.
I don’t know who I am.
Miles from where I stand is the real me.
A cloud surfaces in my mind’s haste
And I don’t know who I am.
These hands attached to my person
Feel like the hands of a stranger.
My face is unrecognizable to me.
Could you shake up my mind?
I don’t know who I am.
I don’t know who I am.
I WAS ANGRY WHEN I WROTE THIS
A slave is one
Who can’t find time to read,
Always doing
Favors for everybody.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Todd Moore
how much
money you
got willie
asked pulling
a fistful
of change
& wadded
up bills
out of his
pocket sonny
took a bull
durham sack
out of his
shirt pocket
untied the
yellow string
& fished
out a five
you figure
this is
enough to
get fucked
up on sonny
smiled around
3 black teeth
& sd i know
where there's
some good shit
to steal
money you
got willie
asked pulling
a fistful
of change
& wadded
up bills
out of his
pocket sonny
took a bull
durham sack
out of his
shirt pocket
untied the
yellow string
& fished
out a five
you figure
this is
enough to
get fucked
up on sonny
smiled around
3 black teeth
& sd i know
where there's
some good shit
to steal
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
J.D.Nelson
Kolorado in my Eyes Makes me Fry
(Moon Table sold the egg of an incubus crane
to "I EAT," who has taken on loan a lamp.)
making Nikes
making Nikes
making Nikes
making Nikes
The astronauts love their Lake of Tang!
washing dishes
washing dishes
washing dishes
washing dishes
Made of silver, naught of Klee.
***********************************
Secret Poetry Apple
THE LOTION SQUID: A frog w/ a gimp in its hoofnik is here to see your garden shrimp.
CHUCK YOUR BUCKETSNAKE: Don't let 'em see you weeping.
THE LOTION SQUID: The chaos is blue -- a salty old hue.
CHUCK YOUR BUCKETSNAKE: Never let 'em see you sweat.
THE LOTION SQUID: In a bowl, with a howl, gettin' spoony w/ my lowell.
(Moon Table sold the egg of an incubus crane
to "I EAT," who has taken on loan a lamp.)
making Nikes
making Nikes
making Nikes
making Nikes
The astronauts love their Lake of Tang!
washing dishes
washing dishes
washing dishes
washing dishes
Made of silver, naught of Klee.
***********************************
Secret Poetry Apple
THE LOTION SQUID: A frog w/ a gimp in its hoofnik is here to see your garden shrimp.
CHUCK YOUR BUCKETSNAKE: Don't let 'em see you weeping.
THE LOTION SQUID: The chaos is blue -- a salty old hue.
CHUCK YOUR BUCKETSNAKE: Never let 'em see you sweat.
THE LOTION SQUID: In a bowl, with a howl, gettin' spoony w/ my lowell.
Aleathia Drehmer
“The River”
for Gail
I question the worth
of my character
in this moment,
attempting to find some clue,
a common ground
to the mystery of my charm
as my face takes on
mixed emotions rapidly,
animated in graceful
but stilted movements.
And he tells me
quite frankly,
with mouth’s edge
curled upward,
that all women are crazy.
And somehow men find
what they need amidst
the chaotic flow
of ever revolving faces
worn without remorse
to find the gentleness and grace
that touches them
floating in the river.
**********************************
“Hungry Ghosts”
We are full
of hungry ghosts and
long hours divided
into silence,
chanting
and prostrations
to drive them out.
Gods
levitate above trees
parallel to the earth,
our feet buried in deep
to feel the transfer
of pure electricity.
We gather their treasures
with an unknowing greed,
eyes shifting sideways
watching and coveting,
as if we have found
something worth hiding.
Reticent hands
dig into loam,
moist and intoxicated
with recycled life
quick and with precision.
We lay on the ground in it.
Our lungs fill but stay empty.
Secrets are pushed in knolls
of shaming trees,
tucked under dark roots
lifting upward from burgeoning
rock formations and time,
until we no longer
feel the weight
of our hunger.
******************************
"Atmospheric Pressure"
Cold clutches her,
breath visible
from nostrils and mouth.
She pats her chest
as if this will equalize
the atmosphere moving
inside her,
the air steeling her,
the sound of rebirth
in this game of ball
played with five brothers
and a father,
whose face speaks
to his offspring
of light and knowing
wrapped around each of them.
Their unseen boundaries
of victory
evident in the ticking,
coming from chests
synchronized and loud;
something born unto them,
an extra machine
with a perfectly calculated
compass, affixed to the apex
pointing them upward
and outward.
************************
“Bravado”
The cat curls
into the crook
of my writing arm,
his breathing a
delicate whisper.
He still hasn’t found
the bravado of his voice.
The rise/fall of
his body slowly
tries to lull me
to sleep with the
pen in my hand.
Through the window,
reclined in dying light
of a gray afternoon,
I see beginnings
of buds on trees
pushing their way
from the core.
Squirrels dance,
leaping branch to branch,
tails high in the air,
chattering loudly and
twitching like old men
with Tourette’s,
in attempts to start
the mating season early.
The sounds of my family
spread out in separate rooms,
the bleeping of video games,
the turning of pages
with a soft voice
telling a story of her own
construction
makes me smile.
Each of us taking comfort
in time spent alone
speaks to me solidly,
without words,
whispering in ears that
we have found
some peace in this world.
for Gail
I question the worth
of my character
in this moment,
attempting to find some clue,
a common ground
to the mystery of my charm
as my face takes on
mixed emotions rapidly,
animated in graceful
but stilted movements.
And he tells me
quite frankly,
with mouth’s edge
curled upward,
that all women are crazy.
And somehow men find
what they need amidst
the chaotic flow
of ever revolving faces
worn without remorse
to find the gentleness and grace
that touches them
floating in the river.
**********************************
“Hungry Ghosts”
We are full
of hungry ghosts and
long hours divided
into silence,
chanting
and prostrations
to drive them out.
Gods
levitate above trees
parallel to the earth,
our feet buried in deep
to feel the transfer
of pure electricity.
We gather their treasures
with an unknowing greed,
eyes shifting sideways
watching and coveting,
as if we have found
something worth hiding.
Reticent hands
dig into loam,
moist and intoxicated
with recycled life
quick and with precision.
We lay on the ground in it.
Our lungs fill but stay empty.
Secrets are pushed in knolls
of shaming trees,
tucked under dark roots
lifting upward from burgeoning
rock formations and time,
until we no longer
feel the weight
of our hunger.
******************************
"Atmospheric Pressure"
Cold clutches her,
breath visible
from nostrils and mouth.
She pats her chest
as if this will equalize
the atmosphere moving
inside her,
the air steeling her,
the sound of rebirth
in this game of ball
played with five brothers
and a father,
whose face speaks
to his offspring
of light and knowing
wrapped around each of them.
Their unseen boundaries
of victory
evident in the ticking,
coming from chests
synchronized and loud;
something born unto them,
an extra machine
with a perfectly calculated
compass, affixed to the apex
pointing them upward
and outward.
************************
“Bravado”
The cat curls
into the crook
of my writing arm,
his breathing a
delicate whisper.
He still hasn’t found
the bravado of his voice.
The rise/fall of
his body slowly
tries to lull me
to sleep with the
pen in my hand.
Through the window,
reclined in dying light
of a gray afternoon,
I see beginnings
of buds on trees
pushing their way
from the core.
Squirrels dance,
leaping branch to branch,
tails high in the air,
chattering loudly and
twitching like old men
with Tourette’s,
in attempts to start
the mating season early.
The sounds of my family
spread out in separate rooms,
the bleeping of video games,
the turning of pages
with a soft voice
telling a story of her own
construction
makes me smile.
Each of us taking comfort
in time spent alone
speaks to me solidly,
without words,
whispering in ears that
we have found
some peace in this world.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Christopher Mulrooney
son et lumiere
koax
crek crek
moonlight and
frogs
in the pond
where I mist
to see the eyes
on me
_______________________________________________________
City of London
tea with milk the river ran
or coffee maybe at a pinch
slate-grey with scarlet trim
etc. the descriptive responses
of the think tank
precipitate a long roster
usually elided
for the capstone on the edifice we present
therefore I submit
on the face of new things altogether
winds bear new witness
but it is not a new thing
not at all to have this
Dr. Gachet defending
and diagnosing
Edgar Allan Poe
from the heights along a new river
perhaps not
_______________________________________________________
the serinette and the lightning-rod
I had flown in on a dare
to his own house I went
a cub reporter
that's what I own like 6 T-shirts
and a bag of milk chocolates
but no-one else could
we got along just fine
he served the soup out of my tureen
I mean the one we had grown up with
all the time
his favorite saying was
I'll be peckered
his favourite thing was an antique
serinette
he had rigged up with
electricity from a lightning-rod
he spoke about conductivity
lots of materials he said
just can't stand up to my action
I started in the business he said
twenty years ago I had
lots of people working for me
you couldn't imagine what it was like
a sterile litigious environment
all day long the claims were coming in
I had to stamp each one
with purple ink
anyway you had to
had to get up the stairs
and go to the roof to put the thing up
and run the connectors right the way down
to the bottom
it was a similitude of something
yeah
now though when there's a storm
I have bird music
the house had varying instruments
and pictures
we had soup for about an hour
and then he listened to his serinette
warble in the lightning
I was glad I wasn't going to fly
again until tomorrow
_______________________________________________________
green and pleasant land
fancifully they remarked the long since trifled with and soon to be forgotten
mystery that was the wheel and furnace
of the house the great mystery and keeper
of the toad house and the revenues in the interior whose ministry is kept
down in the house by the river where sat
the poet laureate as grimy as could be
in the soot air and sang
I walked as far as I can go
to Aberdeen and back again
and this whole story you must know
to Aberdeen and back again
and so I know sure the might and main
that do not manufacture the solipsistic trivia that multiply
and divide
these chairpersons ringing all the bells on all the dinner tables in the kingdom
one by one till all are done
and that's the song as it was sung
by the grieving laureate
______________________________________________________
porcupine
the hemispheres collide and draw apart
like you and my heart
I shall wander aimlessly like a spent shell
and wish upon the deepest hell
that you were of my mind in this
and that is all the man would say of bliss
koax
crek crek
moonlight and
frogs
in the pond
where I mist
to see the eyes
on me
_______________________________________________________
City of London
tea with milk the river ran
or coffee maybe at a pinch
slate-grey with scarlet trim
etc. the descriptive responses
of the think tank
precipitate a long roster
usually elided
for the capstone on the edifice we present
therefore I submit
on the face of new things altogether
winds bear new witness
but it is not a new thing
not at all to have this
Dr. Gachet defending
and diagnosing
Edgar Allan Poe
from the heights along a new river
perhaps not
_______________________________________________________
the serinette and the lightning-rod
I had flown in on a dare
to his own house I went
a cub reporter
that's what I own like 6 T-shirts
and a bag of milk chocolates
but no-one else could
we got along just fine
he served the soup out of my tureen
I mean the one we had grown up with
all the time
his favorite saying was
I'll be peckered
his favourite thing was an antique
serinette
he had rigged up with
electricity from a lightning-rod
he spoke about conductivity
lots of materials he said
just can't stand up to my action
I started in the business he said
twenty years ago I had
lots of people working for me
you couldn't imagine what it was like
a sterile litigious environment
all day long the claims were coming in
I had to stamp each one
with purple ink
anyway you had to
had to get up the stairs
and go to the roof to put the thing up
and run the connectors right the way down
to the bottom
it was a similitude of something
yeah
now though when there's a storm
I have bird music
the house had varying instruments
and pictures
we had soup for about an hour
and then he listened to his serinette
warble in the lightning
I was glad I wasn't going to fly
again until tomorrow
_______________________________________________________
green and pleasant land
fancifully they remarked the long since trifled with and soon to be forgotten
mystery that was the wheel and furnace
of the house the great mystery and keeper
of the toad house and the revenues in the interior whose ministry is kept
down in the house by the river where sat
the poet laureate as grimy as could be
in the soot air and sang
I walked as far as I can go
to Aberdeen and back again
and this whole story you must know
to Aberdeen and back again
and so I know sure the might and main
that do not manufacture the solipsistic trivia that multiply
and divide
these chairpersons ringing all the bells on all the dinner tables in the kingdom
one by one till all are done
and that's the song as it was sung
by the grieving laureate
______________________________________________________
porcupine
the hemispheres collide and draw apart
like you and my heart
I shall wander aimlessly like a spent shell
and wish upon the deepest hell
that you were of my mind in this
and that is all the man would say of bliss
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Gig News
The RB Morris Band
from Knoxville, TN
has toured w/ Bob Dylan, John Prine, Lucinda Williams, and Steve Earle
Southside
outlaw country and spoken word
featuring Scott Mertz, Sarah Elizabeth, Southside Freddy Wethington, Andy Cook, and Ron Whitehead
March 22, 2008 10 pm $10
@ the Rudyard Kipling
422 West Oak Street (near 4th street) Louisville, Kentucky
502-636-1311
www.tappingmyownphone.com
from Knoxville, TN
has toured w/ Bob Dylan, John Prine, Lucinda Williams, and Steve Earle
Southside
outlaw country and spoken word
featuring Scott Mertz, Sarah Elizabeth, Southside Freddy Wethington, Andy Cook, and Ron Whitehead
March 22, 2008 10 pm $10
@ the Rudyard Kipling
422 West Oak Street (near 4th street) Louisville, Kentucky
502-636-1311
www.tappingmyownphone.com
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