falling leaves spin
teaching dervishes
to whirl
-
mother smiles
then passes on to glory –
the sea ebbs
-
a crow returns to murder
not enough
frequent flyer points
Jeremy Balius
http://jeremybalius.wordpress.com/
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
Phillip A Ellis - 15 August 2009
15 August 2009
Over lands, seas, and oceans, the stars rise
steadily, into night and the dark sky
unmarked by any moon. When the stars fade
from the heights, scratched as it is by streets' lamps,
houses, other buildings, then no eye knows
what was once seen, in the open night sky:
seasons, directions, legends, and fair lamps
hung from the heavens, and from a dark vault.
But the night is still young, younger than time,
younger than the lands over which it's hung
like a veil of unseeing, emptiness
kept at bay as by gossamer star-veils,
clusters of flaming gas, fields of burning,
fragile wards facing entropy, heat death.
Phillip A Ellis
http://phillipellis.f-snet.com/
Over lands, seas, and oceans, the stars rise
steadily, into night and the dark sky
unmarked by any moon. When the stars fade
from the heights, scratched as it is by streets' lamps,
houses, other buildings, then no eye knows
what was once seen, in the open night sky:
seasons, directions, legends, and fair lamps
hung from the heavens, and from a dark vault.
But the night is still young, younger than time,
younger than the lands over which it's hung
like a veil of unseeing, emptiness
kept at bay as by gossamer star-veils,
clusters of flaming gas, fields of burning,
fragile wards facing entropy, heat death.
Phillip A Ellis
http://phillipellis.f-snet.com/
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Jeff Klooger - A Brief History Of Getting Smashed
A Brief History Of Getting Smashed
Emotion is chemistry, and alcohol
is love ― here especially, or anywhere tropical.
Tonight we will get drunk like scientists, our heads bursting
with untested theories, facts
whizzing past our eyes
and into the sunset.
We don’t care. Without fear or forethought,
we gaze into the magic heart of things. Reality
is what we see when we close our eyes,
sure as physics, sucking us in
like gravity. If you lie flat out
and stare straight up at the stars, you will get dizzy,
but all that whirling still makes sense somehow.
God is a dry martini, shaken not stirred.
Proof is a toothpick
piercing the olive of the world.
Einstein understood: the faster you go
the heavier you get.
Intoxication is a formula
that escapes to infinity.
Jeff Klooger
http://walleahpress.com.au/FR37Klooger.html
Emotion is chemistry, and alcohol
is love ― here especially, or anywhere tropical.
Tonight we will get drunk like scientists, our heads bursting
with untested theories, facts
whizzing past our eyes
and into the sunset.
We don’t care. Without fear or forethought,
we gaze into the magic heart of things. Reality
is what we see when we close our eyes,
sure as physics, sucking us in
like gravity. If you lie flat out
and stare straight up at the stars, you will get dizzy,
but all that whirling still makes sense somehow.
God is a dry martini, shaken not stirred.
Proof is a toothpick
piercing the olive of the world.
Einstein understood: the faster you go
the heavier you get.
Intoxication is a formula
that escapes to infinity.
Jeff Klooger
http://walleahpress.com.au/FR37Klooger.html
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Michael Lee Johnson - Charley Plays a Tune
Charley Plays a Tune
Crippled, in Chicago,
with arthritis
and Alzheimer's,
in a dark rented room,
Charley plays
melancholic melodies
on a dust-filled
harmonica he
found abandoned
on a playground of sand
years ago by a handful of children
playing on monkey bars.
He now goes to the bathroom on occasion,
relieving himself takes forever; he feeds the cat when
he doesn't forget where the food is stashed.
He hears bedlam when he buys fish at the local market
and the skeleton bones of the fish show through.
He lies on his back, riddled with pain,
pine cones fill his pillows and mattress;
praying to Jesus and rubbing his rosary beads
Charley blows tunes out his
celestial instrument
notes float through the open window
touch the nose of summer clouds.
Charley overtakes himself with grief
and is ecstatically alone.
Charley plays a solo tune.
Michael Lee Johnson
http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/BookDetail.aspx?BookId=SKU-000058168
Monday, May 24, 2010
Porgy Comes Home - Image & Text by Wayne Wolfson
She thirsted to hear my voice again, even the small things; asking her to shut the light, the click of the last domino being put back in the box, my cigar as she walked by the ashtray left on the counter.
When she was beautiful there was something almost commonplace about it. I much preferred her looking tired or melancholy. It has a more honest feel to it as it also encompasses a sort of collaborative origin involving us both.
Even when we had first met, her in her best dress, she interested me with the lies that she told and not her beauty.
That first night we drank all the free booze which the party had to offer, then walked all the way to Les Halles for onion soup. We talked the entire time, not out of any awkward pressure but just for the enjoyment of it.
Our two voices, her French more of a sing song quality than my thick tongued grunts, would sometimes come back to us via an empty alley echo. This late night duet was not without its appeal.
It had kept me more alert than I had expected. The soup would now be more than mere ritual, I was becoming hungry.
She talked of appetite in an honest way with all its accompanying unpleasantness, which appealed to me.
Desire, those who always know how to get what they want, the abstract idea of the goal, radiate a sort of light like the gleam of a star, brilliant and cold. Marissa though, her glow was more that of a funeral pyre.
It has been two years and I am still waiting to see how it will end. We both have our little power plays and bite backs but neither of us seem inclined to rush towards an end game.
I have become superstitious about her tears. After conjuring them a certain amount of times they will haunt me long after she is gone. The tiger crouched in the pile of dirty laundry under the bed, I must be careful.
I had not asked her to pick me up and she had not offered. It would acknowledge our shared history another link in a chain which grew a little longer every day.
The airport at this hour was mostly empty, the few bodies one saw where all at a distance, frozen, more random components of a tableau than actual people.
There were no taxis to be found so I caught the train.
It was raining, I buttoned my jacket even though I knew the train would be too warm and I would have to undo it again.
The last train of the night. Using the blurred lights which slide by, the drizzle paints an impressionistic image of the city upon the window which I now lean my forehead against for its coolness.
I climb the stairs to the street. I stop at Pepe’s to call and let her know I made it all right and a quick Calvados to ease the pain in my side.
Technically, they were not open but two old men sat by the window smoking cigars and playing cards. One tourist who had initially been attracted by the lone light on a dark street in a tee shirt sat alone and dazed in front of a row of empty glasses. He was too drunk to get back to his hotel but did not know where else to go.
Not bothering anybody, Marc had stopped serving him but let him stay.
We shook hands, he let me use the phone as he poured. I held up two fingers. She wanted me to come over. No. She wanted to come over. No. I would see her tomorrow which was now today after I cleaned up and rested a bit.
She tried not to come across as disappointed. I noticed her effort but pretended not to.
The drinks made me temporarily feel good enough to make it home. I paid and left.
Without turning on the light, I put my bag down next to the door and started getting undressed.
I go to wash my face. I enjoy the quiet, the familiar scent of my place. I leave the lights out, I feel a headache coming on, I probably had not had enough water before flying.
The rough hewn bar of soap left in the basin of the sink takes on the identity of a pearl in a shell as now viewed in the pale light spilling in through the windows. I should get some sleep. I look in the mirror, in this light though my features are indistinct, I could be anybody.
I now reach for the soap, the underside is still slick like a secret, someone had been here. I hold it in my hand, my fingers playing over the cracks in its top.
I thought of how I had gotten the drop on the one they had called Zeppo.
He could have stood still and I would have just taken him in. But instead he had made a reach, chancing that he would be faster.
I knelt down and clearing his lips of blood with my own handkerchief held his head up in case he wanted to say something.
The killer had been warm like the hum of an old tube radio. He had gambled it all and lost. Men like us never seem to go in for half measures.
Wayne Wolfson
http://www.waynewolfson.com/
When she was beautiful there was something almost commonplace about it. I much preferred her looking tired or melancholy. It has a more honest feel to it as it also encompasses a sort of collaborative origin involving us both.
Even when we had first met, her in her best dress, she interested me with the lies that she told and not her beauty.
That first night we drank all the free booze which the party had to offer, then walked all the way to Les Halles for onion soup. We talked the entire time, not out of any awkward pressure but just for the enjoyment of it.
Our two voices, her French more of a sing song quality than my thick tongued grunts, would sometimes come back to us via an empty alley echo. This late night duet was not without its appeal.
It had kept me more alert than I had expected. The soup would now be more than mere ritual, I was becoming hungry.
She talked of appetite in an honest way with all its accompanying unpleasantness, which appealed to me.
Desire, those who always know how to get what they want, the abstract idea of the goal, radiate a sort of light like the gleam of a star, brilliant and cold. Marissa though, her glow was more that of a funeral pyre.
It has been two years and I am still waiting to see how it will end. We both have our little power plays and bite backs but neither of us seem inclined to rush towards an end game.
I have become superstitious about her tears. After conjuring them a certain amount of times they will haunt me long after she is gone. The tiger crouched in the pile of dirty laundry under the bed, I must be careful.
I had not asked her to pick me up and she had not offered. It would acknowledge our shared history another link in a chain which grew a little longer every day.
The airport at this hour was mostly empty, the few bodies one saw where all at a distance, frozen, more random components of a tableau than actual people.
There were no taxis to be found so I caught the train.
It was raining, I buttoned my jacket even though I knew the train would be too warm and I would have to undo it again.
The last train of the night. Using the blurred lights which slide by, the drizzle paints an impressionistic image of the city upon the window which I now lean my forehead against for its coolness.
I climb the stairs to the street. I stop at Pepe’s to call and let her know I made it all right and a quick Calvados to ease the pain in my side.
Technically, they were not open but two old men sat by the window smoking cigars and playing cards. One tourist who had initially been attracted by the lone light on a dark street in a tee shirt sat alone and dazed in front of a row of empty glasses. He was too drunk to get back to his hotel but did not know where else to go.
Not bothering anybody, Marc had stopped serving him but let him stay.
We shook hands, he let me use the phone as he poured. I held up two fingers. She wanted me to come over. No. She wanted to come over. No. I would see her tomorrow which was now today after I cleaned up and rested a bit.
She tried not to come across as disappointed. I noticed her effort but pretended not to.
The drinks made me temporarily feel good enough to make it home. I paid and left.
Without turning on the light, I put my bag down next to the door and started getting undressed.
I go to wash my face. I enjoy the quiet, the familiar scent of my place. I leave the lights out, I feel a headache coming on, I probably had not had enough water before flying.
The rough hewn bar of soap left in the basin of the sink takes on the identity of a pearl in a shell as now viewed in the pale light spilling in through the windows. I should get some sleep. I look in the mirror, in this light though my features are indistinct, I could be anybody.
I now reach for the soap, the underside is still slick like a secret, someone had been here. I hold it in my hand, my fingers playing over the cracks in its top.
I thought of how I had gotten the drop on the one they had called Zeppo.
He could have stood still and I would have just taken him in. But instead he had made a reach, chancing that he would be faster.
I knelt down and clearing his lips of blood with my own handkerchief held his head up in case he wanted to say something.
The killer had been warm like the hum of an old tube radio. He had gambled it all and lost. Men like us never seem to go in for half measures.
Wayne Wolfson
http://www.waynewolfson.com/
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Landscapes - Stuart Barnes
LANDSCAPES
The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes
Marcel Proust
Marcel Proust
(I) Collingwood
the Magi are imaginable
a poultice for sizzling footpaths
jasmine’s in clusters like jellyfish
or brains over ramshackle wooden
fences – missing pales, missing teeth
sepia light smogs broken warehouse
rooftops, cracks the jade-green eyes
of stray white cats you stalk,
face ringing like a church bell
(II) Clifton Hill
alarming palaver! blue Mary,
grey child OshKosh B’Gosh
buggies, brown and black – they pass,
slow as hearses birds-of-paradise
fly fabulous crests’ molten colours
at the air; I stare and stare the light
of the day is starry, and comes
from the eye of the cardinal mountains
you come out of nowhere
(III) Abbotsford
a shock-haired man rubs lamps
of Technicolor glass graceful
as giraffes, nuns unfurl dark habits
hands rub like papery leaves
in November there’s mayhem
at the manger last winter I witnessed
a froth of hops, like sheep or a crime,
across the water you in white
across the water fire in the sky
Stuart Barnes
http://pool.org.au/users/stuart_barnes
Friday, April 2, 2010
In The Middle Of The Night - Julie Buffaloe-Yoder
In The Middle Of The Night
She played video games
on a dirty brown couch
that reeked of Doritos
and sweaty ass.
She pulled the heads
off her Barbie dolls
in a dark apartment
above Charley’s Bar
where her mother
turned tricks for crack.
She joined the Army
to pay for college–
put on boots
and slammed
to Combat Rock.
Now she sits on a
leather sectional,
sells adult toys
in Manhattan,
has 798 friends
on Facebook,
updates her page
with sexy videos
and hangs up
when her mother
calls bawling
in the middle
of the night.
Julie Buffaloe-Yoder
http://juliebuff.wordpress.com/
She played video games
on a dirty brown couch
that reeked of Doritos
and sweaty ass.
She pulled the heads
off her Barbie dolls
in a dark apartment
above Charley’s Bar
where her mother
turned tricks for crack.
She joined the Army
to pay for college–
put on boots
and slammed
to Combat Rock.
Now she sits on a
leather sectional,
sells adult toys
in Manhattan,
has 798 friends
on Facebook,
updates her page
with sexy videos
and hangs up
when her mother
calls bawling
in the middle
of the night.
Julie Buffaloe-Yoder
http://juliebuff.wordpress.com/
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