Blue Car
The car appeared outside the house, as if by magic
dropped from the sky into a pile of snow, tire tracks obliterated by fresh snow.
A sleeping bag blocked the back window completely, candy wrappers
could be seen on the front seat.
After a couple of days, my neighbor came over and asked me if it was my car
if I wouldn’t mind moving it so that her nephew could park there. I told her
how the car had just appeared in that spot, and that I didn’t think anyone
had come back for it since its arrival, although
I thought I saw a couple of people sitting in the front seat very late the night before
hands frantically moving in the dim overhead light
but it may have been a dream.
A week or so later, a tow truck came and got the car, probably called by my neighbor
the one who came over or perhaps a different one entirely
the spot where the car had been parked was black and green with oil and antifreeze
dirty snow and a couple of smashed beer cans. I watched the car get pulled
backwards down the street, waited for a door to fling open angrily
in the car or in a neighboring house, but no one came out after the car
no one chased the truck frantically down the street.
Read more "HOLLY DAY – BLUE CAR"
The Bells of the Mission Santa Ysabel
The bells of
The Mission Santa Ysabel
Ring no more
To most parishioners still living
They never have rang in their lifetimes
Being stolen in 1925
The whereabouts of the bells are unknown
Yet it’s expected
That this was an inside job
And that the bells are holed up
Not very far away
Forgotten about in some old shed or barn
The parishioners pray
That this is true
That God will work a mid-level miracle
And see to the safe return of the bells
In 1700 Peter the Great
Of Russia
Melted down all of his homelands’
Church bells
To make cannons for warfare
They fired church bell cannon balls
Which killed people
Did they suffer a holy death
That granted them immediate entrance
Into the kingdom of Heaven
Was this the fate of the bells
Of the Mission Santa Ysabel
The bells
Of the Mission Santa Ysabel
Have remained silent
As to their whereabouts
And to what they may be mixed-up in
The hostage syndrome
They identify with their captors
And don’t try to escape
Who would steal church bells
What kind of a low-life would do such a thing
You would think that they would feel guilty
Every time they heard a church bell ring
Wracked with inconsolable guilt
And with every ding-dong
That ever reached their ears
For the rest of their lives
Cringing on Sundays
At the noon day
At quitting time
The bells
Of the Mission Santa Ysabel
Ring no more
For us
But for their captors
They ring all the time
Clanging out “Thief, thief, thief!”
It must be tough to hold up
Under that kind of condemnation
God must have a hand in this
He keeps the thieves names on His black list
Nothing good could ever come of this
Those bells are surely missed
There’s only one way to escape eternal damnation
Bring back the bells
Of the Mission Santa Ysabel
Buy your way out of hell
God’s not buying what you have to sell
And one can never tell
When things will no longer go so well
Someday the bells
Of the Mission Santa Ysabel
Will chime in joyous rapture
Across the Santa Ysabel Valley
Summoning parishioners to appear
And perhaps shed some tears
Over the long-awaited return of the bells
God being in his Heaven
And all being right with the world
The bells
Of the Mission Santa Ysabel
Don’t ring currently
But even a blind man can see
That God will put an end to this travesty
He will solve the mystery
The bells of the Mission Santa Ysabel
Will once again clang loudly
Ding, dong
No longer gone
The bells of the Mission Santa Ysabel
Will clang loudly
Over the Santa Ysabel Valley
God being in His Heaven
And all being right with the world
Ding
Dong
Ding
Dong
Read more "John C. Krieg – The Bells of the Mission Santa Ysabel"DOOMSDAY JOGGING
(for Lance Leonard Gambrell)
Imagine a book
open to the black
depth of the universe.
Death is a wave of sound
you can’t wave off.
Sometimes instead of Lance dying
I imagine the tracks of a train
Vaselined and lit from behind
like an X-ray.
Sometimes instead of him dying
I imagine a steel-blue deity with 18 arms.
I guess 18 arms is how many arms it takes
to headlock something wrong.
I’m likely to round up a common stain
into a regional one or worse: a personal one.
The catch of crying is crying
kills bacteria, releases toxins,
improves vision.
Every white, elastomeric rooftop
in this desert town is haunted
by the dusty fingerprint of rain.
So much dust and blood work
between each papillary ridge.
The desert takes its time
showing us things die.
I was walking the acequia with my daughter
when she told me polar bears
have clear hair.
I was walking the acequia with my daughter
when a jellyfish of photons
came smearing across the tracks,
softening the steel.
I had a vision I went to see him
near the end in a hospital bed.
The walls were smoking
and we were playing dominoes
on a swiveling tray. It was horrifying,
I was still trying to win.
Lance writes poems on pizza boxes.
He gets to stay alive
a little while longer.
Last night tight ropes of light
crossed behind his eyes.
I wasn’t there. I was at home
looking for a dollar.
Last night in the pocket
of a yellow pillow, the tooth fairy
found my daughter’s 11th tooth.
The fairy came with a dollar,
dressed in mirage
except for his flip flops.
I heard in Mexico it’s a rat that comes;
it’s a rat that trades your tooth for cash.
I was walking the acequia with my daughter
when I told her polar bears have clear hair
because the air around those hairs
scatters light of every color
in every direction.
You could tell by her face,
the laws of light
were a let down.
Imagine a book
open on a table
only instead of pages
the black depth of the universe.
Now imagine
sunlight all spread out
on that same table.
Can you see him on a Tuesday in February?
Can you see him leaning
into the needles of wind like a vein?
Can you see him?
He’s walking there with me down Boutz
toward Avenida de Mesilla.
His curls so blond
they mirage.
“Putting You Through Now, Caller.” (13)
“What’s the checklist?
How soon before guts on the freeway?
The hood’ll be spattered.
We’ll be on overdrive six months.”
“By then deadwood’ll be birdless,
Whirlblast sparring Central Park.”
Read more "“PUTTING YOU THROUGH NOW, CALLER.” – Christopher Barnes"Coleman Hawkins
1:33 a.m. Tuesday night;
playing on my cable T.V.
it’s like we were destined to be entwined,
Coleman and me,
so basically, nothing ever happened in-between –
no J.F.K. boning half of Jersey
to get his mind off Bays with Pigs in them,
no Flock of Seagulls or gas shortages
for Austin Powers to mull upon,
just Coleman Hawkins finding his way to me –
commercial break,
first fade to black,
1:38am.
I’ve grabbed my spacesuit and enthusiastically attach it,
there is much for Coleman and I to catch up on when he returns
Read more "COLEMAN HAWKINS – JOHN DOYLE"THE EDGE
So there I was
standing at the edge of the cliff with Angela
and we made this vow,
like a wedding vow almost
but with the land dropping away at our feet
and bitter sea-wind blowing in our faces.
It was a pledge to be faithful until death.
I’d known Angela since childhood.
She read books, even difficult ones.
She loved to listen to music.
Her taste extended to jazz.
And she was drawn to the sea.
Not so much to be splashing around in it.
But to observe from a distance,
to feel its power not its playfulness.
The vow was more her idea than mine.
In fact, I was a little uneasy
standing in such a precarious position
on a chilly Fall day.
But she had grown into such a cute teenage girl.
And I loved the touch of her fingers.
And, oh yes, her breath on the back of my neck.
But, after we had repeated our affection so solemnly,
I could detect a certain sadness in her eyes.
It was as if she was saying, “Now what.”
As if dreams end by coming true.
Or a cliff, like the one we peered down from,
offered no opportunities to go any higher.
Or the sea was so vast, so deep,
it could only be indifferent
to two fifteen-year-olds trying to act older.
It was a week later, and in a less perilous setting,
when, with a tear or two, she released me from that vow.
I would have done the same but she beat me to it.
We were not a couple bonded for all time.
But we’d been exposed to the perils of such bondage…
not only bone-shaking and blustery
but at the very edge.
~
A HOUSEFLY REVISITS SYLVIA PLATH
I press against
the curve of glass,
peer out at my world
of linoleum, formica
and stainless steel.
Will I never sip
on the sugar crumbs again
or trot across the good china.
nibbling food-scraps
as I go?
I’m in this bell-jar –
yes, that’s right,
just like Sylvia Plath,
beating my wings,
buzzing loudly.
Well we know
what good that did
for her.
Soon enough,
the oxygen in here
will dissipate
until there’s not enough
to support the likes of me.
Sylvia, I know how
it was for you.
Someone trapped
you in their grip,
popped you into a container,
screwed the lid tight,
left you to choke
on your own imprisonment.
Just like you,
I’ll fall to the bottom eventually.
And yet I’m curious to see
what you have written there.
Read more "JOHN GREY – 2 POEMS"In the Thick
In the thick
of our holy quarrel,
she leans in
to whisper
the most important thing,
but is silent,
and I want to leave her
alone
across the table
on her device,
but I knock over our old vase
spilling the violets,
and she looks at me
as if before they fell,
she’d already
seen them
fallen.
~
Read more "PETER SCHIRESON – IN THE THICK"13 HAIKU All the naked women turned out to be Barbies on the kitchen floor ~ The spider grins when something crashes its web and breaks its connections ~ A crystal airway blocked by a hot dog collapsed the operation ~ Alone time in December is somber […]
Read more "TIM STALEY – 13 HAIKU"THE SLAVE
In the back-streets and
public conveniences, in
amongst bushes and
bus shelters, in
abandoned buildings,
slums and plush
apartments,
she’d give head and
hand-jobs for the price
of a bag of heroin,
Joanna would sell her
clothes, her self-respect,
her dear mother’s
soul, her father’s
eyes, her sister’s heart
for a bag of heroin,
she’d blind the sun,
confiscate the moon
and rip the blood
from your veins
for a bag of heroin
and she did
until a fucked-up
batch of heroin
beat her down
forever.
Cacti Fur 