2 POEMS – DAVID S. POINTER

Night Vision Revisited

I’d clean the killing lens night vision
goggles
with submarine seawater, but, the
eviscerated blindness is lodged off
in the long term
low intensity conflict
brain wirings
never fully sanitized
as the world pulls warm winter covers
up over the collective mindless head
waiting for a new delicate darkness
without carnage,
without calendars,
without fair trials touching down inside
unjust economic system cyber-tent sales

~

Dreamscape Crime


Detectives
relish
pursuit,
but, if anyone
dynamites
or poisons sinkholes
as a cold case walks by,
arrest
the former
not quite forgiven
when the state needs money
after receiving individuals
incensed by mouthpieces
for the vampiric economy
needing
tailbones
for the acquisitions-avoidance
culture receiving so many
mega-judgements lacking
menace-conviction corps

Advertisements
Read more "2 POEMS – DAVID S. POINTER"

ON A THEME FROM BRECHT – MARK J MITCHELL

 ON A THEME FROM BRECHT

Wisdom was passed on from mouth to mouth.

                                                                        —Bertolt Brecht
                                                                            New Ages

And wisdom was passed on from mouth to mouth
in soft kisses, quickly lost, like music
from her piano. Windows let notes out
last night (and it was the last night) and you ran
after them with your net. Then starry air
found its way back into your open mouth.
Your tongue brushed her wisdom as it landed
on fact. Her candle out, the smoking wick
a token of wisdom from her mouth’s lair.

Read more "ON A THEME FROM BRECHT – MARK J MITCHELL"

ROBIN WYATT DUNN – UNTITLED

Now all that we have seen can wait.
I’m a slow fire, burning out:
watching you.

You were always so careful.
What did you have to be so careful for?

What grace of the body
tired and waiting for the silver tongue
to sweep him awake
should rough you into waking

to hold my hand
curse the gods
hit the road
armed or unarmed
in song?

What grip is it
in your balls
to know the weapons I’ve kept
under your porch
under your tongue
and eyeballs

singing?

Read more "ROBIN WYATT DUNN – UNTITLED"

ANDREW HUBBARD – THE HOUSE ON THE HILL

The House on the Hill

It was modest yet distinguished

Gleaming white clapboards three stories high,

Green shutters and a turn-off driveway

To the huge garage that you knew

Without being told used to be

A real carriage house.


They were regular people

Mowed their own lawn

Didn’t send their daughter away to school.

She went to the town school

With us regular guys, and if

Her clothes were a little better

It was so subtle even the girls

Couldn’t find a way to be put off.


What she saw in me I can’t imagine

But I had her first, in the back

Of her Dad’s station wagon

A dozen times,

Another dozen times.


And then she went with Preston

Told him she was a virgin.


We giggled together over that.


She was pregnant by one of us

I was sure at the time.


Now I’m a little less sure

But whatever, he did the right thing

And married her, white dress and all.

They settled down,

I went away,

And it was twenty years

Before I saw her again.


She had lost three babies in a row

And her pretty body

Was sixty pounds heavier.

Preston was out of work.


I didn’t know what to say.


This is life I guess

In a small town, probably

It’s life anywhere.

Read more "ANDREW HUBBARD – THE HOUSE ON THE HILL"

SCOTT LAUDATI – THE SANTA FE TRAIL

the santa fe trail

you can read maps by starlight

in places i’ve been

and you sleep like shit

off the mexican beer

and wake up covered in bites

in hotels where

life is impossible

and everything still alive

wants blood.

did you know what you wanted

at the taco truck in dale hart?

do you know that there’s a

whole country out there

that doesn’t care about new york?

i do now.

i might know everything now.

i’ve drank from the shallow creeks.

i’ve chewed the tacos rellenos with

fire still in the seeds.

i looked up for god and every grackle

in the tree followed my gaze.

next time i’ll follow the trails in the sand

and the small streams will lead me to the window rock.

or maybe the other way –

to lay down in a graveyard

where desert rats use cow skulls as ashtrays.

and if the rains ever come again

maybe white petals

will bud up from my bones

and a lost rabbit can

spend a day

sleeping under my shade.

Read more "SCOTT LAUDATI – THE SANTA FE TRAIL"