Victims

image borrowed from flickr

Victims

Today, I did a very foolish thing--
I ventured Outside, and stood
on the edge of the Infinite, traveling
beyond the plastic hedgerows to the massive
Sea of Wrecked Cars, many of which
I couldn’t recognize, their icons missing
from the Great Books of Yesterday,
a great glimmering web of chrome chunks,
hanging limply from high towers of rusted steel,
antiquated soft wheels on every one;

to my absolute amazement, midst
the mountains of mangled machines,
hidden from the watcher drones, I found
a forgotten field, a dewey pungent glen
teeming with sickening parasites;

a noisy clear stream slashed through
its clover-strewn center, strange clear water
bubbling and rushing over colored rocks,
until I straddled it like a Colossus
and pissed a pint into its arrogant face
until it clouded up wonderfully.

Standing at one corner of the tiny field
was a kind of scarecrow lashed to a stump,
a man of straw wearing something non-synthetic,
bibbed overalls I think they were called,
and from behind his flaxen shoulders,
from within the stump’s blackened heart,
a golden apple tree had sprouted, and had grown
up all around him, holding him tenderly upright,
and Zornus help me somehow their stamien caresses
had bore frightful fruit, plump yellow apples
hung from her hair branches;

Overcome with disgust, angry past reason,
I ate several of their prodigy, and crushed
many more beneath my steel boots,
their soft little bodies impaled
by the spikes on my active heels.

then just as my rancor was fully spent,
when I felt I could not stand
this unholy coupling a moment longer,
the scarecrow stepped off
the stump and drove a wooden stake
into my exposed chest, ripping through
the kevlar like it was tissue paper,

lifting me high above his head,
twirling me like a hog on a spit,
allowing me to catch a glimpse
of the Citadel before he dropped
me into a ring of his children’s teeth
who proceeded to tear me asunder
and feast on my entrails.


Glenn Buttkus

March 2012

Listed as #20 over at dVerse Poets--Poetics

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

A Real Working Truck

Image by Glenn Buttkus

A real working truck
wears no make up
to impress the boys.

He Found Real Passion

Image by Glenn Buttkus

He found real passion
in the waxed rouge
of his loyal International.

Burly Molly-Bolts

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Burly molly-bolts
finally pull through
neglected tired bricks.

Rusting Girders Still

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Rusting girders still
span our many rivers,
flexing with the traffic.

Some Masonic Temples

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Some Masonic Temples
are so grandiose, they
spurn the word lodge.

Rooting Flavor

image borrowed from shawna

Rooting Flavor

specter of self writhes
unable to claim what should be mine

solitude

possessed seconds of a writer’s mind
disturbed

make me a hack not a poet

an extracted almond moon waiting
for its return to sky

potential violet lines consumed
by everyday fires

overknown—overneeded
by lemon-drop people

cling-ons
from a carob planet

tongues who wouldn’t know
the real thing

even if they could taste it


Shawna McAllister

Posted both in response to her Monday Melting word list, and as a Flash 55 over at Rosemary Mint

Life Rarely

image borrowed from bing

life rarely

life rarely
pierces
the same
place twice –
don’t be
daft, remove
the cape, it
doesn’t take
a hero to
get it right
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

There Is No Other

image by yi ching lin

there is no other

there is no other
way to say this, but
SR 141 is a
temptress, with
her sleek lines,
plentiful skies, and
North-South smooth
sailing. more often
than not, that rounded
horizon hides
a patrol officer,
pointing his radar
gun right at you,
and reminiscing
comes with two,
not one, tickets
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Somewhere In Colorado

image borrowed from bing

somewhere in colorado


somewhere in colorado
a tall balding architect
in a honeycomb room
is smiling at his wife,

a dream ballerina he
met and married in the
rolling thunder of 1975.

on his loom he weaves
pines into parties and
reclaimed rafters into

harbors many hearts
will sail from around
the world to drink the
wine of gratitude in.

Jannie Funster

Her Flash Friday 55 for G-Man
Posted over on her sit Jannie Funster

Ineluctable

image borrowed from flickr

Ineluctable

Whether it be
cheery blackberry blossoms
festooned with thorns,

or those damned weeds snaking
from the fissures they created
in your driveway,

or your inexorable need to fly
in some of your dreams,

the end of March overrides
the dun doldrums of winter’s sting,
as from the rotting aged root,
a new one will spring.


Glenn Buttkus

March 2012

Posted over on G-Man's Flash 55 Friday

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

First Embrace

image borrowed from bing

First Embrace


That song is playing again,
cello solo, long slow passionate notes,
deep, sad, beautiful--then staccato bowing
as the brewing coffee keeps the beat,
filling the air with darkly crushed delight;

hidden birds in the dark, heralding
the day to come, or children’s laughter
soft and muffled on the breeze, clinging
to dawn’s nubile breaths;

standing in an open doorway, catching
a whiff of kelp sliding over the deck chairs,
filling my illusory eyes with tall jagged spires
at the water’s edge, sea stacks, solitary shards
of once continent pulled away from the land,
naked rock sculptures, granite gods
standing hip deep in the waves;

the music combining cello with piano, string cousins
of a different parent, emotions stoked with eerie
earliness, forcing the hard stare to the horizon,
calling up grateful tears while the next chapter
begins to take shape, pages filling with language,

just as the searing golden silkie of morning
rises up steaming and wet from the sea,
and kisses me scalding yellow-orange
full on the mouth.

Glenn Buttkus

March 2012


Listed as #34 over at dVerse Poets-MTB

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Not Knowing What

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Not knowing what
the sign read
made me uneasy.

The Clock Tower Won

Image by Glenn Buttkus

The clock tower won
the game, finding a
perfect hiding place.

The Dwarf Triplets

Image by Glenn Buttkus

The dwarf triplets
were locked in their
Victorian towers.

Sometimes the Sky

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Sometimes the sky
gets captured
in churches.

I Believe That

Image by Glenn Buttkus

I believe that
some signs just
fade away.

The Lines Formed

Image by Glenn Buttkus

The lines formed
all about me
that afternoon.

Looking Up My

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Looking up my
face turned red,
white and blue.

Home is Looking

image by yi ching lin

home is looking

home is looking
through
these dogwood
branches of my
childhood
and seeing
something worth
holding on to
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Beatnik Speakeasy Place

image borrowed from bing

A roughed up, beat up, beat down, beatnik speakeasy piece.


Redneck hippies, peaceful fools, drooling over the violations of the Golden Rule. See the sagebrush woman, scorned of the Milky Way, cringing at the sun's revelations. Lit up, we who do not belong, the underdog, unshaven, wearing threadbare, baggy clothes.

What are you doing? I am rehearsing for a role as the dead woman's wanton, heartbroken, bag lady daughter.

Dispossessed, poor of spirit and of purse, desperate to belong to something and not be shunned, I tiptoe past the pointy-eyed residents of America's aspiring 21st-century South African state of racist and classist sentiment.

White trash girl, sagging moonlit haunted eyes, portrait of mourning, symbol of the great divide. Lost misfit prowling the American Empire for a tribe, for somewhere to sink my footsteps and recover my pride.

Hear, oh Satan, the furrowed faces bellowing for blood, and watch the scabby-kneed children imitate their parents' hatred of anything different. If it looks different from us, it's bad. If it walks different, it's bad, you know. If it walks different, if it walks at all among our palace estates, suspect it of badness and shoot it dead with venom-tipped arrows of speech and bullets bought on the cheap at the headwaters of America's consumer greatness, the empire of more for less.

Examine my headdress. Examine my sash. Examine my matches, Mr. Policeman. Are they still legal? Two refrigerators to chill the fresh caught blood. Two refrigerators to chill the sun. Phantoms walk in the urban jungle, phantoms of the cornstalk and speaking ventricle, phantoms riding the rainbow of honey-do lists. Honey, I miss you, honey, move over, honey, you've got to go shopping at the mall with me, honey, you've got to look like an ad for Banana Republic or The Gap. You've got to dress like you're got so much cash. You've got to pass for a rich white somebody. Where's your midsize SUV? Where's your shiny new sedan?

It's bad, you know. It looks different. It's bad you know. It's brown and blue. Let's see if it bleeds red. It's bad, you know. It fell off the 21st century somewhere near Alabama, somewhere near Timbuktu.

Out near Albuquerque, the man bought a lot of land. Over the river, through the lands of Jim Crow, the laundromat, over the dead doggie's head, just past the snakes slurping the dew off the grass, there is the American Dream gone bad. It was the land of milk and honey until Donald Trump and his royal kinsmen class turned it into resorts and casinos and golf clubs for their money to grow and our soul to perish.

Is that the ghost of my mother or the Statue of Liberty crying? Who replaced her eternal torch with a keg tap and a Smith and Wesson?

It's the muzzle for me. It's what my country's got to give. It's the American gift to the new century. Fantasy lands the planes safely. Fantasy gets the fear stain out of the pants. Fantasy murmurs, "Ignatia, love, natrum muriaticum, dollie, aurum met, aurum met, wait twenty minutes and have some bread. It's fresh from the food bank and mold free."

What ails you, child? What phantoms tear round inside your head? What did the good doctor miss when you pulled back your ribs and revealed the amputated muscle still and clammy there, softly hissing?

I will hold your hand, Anne Sexton. I will laugh with you, Sylvia Plath. I will find the furious bandersnatch and offer to bathe it in strawberry wine for our journey beyond Capricorn, past the legions of stars singing me your somber lullabies. I'll taste your strawberries. I'll drink your sweet wine. A million tomorrows shall all pass away and a million nightmares reach for me as I reject the madness of my country's newest innovations racing toward the pocketbooks of the those worthy of ownership, worthy of envy, worthy of fresh bread.

Where will the ashes whisper forgiveness? When my lips touch the cherubim, when my toes float above the blades of grass, I will sing a new song for you, America, and you will finally hear me.

Jaimie Ondrea Dunn

Posted over at Memory Echoes Ink

Grains for Longing

image borrowed from bing

Grains for Longing


a fever
black as hell
for eyes
as dark as night

~~

savoring
the nearby fruit
of touching skin

~~

traveling beyond
the senses
grasping
a grounded cord

~~

must I post
on a Times Square tower
for you to give me the hour?

~~

our atoms
two pieces
of empty sky

~~

before me
you stood
arrested

~~

binding time
in memories
warped as fire

~~

music
escaping
indifferently


Blue Flute

Posted over on Follow the Blue Flute
Listed as #50 over at dVerse Poets - OLN37

A Poem For My Wife

image borrowed from j. rainsford

A Poem For My Wife

No ‘work of words’ for you.
Why such omission,
when you’ve meant more
than all of those
who’ve gone before?

I guess, because with you
I’ve felt no sense of loss.
No reason to disperse my fear
of loneliness with words.
Or need to harness your belief in me
by fixing pain upon a printed page.

James Rainsford 2012

posted over on his site The Sanctum of Sanity
Lisdted as #47 over at dVerse Poets-OLN37

Once When I Wrote a Poem About Sailboats

image borrowed from j. funster

once when I wrote a poem about sailboats


it went flying out the attic window
with a big hunk of cheddar cheese.

my next ode to mizzenmasts went
dancing off in the night with owls.

after more sailing poems vanished
i turned my pen to pastry poetics.

alas, my stanzas about tofu cake
bought one-way tickets for italy

and my chocolate eclair sonnets
ran off to join the russian ballet.

i let a year pass, then managed a
haiku about a man who’s dog won

the lottery, but that one ended up
laundry mush in my jeans’ pocket.

18 months later when i chanced a
poem about cats it fell off the roof.

i then gave up writing poetry for
81 years until attempting this one.

so far so good, the words still here
on the page, sailboats photo intact.

might even be able to slip in a few
words about how the skinny sailors

go richocheting off the rigging and
flying into the great deep and such

before this poem is onto my tricks
and suddenly …


Jannie Funster

Posted over on her site JANNIE FUNSTER

Pleasantville

image by kat mortensen

pleasantville


do we
live in color or black & white?

unlike classics in the hands of Ted Turner
it's a choice and honestly
i like the detail of the second
unless of course, this is a metaphor

then i'd rather shadow & shade,
where dark & light mix
in a living colour slow dance,
as there is seldom two sides
& to jump is no option
if you read the signs

(& i so want to sing Five Man Electrical Band
here, but)

we're walking, this boy & i
across the bridge between downtown & Percivel's Island
a railway converted to walking path, passage
over the James, & pass a soiled, discarded
teddy bear, a matted lump of discolored hair,
some kid dropped or---

we pay it
no mind, as we walk on & talk, life &
as we make our way back, an hour later, a girl
barefoot on the old railroad ties
worn with dirt herself, in a faded Goodwill sun dress
stares out along the water
hugging the bear

the last of the day glints the tears in her eyes
& behind her the lights of the city
give way to night,
pale in comparison---

♪ signs, signs, everywhere there's signs...
do this don't do that
can't you read the signs ♪


Brian Miller

Posted over on his site Way Station One
Listed as #27 over on dVerse Poets-OLN37

Under the Boardwalk

image by yi ching lin

under the boardwalk

under the boardwalk
each wave rushes
forward with billowing
plumes, like long-held
secrets, aching for
a rapturous stretch
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Traversing Across

image borrowed from bing

traversing across

traversing across
the same cloudy
sky, an
electric touch –
a voice, a message,
bidding you
to dip a finger
into the discourse
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

There is a Very

image borrowed from bing

there is a very

there is a very
thin line between
living
and dying. and
stepping through
takes extraordinary
nothingness
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

There are Moments of

painting by e. thor carlson

there are moments of

there are moments of
seeing through
that means
yielding, but not
giving up,
accepting, but not
acquiescing,
surrender, but not
resignation.
when i really see
through your
vision, i am caving
in, half a swoon
away from humanity,
a gripping tenderness
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over at her site Yi's Bits

In An Accelerando

image borrowed from bing

in an accelerando

in an accelerando
towards the sun’s
meditative encore,
an orchestral
cluster of birds
tune and re-tune
their plumes
to the pitch
of the horizon
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Touched

image borrowed from bing

touched

touched
and touching –
a sprig of sky
meeting the new
moon –
i can hardly breathe
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Black Christ

image borrowed from bing

Black Christ

My prince, all the flags of the world,
flew at half mast to honor the death
of your King,

some white weakling
with a high-powered rifle
shot him in the head,

and it seems that the righteous
anger of centuries is now constructing
fire bombs row upon row;

but you need to remember that
together we saluted the fat ones, standing
shoulder to shoulder in stone stadiums,
naked, clutching our gladus and trident,

combating Thracians and Gauls,
and savage beasts,
our sword arms a lethal blur,
our blood the same color;

together
we waded through
marshes of silt, shackled
with a cold steel chain
at our bleeding ankles,
hearing the devil hounds baying,
fleeing the whip and the rope;

it was in your strong brown arms
that I was held shaking with malaria,
brothers in bondage;

together
we snaked through the hot ferns
and elephant grass in jungle darkness,
beneath that impenetrable canopy
of the fucking ‘Nam, flashing
silent bayonets, carrying wounded
buddies on our burly shoulders
to the thrumping choppers churning
before their dust off, shared women
in Da Nang, plucked dog tags
from the fists of death;

now that we are home,
do not turn on me, or let me resort
to the dictates of the vicious
and ignorant between us,
goddamn it, we are better than that,
more than that, we are not enemies--

on this upcoming day of resurrection,
let it be our love that is risen,
let us sip from each other’s heart,
let us color Christ black,

for the Centurions are still among us,
building crosses, carrying spikes,
painting our names on splintered signs,

so in the spirit of all we are
I reach out to you, brother,
take my hand,

together
we can still defeat
the fat ones.


Glenn Buttkus

March 2012

Listed as #101 over at dVerse Poets OLN37

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Do Not Disturb

image borrowed from bing

Do Not Disturb

for she dreams in
lemon
and almond and
violet fire
smoldering specter of promise
left to wrestle, writhe with hope.

Sacred shadowed hack,
yet she
eschews
all things carob
for the real deal
gooey on her greedy tongue,

digs deep with
clawed hands
frees the root
and stands. Sings.

De Jackson

aka: whimseygizmo

Posted over at Whimseygizmo

Trial by Flame

image borrowed from bing

Trial by Flame



Violet specter

writhes as righteous fire hacks at

tethered roots of pain.


Richard King Perkins II

Posted over on his site Word Fresco

Death on the Desert

image borrowed from bing

Death on the Desert

There is a monstrous fire raging
in the bestial almond chamber
of my fevered mind,

the dun smoke clouds carob-drenched
on the flat alkaline horizon, as I
gleefully crush this lemon-tinted
cactus flower in my clenched fist,

its stalwart stamen writhing for life,
its soil encrusted root hanging,
just a disheveled disturbed tuberous
cantilever, hacked from the earth,

preparing to become the next
succulent spector, its violet pulsing
aura just beginning to emerge.

Glenn Buttkus

March 2012

listed as #2 over at Monday Melting 10

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Bone Blossom

painting by rolan gonzalez.

Bone Blossom

Magnanimous-Trillion-Squared,
Magna for short,
is suspended mid-dimensions,
between my thousand lives,
CGFC, Cosmic Guide First Class,

with his sentient spread sheet graphs
pulsating like meteorite worms on his
massive wall screen, sporting unlabeled
florescent colors and undefined shapes,

representing my infinite diverse personalities,
squirming like bacterial larva, inhabiting
parallel life events, all prodigy of my present
entity, branching out first into arcs then axis
bone blossoms, viral, competitive, with growth
patterns dissimilar, every one nearly amnesiac
relative to their spiritual siblings, their various
veils of forgetfulness wrapped invisibly over
their identical faces,

sprouting marvelous bone flowers in hundred
pod clusters, many overlapping, interlocking
similar events within the same relative space,
anatomical particles passing by and through
each other;

with the chosen ones earning more prestige,
more carnate accolades by getting wedged
in and between two or more existences,
as the legions of them assert themselves
alternately, first in one dimension,
then another, and another, perhaps more;

essence of ozone choking small spaces
as synapse fry and fray, dimensional shifts
twisting into a macabre distorted reclamation ,
sucking, deflating, atrophying, with chamber
pressure-sealed doors flapping on broken hinges,

as my personalities are punished, misdiagnosed
with dissociative identity disorder, soon incarcerated,
exorcised, banished, and ignored,

until the paternal Magna, absolute master
of the the Many-Me Mirrors, creates the
cosmic smoke, launches the axial spin,
and retrieves the confused soul shards,

booking passage to faraway gal-axial black holes,
resetting other new beginnings that we have
dearly earned with our karmic expenditures
and truth-seeking expeditions--starting over,

again, right now, yesterday, with tomorrow’s
chapstick moistening our fleet of lips,
with our college yearbooks stacked high
in our personal red Radio Flyer pulled
proudly behind us we glide through the
shimmering gates of Bardo, girding our
emotions for the planning sessions,
for the single life reviews,
for the celebration,
for the next
rebirthing.

Glenn Buttkus

March 2012

Listed as #50 over at The Mag 110

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Damon's Nose

image by duane michals

Damon's Nose



I'm too vain to cry much;
my sniffs hide mute

behind strands of my hair,
and layers of waterproof mascara.

With a random hanky-snort,
mine foghorns out a cute G,

not all loud and garble-monster,
like a prehistoric disposer.

I wonder what Matt Damon's
sounds like, leghorn-straight,

squared off at the end
like Bob Hope's.



tess kincaid

March 2012

Posted over on her site Life at Willow Manor
Listed as #1 over on Magpie Tales 110

Nantucket

painting by thomas lohre

Nantucket


There once was a girl from Nantucket

.................

Who brought home lollipops by the bucket
They were quite sweet
And she thought it a treat
To take one out and suck it
.................
Whose job it was to scrape muck, it
It was quite a bore
To do this odd chore
But she could think of no way to duck it
.................
Who said if an eyebrow offends one should pluck it
She was quite vain
But I thought it insane
When she took a botox filled needle and stuck it
.................
Who found a big bell and struck it
The people from town
Came running around
They thought someone had kicked the bucket
.................
Who had a exceedingly ancient old truck, it
Wouldn't run right
So late one night
She took a baseball bat and struck it
.................
Whose favorite composer was Gluck, it
Seemed the right thing
To give him a ring
But Willibald had, alas, kicked the bucket
.................
Who was advised to read a book about Huck, it
Was a tale 'bout a river
That someone had give her
It was darn good advise , so she tuck it
.................
Who picked up a guitar to pluck it
Her fingers got sore
So she finally swore
To take her musical career and chuck it
.................
Who bought a new truck, it
Was gone the next morn
And she was forlorn
Someone just came up and tuck it
.................
Who had a little too much pluck, it
Was late in the night
When she went out to fight
The cops brought her home in a bucket
.................
Who had unusually bad luck, it
Seemed like the thing
To learn how to sing
But her voice hit a window and bruck it


Doug Palmer

Posted over on our site OK To Laugh

White Indian Wannabe

image borrowed from bing

White Indian Wannabe

My
great great grandmother,
on my mother’s side,
was a Cherokee princess;

perhaps more realistically,
a dark-skinned woman
who was short, stout,
and flat-faced,

simply a brief liaison of passion
with one of my white pioneer
ancestors,

and when the heat faded,
we were left
with Indian blood,

just like Johnny Cash,
enit?


Glenn Buttkus

March 2012

Posted over on

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Sineater & Other Stories

image borrowed from bing

Sineater & Other Stories

Oh where can my sweetheart be?
She’s the one I’m longing to see
as I depart this world,
my sins neatly curled,
ready to take their leave of me.

* * *

[overheard in H.S. gym-1968]

I knew a young girl from France
who wore a newspaper dress to a dance,
but the dress caught fire
and burned her entire,
front page & sports at a glance.

* * *

They gathered strong in the alley,
from the Heights & the Valley,
to roll their bones,
get into their zones,
hoping their fortunes would rally.

* * *

The working girls got off early,
dismissing the boys so burly,
for their asses were tired,
hoping they wouldn’t get fired,
their pimp purses full, just barely.

* * *

The old men from the mines,
faces covered in soot lines,
were bent over double,
each carrying their shovel,
chewing today’s salt pork rinds.

* * *

Those cowboys walk so funny
after competing for blood money
at the Winnemucca Rodeo,
humming music from FIDELIO
all the way home to their honey.

Glenn Buttkus

March 2012

Listed as #16 over at dVerse Poets-FFA

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Lemonade & Other Tales

image borrowed from bing

Lemonade & Other Tales

W.C. Fields kept his best booze
in a container he couldn't lose,
a thermos of "lemonade"
to avoid a police raid,
as bourbon from his pores would ooze.

* * * *

Never trust a woman with warts,
especially on tennis courts,
for your eyes will be glued
and soon you'll be boo-ed
by your sarcastic co-horts.

* * * *

My car is a piece of crap,
too nasty to even scrap;
it has no actual doors,
and I have to use oars
to move it along the map.

* * * *

Big Bob had a 10 foot dick,
and he'd flash it for every chick
as he passed them by,
until he couldn't deny
incarceration for "flicking his Bick".

* * * *

Little Eva liked that gravy
on tatters and guys in the Navy,
and she was so sweet,
they'd give her a treat,
making their hair very wavy.

* * * *

I always loved old Dick Tracy
played by William C. Macy;
his jaw was so square,
and he'd always dare
you to wear boxers very lacy.


Glenn Buttkus

March 2012

Listed as #9 over at dVerse Poets-FFA

Would you like to hear the author laugh his way through these?

URO-KNO

image by simon chandler

URU-KNO (from an out of state license plate)


three words on the wall of the train
are passed everyday like a stain
unnoticed or detested
& seldom digested
by those carrying, like balloons, clouds of rain

brian miller

Posted over on his site Way Station One
Listed as #2 over on dVerse Poets-FFA

Litany for Limericks

painting by ken corbett

Litany for Limericks

I know a woman from Tacoma
who has a lovely stoma;
smoked four packs a day
before her voice went away,
and now she’s in a coma.

* * *

I had an old bitch with fleas
who loved to climb short trees;
dogs really can do that,
mine wears a red hat
and has two broken knees.

* * *

George Custer was a puny man,
who never was a real fan
of Sitting Bull’s dances
or his own actual chances
of ever visiting Iran.

* * *

Dreaming of being a movie star
but stuck drunk in a local bar,
the ladies you meet,
the agents you greet,
makes you dash for the car.

* * *

I could run like the wind,
always first at the end
of those hometown races--
now just a hundred paces,
my knees refuse to bend.

* * *

All pretty women pass me by
which certainly makes me cry;
perhaps I should bathe more,
or find me a willing whore,
and get her to say, “My, oh My.”


Glenn Buttkus

March 2012

Listed As #

Would you like to hear the author read this nonsense?

Domesticity Comes With

image borrowed from bruno

domesticity comes with

domesticity comes with
a wave of rules to
break, an ocean of
nonsense, a bucket of
love, and a replenishing
drop of trust. when it
comes to most house-
hold labels, you
have to get your
feet wet, venture a bit
further, swim it out
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Life Finds its Lull by the Lapping

image borrowed from bing

life finds its lull by the lapping

life finds its lull by the lapping
waters – our bodies succumb
to our embryonic instincts to float,
the muscles in our faces loosen, and
there is more play, better laughter.

not since Jaws has there been
a mass-produced fear associated
with these afternoons. not since Einstein
on the Beach was there a need to check
our watches, quantify the time spent
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Suited Up, We Can All

art by jim lee

suited up, we can all

suited up, we can all
weather our favorite
demons with equal
aplomb. some are
just flashier than
others in the
execution – who is to
say black canary did
not secretly covet
wonder woman’s
colors, and vice versa,
her sonic scream
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Waking to a Green

image by yi ching lin

waking to a green

waking to a green
apple cinnamon sunday
our mouths full of sighs
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Masculinity is a Well-Oiled

image by yi ching lin

masculinity is a well-oiled

masculinity is a well-oiled
machine. dialed
to varying degrees
each custom-made
fitting, each industrial
heart must find
a way to bend
itself around
the norm, to sync the
turning of its
gears with the
discovery of self
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted proudly over on her site Yi's Bits

Taking a Joy Ride on a Front Scoop Loader

image by lesteph

taking a joy ride on a front scoop loader

a man on tv takes a hotdog,
wraps bacon a-round, rolls it in flour
& deep fries it

he puts the crispy pound of flesh
on a bun & loads condiments
grilled onions, mustard & ketchup
are just the start

i can't help but think
i am watching a suicide, live
& at least he will die, with a smile on his face
but what about everyone else

or is this just about pleasing your
self
& whats good for me is good for me
i don't need all that responsibility
---on me

& she's in the hospital again,
as she is every other month, all the weight,
enough to seriously harm her legs, rests
on the tawny haired boy sitting next to me
passed around house to house
as he waits to see

if this is the time she doesn't come home
& what's he to think? at twelve what is left
when---

and before you think i am picking on the obese
or start spitting excuses, please
i could list any number of ways we are killing
ourselves, just to please our self

pile it on
pile it on
pile it on
shovel. shovel. front scoop loader

but that matters little to the tawny haired boy,
who's sick to his stomach with worry for his mother
so i cut the tv off, pull him up from the couch
& we go outside to catch
the last bit of sun,
before it goes down

before it goes down
one more time.


brian miller

Posted over on his super site Way Station One
Listed as #10 over on dVerse Poets-OLN36