Friday, December 31, 2010

Hugh Fox


What do I give a crap about all your
fancy French romantic country mansions
and your goddamned DMP's, you know,
Doctor of Musical Performance, I can't
even believe how many Russians,
Armenians, Chinese, Brazilian, Englishers
there are around here, and old Chicago street
me going to the Chopin and Schumann festivals,
married to a Brazilian M.D., retired after teaching
English literature for fifty years, when all I ever
really felt/feel comfortable with were/are the
Chicago, Brooklyn, whore-area bars in Paris,
dying from cancer now, "You've got maybe
a year, a year and a half...," prostate into
bladder, going everywhere else, I'm supposed
to believe in heaven and all that, but just believe
in graves, eighty-five years of women, liquor,
lots of criticism published, travel-grants, you
name it, Bukowski's best pal, my best autobiography
named WAY, WAY OFF THE ROAD to echo
Kerouac's OFF THE ROAD, wishing there was an
after-death L.A. - San Francisco out there waiting
for me, to just keep doing our thing forever, and
that's what I mean for....ever.....

Monday, December 27, 2010

Joseph Farley

Holy Vermin

brother rat, sister vole
gather your congregation
of vermin souls
lead them in
their songs of greed
teach  them to steal
and sniff and feel
and claw
their way to
the top or as far
as their short furred
bodies and feet
wriggle and scurry
to gain a seat
in  board rooms
and legislative halls
where thy can create
rat-friendly laws
and live their ratty
vector lives
and court their furry
rodent wives
and breed and feed
and shit all over
so the people are covered
in feces up to
their shoulders.

with eyes closed

in daydreams I exist
the rest is clearly false
and if forever is a myth
I have still tasted heaven
if only in small sips

still in the queue

if my eyes roll up into my head
do not fear the worst
i'm only checking in at home
to see if they've called my name


the light was green so you kept going
driving through city streets
farmer's fields, forests,
over mountains
from sea to gulf to lake to ocean
you have been on the road
so long now
if someone were to holler “stop”
would you?
Could you?


My home is a state of the middle way
slow to change, but not far behind.
We are rich in demagogues and always have been,
manipulators of words and finances.
A spine of mountains divides us in two
but the real divide is Philadelphia and what is beyond.
No one loves the city, even the people who live there.
What we have of value is taken for granted,
rivers and forests, lakes and hidden valleys.
There history and politics are forgotten
and we catch a glimpse of what was before
Penn's woods were cut down for farms
and pre-fabricated housing developments.

 Joseph Farley edited Axe Factory for 24 years. His books include Suckers, For the Birds, and Longing For The Mother Tongue.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Hal O'Leary



Be it known, I do not jest
I need to get this off my chest.
A female would say "off my breast"
that is if she were like Mar West
who spoke of her's  as her 'hope chest'.
The female will, of course, invest
in plunging gowns and all the rest,
in hopes that she can then attest,
from bulging eyes, we've passed the test.
But be it known, I can suggest,
that I'm a male with some unrest.
So, if you will, at my behest,
please lend an ear while I divest
myself of that which I protest.

While females get to proudly show
the beauties that they have in tow,
with cleavage plunging Oh so low,
and there-by they begin to sow
the seeds that cause we men to grow,
the male though must never...NO
display the gems he has below.
The one-time cod piece had to go.l
No longer can a good man crow.
This is not true with fauna though.
The stag has antlers, not the doe.
And so, it's well that you should know
it's time for men to holler "WHOA,
the joy we savored long ago.
What's good for Jane is good for Joe.


Should you be on a sexual quest,
Take this advice at my behest.
The starting point I find the best
Is always with a woman's breast,
For here we find she will invest
Her utmost effort to arrest
Your glancing eye. It's just a test
To see if you have interest
In getting something off your chest.
In hopes perhaps you might divest
Yourself of all undue unrest
In thinking you'd become a pest
And hie yourself unto her nest.
This could amount to a request.

So look for cleavage, that's a sign
That could mean heaven down the line.
And ogle all you want, that's fine,
With shivers up and down your spine.
It's what she wants. It's by design.
A welcome to her holy shrine

But know that you cannot foretell
If her response will ring the bell.
And should your efforts not go well
Your heaven could become a hell


Hal O'Leary has spent a lifetime in the theatre as actor, director and designer.He was recently inducted into the Wheeling Hall of Fame, and is the recipient of an Honorary Doctor of Humanities Degree from West Liberty University. Since his retirement at age eighty-four, he has taken to writing poetry.

Monday, December 13, 2010

Craig Firsdon: Five Poems

Tats, Happy Meals and Bullets

Years ago a friend of mine got a tattoo.
It was a dragon with an M-16
and a banner that read "Marines".
I thought it was pretty cool,
what could be better
than an automatic weapon,
a dragon
and the Marines?

His best friend was also in the Marines.
They grew up
and enlisted together.
Everything they did
was for each other
and their friends.
I always thought of them
as a comic book dynamic duo
but with two Batmen
not a Batman and a Robin.
Now everytime I watch a Batman movie,
I think of him
so I don't watch
them that often.

The war has been
one big Superbowl commercial
advertising to get people to buy
their patriotic vision of
a thousand painful ways to die
and I refuse to buy any of it.
"Take this medicine and you will feel better"
Cyanide takes away pain as well.

They say the war is winding down
time to start the parades
throw the confetti
kiss every baby.
Instead they ride into town,
medicine taken, new and improved,
on the backs of unicorns.
Everyone wants a unicorn
who doesn't want one?
We see the soldiers galloping into town
a top their unicorns
and we lay down our own weapons,
our words,
our will,
look at ours,
now look a theirs,
we have better weapons,
we know better,
we fight with body and words,
we believe in our faiths,
we believe in ourselves,
This is war,
this is revolution,
this is ours
and this is better.

Don't even look at the unicorns
and think about
eating that piece of peace pie.
The hunger of war is only satisfied
by the full meal deal,
give me a number 2,
of unequaled insanity.
Buy one death,
get one free.
I don't buy it now
and never will.
War is a fast food happy meal
with friends and family fried
between two buns
with lettuce, pickle, tomato, cheese, onion,
a bio-chemical special sauce
and the prize
is just another life lost.
An American Truth Chronicles Tribute To The Fallen
Awake To The Nightmare
I woke early.
dreaming, my head still foggy
I turned on the news
not to be confused with reality
instead a multimillion dollar hollywood
sci-fi blockbuster or copycat horror flick
Just before the hero puts it all right
two screaming beasts fly into two towering uprights
pillars of babylon,
alters for the dead sacrificed upon.
If only the monster had been slain
providing the hero with a storybook ending.
If only..
too bad reality is sometimes too real
and endings are never completely happy.
I grabbed the remote to change the channel
and all I learned was that
nothing is ever what it seems.

That night I listened to the radio.
Art Bell spoke of beliefs
that are nonsense to the masses.
Conspiracies were my hobby,
never truely my thing,
but so much made sense after that night.
Life is stranger than any conspiracy
and while we poke fun at those waiting
for their beliefs to become truths
and those truths to come to light
we forget to realize that all of life's truths
now and have always been in front of our eyes
waiting for our focus
never to be seen
because truth is often more painful
than any lie.

When the body count increased
I was told around two thousand innocents were gone.
It will never compare to the millions slain by,
disease, uncaring hunger,
needless war, fear of the man,
black gold and the almighty dollar.
Pillars from unsalvaged tombs
are now monuments of God forgotten rubble
patchy graves in the middle of desolation.

There is still hope and always will be
inside each child, healthy and fed,
inside each and every person saved
from social slavery.
For too long greed has come at a heavy price
in the form of millions of anonymous graves
We know nothing of the real end
to their dreams,
We continue being ungrateful
for knowing that all of our dreams
have a beginning
while those who live in permanent grey
only see the world as one monotonous scene
forever ignoring the colors at their fingertips.

Those with power,
sitting in their thrones of bone,
washing away blood from their hands
with countless tears of the damned,
they tell us they did all they could
they tried to stop this insanity
but the inevitable will always be inevitable.
How hard did they try?
Did they try?
Try to feel compassion
or cut by the words of families suffering
only to build more monuments
from the sweat and blood of those they loved.

Words spoken from those now without voices
reveal the fakes and frauds
presidents and preachers,
the famous and infamous.
They congregate feeding on the pain
of the little people
an all you can eat buffet
and go up for seconds and thirds.
At their tables you can hear the chatter
discussing the problems of the meek
while the meek knock at death's door.
This is the one true flaw,
that no one actually cares
until these words escape our lips
and we admit, no demand,
to see where once we were blind.

Yes, these lives and millions more have been taken,
but they will never, ever, be forgotten
as long as our words are kept alive.
American Truth Chronicles #1
Change is constant
yet we demand it
from politics and politicians
like a corner crack dealer
a dimebag costing our freedom
                              our hopes
                              our dreams.

We are told "Vote or Die!"
We vote and thousands die.
Promised a better tomorrow
with just a pull on the leaver
a single solitary action
a message goes out
texting the executioner
                       "bring the noose"
                    it's ok, it's American made.
An American made noose
        around American made necks
        killing American made thoughts and dreams
        becoming the American made way.

They say the right to vote is a gift
and the outcome is our reciept.
The last time I checked
the signs on voting day
all read "Nonrefundable".

American Truth Chronicles #3 - Countdown To The Working Class Apocalypse

"American made" betrayed
by the American Judas'
hung by their blue collars
crucified on Hollywood billboards
making ants of millionaires
baptism by kosher candle light
in rivers of industrial runoff.
The burning bushes replaced
by a flourosant light bulb
lit only between
dusk and dawn.
We must not
be so wasteful

Tick, tock.
Tick, tock.

We are told life goes on
but where will you be
when time has run out
and every step we have taken
every carbon footprint
left in toxic gardens
has filled in
with blood and tears
and the fat lady has finally sung,
a silent musing,
her words trapped in a vacuum
of broken lives,
stained egos
and shattered dreams.

Tick, tock.
Tick, tock.

Where will you be?

A Letter To The American Conservative

I remember the days
when logic superceded
greed and power.

Now, instead of needy children
we adopt the highways
we've littered with inattention,
Bury them in freshly printed greens
and watch our printing presses smoke
themselves to an emphazema death
as we all abstain
only as long as the moment lasts.

With the focus of a five year old
high on prescription speed
we soon forget abstinence
and chase the first fox we see.
Its the chase, they say,
that makes the foreplay sweeter.

Chemically induced erections
and silicone inflated breasts
sliding on skin covered in
trans-hydrogenated fat
slowly heating our oceans
and sea-to-shining-seas.

Today the news said maybe
we will or will not
prosecute the murderers
lounging on our blackened beaches
in Versace and Valentino
writing memoirs to their greatness.

I know you understand me,
I can hear you scream "Socialist!"
just fine.

The next time we are out
and your logic asks me to pick up the tab
just remember I voted for
the black guy with a big smile.
This "socialist" is not giving you
a dime

Craig Firsdon is a 30 year old poet, songwriter, watercolor painter and sketch artist from just outside of Toledo in Holland, Ohio. He has been referred to as the "Toledo Renaissance Man" by Lorraine Cipriano in an article she wrote for the Toledo Poetry Examiner and often reads with other local poets including John Dorsey and Michael Grover. He was just published in RedFez and released his chapbook, "Opiate Dreams".

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Kenneth Pobo Showing How Its Done


We’ve got too few lawn chairs,
but maybe our guests will prefer
to sit on grass.  Are we stocked

with wine?  Li Po will want a glass
as soon as death’s gate opens—
he’ll pop in, followed by

the other two.  Wang Wei will
ask to stroll in the garden. 
I should’ve weeded.

For Tu Fu, we’ll need to borrow
a mountain.  Or invent one.  Fast. 
I know you don’t like poetry much--

neither do honeybees.   We don’t
have to dress up.  Death’s gate
will open again and they’ll go,

probably early, and pooped,
we can flop on the couch and leave
the dishes ‘til morning. 


He tells Tiffany: I’d like
to order a mountain,
topped with a rainbow,
and served on a bed
of warm earth.  I don’t
see it on the menu.
She’s had tougher
customers before—
damned if she doesn’t
serve it to him and
damned if he doesn’t
dig right in.


I’m buying my niece some
modern game I don’t understand
or want to play
but she wants it so bad,
and I remember how I wanted
a hockey game
for Christmas, almost
wept when I got it—

in line some snarling white man
YOU’LL SEE.  He has that
rancid look, like spoiled meat
I forgot to throw out.  Oh,
to tell him to pipe down,
but he could easily be violent
and shoot us all
without remorse.


Perhaps I’d like to
make love to you,
birch tree.

What remarkable bark,
leaves that hide
just enough mystery.  I admit
we aren’t made for each other. 
We’ll have to love
without touching
like someone who says
“I can only be friends with you”—
that’s fine, I already know
what a fine friend you are.

You hold my secrets,
release them in fall
when wind carries them away.

Wednesday, December 08, 2010

Michael Frissore: Two Poems


 This Train is for Cockfosters

This is what it said on the train
from Heathrow to the hotel.

Whether this was the last stop
on the train or I was being insulted,
I’m still repeating the phrase
and calling everyone a cockfoster.

A Night in Amsterdam

Three English soccer hooligans
accost us whilst we’re trying
to pick up two American girls
at a live sex show.

They asked for volunteers,
but I had stage fright
(the people running the
sex show, not the hooligans
or the American girls).

The Englishmen follow
us around, shouting,
“Hey, Americans!”
whilst my comrade
tells them to beat it
and I alternate between the
scary, silent type and
the jokester, trying to
keep things lighthearted
so we don’t get trounced
amid this handicapped
tag team match in the waiting,
because you know the
girls don’t have our backs.

Three A.M.,
we stop for French fries,
with ketchup or catsup,
I discuss my comrade’s
shagging chances with
the other American girl,
and a hooligan calls to us,
“Hey, Americans,
your chips are all bloody!”
But that’s how we like ‘em.

In the end we part ways,
three separate factions,
no one gets the girl,
no one takes a punch,
just another night in
the Venice of the North.

Back to our quarters
for what I think will be sleep,
but our friends are waiting,
ready to go out again
to yet another techno club.
It’s Five A.M.,
I resist, but they hand me some
Ecstasy and I take it.

“Now, you have to
go out,” they say.

I don’t think so, but we do,
four more hours in the city.
I try to dance, try to have fun,
the Ecstasy not fully kicked in,
but everything’s blurry,
which could be fatigue,
or claustrophobia,
or social phobia.

All I want is out,
fight or flight,
and I fight for some reason,
standing, pretending to dance,
and thinking I might die here.

When it all ends,
happy, tired, confused,
we get back to our quarters,
it’s Nine A.M.,
I want some breakfast,
I want to sleep,
but what I truly want is you,
somewhere in Columbus, Ohio
or Worcester, Mass.
you are missing me
like I’m missing you
and I wonder
how your evening was.

Sunday, December 05, 2010

Colin James


              Marriage to an Irregular Heartbeat

              Travel in this age of time killing times two.
              Scratching, it doesn't take long
              to get under skin.
              The many corners you avoid
              adore you.
              Horizontal, vertical
              what does it matter?
              All those indulgences
              have come to a head.
              A polemic arse
              in a camouflage of hues,
              as heartbeats do.

Saturday, December 04, 2010

Peter D. Marra

Love Island

A portrait of 2 women

Beasts and
the wild things
Roll in the sand

Waiting for the cloud
explosion to slowly drift
and take them home

Slow sounds
once growls
now whimpering

Face down in the sand
she can’t hear the noise
Wincing forms

And the claws.
The pinup girl lives forever

Drinking sweat and gasoline
Convulsions and climax


The pierced eyes
At the faces of the

Walking out
Of the clock

Moss and dust
Behind her eyes

She stops
Causing the congregation to moan

Halloween altars
Waiting for you

She pounces


Thursday, November 25, 2010

Kenneth P. Gurney


Physics, Not Chemistry

In a universe made out of strings
we are all marionettes
with no idea of who maneuvers
our feet and arms
above the black velvet ceiling.
Delphi asked me to jump rope
some double dutch game
with heal slapping.
Fearlessly I joined in
but we fell into a tangle of limbs:
my right foot slow to clear
the rotating blur.
She thumped the ground
under my tall body
in a whoosh of breath,
then spread her legs
and drew me tighter to her.
During our first kiss 
I found my mind
both on her soft lips 
and wondering
what caused this 
sudden amor
after all those school years
of orbital proximity.

Impossible Angle

I am in the laundromat
worried about rinse cycles
and dryer sheets
and my book remains 
unopened, as the clothes
slosh around 
in some vague 
imitation of a circle
with sudsy splashes.
There is a small zoo
of stuffed animals
in the dryer
and it reminds me
of Noah’s ark
and the cataclysmic events
an old testament god
visits upon his people,
and how thousands 
of dust mites
must be clinging on
to the zoomorphic fabric
for their very lives
at this moment.
To birds, I believe,
the inventor of glass
is the devil incarnate—
which assumes
birds believe in god
and the devil—
or, maybe, in some 
Buddha-like wisdom
they understand
glass’s existence 
forms a cosmic balance
equal to the constant seed 
in the bird feeder.


My posture was bad 
from writing poems all day
at the computer
and my back would not straighten
when I tried to sit up
or stand up
and I lay down
bent and curved
on the floor, hoping
gravity would settle
my parabola,
and slowly I inched
my way through
the jolting pain
and wished
I’d taken up yoga
at age ten.

bio:  Kenneth P. Gurney lives in Albuquerque, NM, USA.  He edits the anthology Adobe Walls.  His latest collection of poems is An Accident Practiced.  To learn more about Kenneth, visit:

Monday, November 22, 2010

Review: Battle Scars - John Bennett

Kamini Press
Ringvagen 8, 4th Floor
SE-117 26 Stockholm
ISBN 978-91-977437-5-4

Henry Denander presents another fine, handsome, classy little book of poetry on his Kamini Press imprint, this time by a guy who's been writing and publishing for more than forty years on the good side - that is, the side I presume all readers of BEATNIK inhabit, the side of the outlaws and the misfits, the firebrands, the men and women who are sometimes too inventive and personal and too free of habitual restriction to be appreciated in their own time, but might, if we ever bloom into a courageous race, be discovered again and have laurels tossed on their graves (though most would settle, like Jack's ghost probably does, for empty beer bottles and fag packets). Bennett has been associated with a whole lot of poets you'll probably like a whole lot, since you're here and not at the page of the Poetry Book Society, but I won't mention them because I don't want to try to elevate the man on the strength of his connections. There's too much of that in mainstream poetry and in the small press - Charles Bukowski called it "clasping assholes" - and our poet doesn't need it anyway. Let's just say that in Battle Scars we get 30 poems, none of them more than 8 or 9 lines long, on subjects ranging from "techno-corporate dictatorship" to the ageing process, all crisply expressed and humorously cynical. You think you have not read very much at the end of each one but you find the words echoing in your mind, the ideas sinking themselves into your consciousness and making you think again about something you thought you had an absolute grip on. So you go back and read again. It's nothing to change the world, perhaps, but none of your ideas or my poetry are either; and Bennett would be profoundly suspicious of anybody who wanted to, I suspect. I liked it very much. If you're interested after hearing me waffle on like this, why don't you visit the Kamini Press website at for more information.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

Kyle Hemmings

Editorial Intrusion :Here's two poems by Kyle Hemmings, from New Jersey in that big country off to the left of us. See the customary bio at the bottom for details. And while you're here, scroll down a little for recently added poems by Felino Soriano, Tyson Bley, Joe Marchia and England and Essex's own iDrew. I edit this page, so I could be accused of bias, but I think we've got a mighty gathering of contemporary poets and writers here. Bruce.

5 Things I Know About Linda K. Wu

She scrapes a living by sending via email
ads for erectile dysfuncton products.
Her last lover exploded inside her.
He died pop-happy. From that time on,
she imagines her vagina as a kind
of birthday balloon that floats
from party to party, heaven being
composed of wishes (one-third)
and two-thirds hot air.


Her real lover is the guy on tv
who solves every murder mystery
by a last minute stroke of random
genius. If he can find a way
to step out of the screen
and catch her from falling
ten stories of endless sky ennui,
it would be an act of true brilliance
her story being written into the script.


It's hard to keep a secret:
her mother is a doll
with one blinking eye.
And being the daughter
of a doll, she can only fake
orgasm. Eventually, all
her lovers die of winter suicides
in a river running past tea gardens.
She gets to keep their reflections,
the last laugh is on the living
who lie face up.


She would appear to them by the bridge.
At such a distance, she seemed a shroud,
a kind of vision. One by one, she married
each man, even gave them a child. In their
sleep, she whispered that her time was up.
A change of season. The husbands howled,
in time, became inconsolable wolves
with sheepskin fur.


She loves him for his tin can life
of brand name acquaintances, his poster boy poses
his mindless prattle on tv talk shows.
Each night she cuts herself a little deeper,
trying to bleed out, getting to the real Her,
who was once a child in some fairy mother's womb
blinded by amniotic visions of starry love.
Your Lover Is a Fembot Named Lucille Ball
Somehow she seemed more real
then my ex-girlfriends
who became pickpockets
of dust-memories,
collectors of lint
from old boyfriends
once thought of as lustful mites
regrettably discarded,
increasing in size & worth.

With Lucille, I didn’t exactly
initiate the sex.
She read me a submenu.
i knew she was Java enabled.
i said “Lucille, skip the basics.
Just jump to Sample and Vibrate.
i struck a resonant chord
between us.
We both had such dirty minds.

Kyle Hemmings lives in New Jersey. He has a new chapbook of poems from Punkin Press titled Fuzzy Logic and an e-chapbook titled Avenue C, from Scars Publications.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Felino A. Soriano


Approbations 779
—after Ray Drummond’s Ballade Poetique #2

Individualized twirls
            fathomed relegation
                        centered reconstruction
                        toward inclined fashions of preferential holdings.  Of
                                                                        saddened movement:
slouching disposition, heard by the stiffened bones of skeletal antiquation
                                                sifts of dusty integration an
olden memory disregarding pliable constructs
removing absence
            exterior ambulation
                                                collecting hearsay among intellectual findings,

Approbations 780
—after Matt Ray’s Think of One

                                                hand against struggling
comprehended soliloquy adage of compensation
                                    alone prophet tangible coincidence.  The
one of
                        distant remorse
warming contours
                                    delving silence’s unobstructed freedom

—combines collaborated angles, slants of pliable intuition
            forming abstract translations of transitory logic
                        holding into worth a delicate promise of renewed

Approbations 781
—after Armen Donelian’s Spree 

                                                            corporeal fascination               learned
                                    architectural thrusts of
fundamental openness, faith
combines then widened
                                                            prosperity, personalized motional
highlighting spontaneous fulcrums
amid the stagnant and
                                                foreseeable nonchalance.          Expand and
recluse: optional advancement frequent radius uncovered whole though
effort reclaims adrenaline’s private intuition.

Tyson Bley


Ad Busting

grammar bolus on my favorite billboard
at long last replaces energy drinks serving their own  
tentacular life-cycle
viral idea kills for sport
reprimanded, heavy-handed use of handsome chapel output
religion’s alien hand paints
cthulu waffling on
pet peeve jacked up on tourette’s
strange tear obsession driving rend
in best playstation move: umbrella boat runs aground
full of nutella’s motion blur resistance
chicken of the sea tuna head-butting simulated jogger
the street’s snake oil flog; culprit evacuation
logo options based on lifeguard art
drug dead slush pile in pylon grass
russian low-budget swedish massage hints at witchcraft
city-dwelling not around much
brontosaurus college humor: knifeblood’s fresh sharpies
avoid motorcade, resume in ambush’s restless bend
biometric army satire recession
dreamy surgery’s habitable awakening
king of the hill is about shaking your fibonacci sequence string bike chainsaw-less-shotgun-less-bra-less
options based on hungry hungry hippos

Film For Stool

the end of a couple of great loves
shut the rock up
several tetris b-pictures
mysteriously appeared in
the dark dusty backroom
in this muck that was
soprano mosaic

a jenga tower can’t pee around sneezing
but at least remains intact, unlike
some folks who disintegrate
into a mess of blocks
to restore the hovercraft rally
a sonic boom pools beneath the drifter
oil lamp, dig a scar without distraction

all my grandmother wanted
was an official permit to
become nice circuitry
and really, don’t worry about
spare time:
stick the tractor beam with staples
to the model aircraft

holidays are for toes, sneak peeks,
for reactions, the reaction satellite’s
halo-smudged outing,
past the stolen hair lineup,
a bit of learning on the side
i.e. bonnets shutter adultery;
lab-grown books from accidental skin

a couple of notes on dysentery:
changing your mind invariably
coincides with a sharp pain
a famicom disc system says it will
film it for stool
the dry wind likes dramatizing
for sahara above scorched mons
pubis wasteland

anything can happen to androgenic hair, 
tack your lost princess leia bikini
barnacle among the family
photos, that popsicle conglomerate,
monopoly of sightseeing which
got a little piece of the singularity
like a perfectly rendered mega man
on a glasscased chunk of berlin wall

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Joe Marchia: Three Poems


The Adam Bomb

and it was right to build beautiful things.
He said touching the rib

tender like a wound. They've built
the Adam

that crushed thousands of
ribs like yours

He said, sensually
stroking he said

Touch me tell
me I'm

a statistic.

Lonely Again In Autumn

Last autumn’s nostalgia hangs in the
air like the brisk wind of the season.
I want to live again like I did in that time.
Walk the same streets a year older;
revisiting old memories tied
to the senses. The sensational reverberation
of seeing an old friend with a
coy smile. The faint optimism
of a naive dreamer on my tongue.

Teeth to Bare

Coffee breathes in wisps that stain the
brown furniture and bookstore chain

seats. Me and you, opposite, talk
of the latest mad stories I can't

believe thats how it is now. You
are only in town now to tell me
stories because your eyes are

frozen over and sterile. You used
to be better than me at being

a human being, what happened
to empathy? Squeaky- chair with
bad posture sitting eyes fixed to

facial imperfections; a new twitch
you picked up with no charm like

a fish nailed to wood. Unlike your
old smile, no teeth to bare.