Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Simply Brutal Series featuring: Michele McDannold II. of III.


this bored housewife

plots death by poison on odd days
mornings only
when the kids are gone
and the crock pot's set to high

cuts the hair from your head during the full moon
binds it with duct tape to a piece of ham
while the street is dark
and the dirt is warm

handles
rather than controls
the desire for witch-inspired zombie sex

urgharghblah

this bored housewife
has a recipe book
that's time-locked
with a tequila switch

she's just waiting
waiting
waiting
til she can't anymore


Epic

my epic poem is a list of groceries
sorted by things I can buy
generic and not
the hero is a box of Pop-Tarts
because let's face it
nobody else can get the filling right
you get the picture?

next to my bed is
the stepford wives
ear plugs
and a basket of lubes, lotions
and creams
for not having sex
for not looking younger
for not healing
the hole in my head




Note to the Better Half

I miss the smell of mass deviation
of latino santa sweat
and artie's chronic n gun oil
I miss the pulse of drunk transit at 3am
black hookers in white wigs
and white pimps in purple satin
I miss the homeless junkies
and the rest stop houses
with sound systems
too big to fit
and fuckers too drunk to shoot, not fuck
I miss the rain that flooded my car
the stink that followed
and the body parts that washed up

yes, I miss being in love
on the run
and even pawning my only diamond
someday soon they'll be a note void of tears
and dinners in the icebox
that freeze a lot better than I do.



Monday, November 28, 2011

Simply Brutal Series featuring: Michele McDannold I of III.


Cash Business

Don’t send it
the waxing poetic
is a stick fuck
if I imagined in colors it would be
black and blackblue
if it had feelers, velvet
and punk renditions of showtunes
it’s true that I paint it up to avoid reality
and it’s ugly like that
I suppose that’s the point
in the end
everyone pays for truth


Trick

We were loaded...
skimmin’ down Morton Ave.
at 4 am,
searching for the end of the fog
where the neon light calls
Takhomasak

you had a counter seat,
cup o’ Joe,
the crumbled-up bag at your feet.
laughin’ through your story
drop of coffee in your `stache.

“... so he pulls up and says
he’s got a bag of canned food for a date.
Ain’t that shit funny?
Check it out! I ain’t kiddin’.”

Juicy brown spit flying on pocket amusement.
(Flo caught it on her uniform sleeve, mortified)

A split-second, maybe a full-tick–
a moment between those two
like the liquid in the torpedo shaped plug in lights
blob o blob, floating, suspended.
Realization squirming up uncomfortable mechanisms
of fate blown anguish.
Curtains up. Omega!

I wasn’t sure who to feel sorry for.





disclosure

doesn't it just suck shit that I am not cool. I am not the idea of your black death suck. there is no breathing demon blood in vain. and, well we don't sell happiness here either. got out of that business long ago, but I do believe in magic and since I can find peace in that joy; silly will do. I think I'll be alright.


Friday, November 25, 2011

Black Friday Specials Featuring Bud Smith



SPOUT


i always wanted a gun
now i got you
and you're a beauty
i aim you at animals,
then drag them
into the fire
you set,
inside the cage
of my ribs









BY A FIRE


your cheerleader prayers
and your communion song book
adorned with medals of war devoid of bluebirds
i'm a dog of mud puddles
through my teeth slip a cry
that no museum preserve
that no cop shine his shine light
that no devil open like a can of tuna
to suck the fish water into a mouth wide cursed
your kiss of gold sets my skull into decision
that in this place i am settled
in this place i am yours
shake your pom poms on me
sing your song of God way out of key
pet my wet fur and scratch the fear
from behind my supersonic ears
I am a transporter of insects
and a sideline watcher of your gift of fire


The Devil Has The Best Tuna Pictures, Images and Photos





DEFENSE MECHANISM


when things hurt it’s easier to be funny
than to sit there dying with everybody looking
all the glory of medicine and the threat of rain
the mice in the walls &
overtime parking fines unpaid
why does everybody have a balcony
to watch us waiting for them to leave?
why don’t we put up some iron ore curtains
to keep out the neighborhood radiation?
I get the feeling that if the fire is not in your apartment
it's going to be everywhere else
so lets just stay in and be private
rather than turn to ash.
when things hurt it’s easier to be funny
than to sit there dying with everybody looking

LOVE

I will be your only friend
if everybody else puts their hearts back in their suitcases
I'll still be on the lawn
with a space for you in my arms and a notch for you in my spine
I don't blame you at all
though it'd be easy to accuse you of rain clouds and extinctions
you're a comfort to me
when everybody else is a scab that I can't help picking til it's a scar
you know a lot about my dog
and I fed your cat while you were away even though I wanted him to die
love is a battery jumped by another car
that finds you on the side of the road
love is the frozen meat thawing on the counter
love is the search for missing persons after major disasters
though common sense says that they are dead
no common sense in love

I'll take/save the change out my pockets
and I'll buy you a bulletproof vest for judgement day stitched with roses
I'll paint the hospital bed your favorite color
and then I'll burn it so that you'll never have to lay down and squirm
I'll catch all of the birds and make them into a blackbird pie
but you won't have to eat it if you don't like. just know why.
you're a saint in my nights
when everybody else has devoured my birthday cake
love is the guesstimates that are somehow 100% accurate
& allow the sun through the fog to come back up
love is a broken window that we climb through
to get out of the goddamn rain
love is getting stabbed in the neck and having somebody
to close the wound with their mouth
so that you can never die.


PSS burning bed Pictures, Images and Photos

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

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Saturday, November 12, 2011

3 poems by: Jason Ryberg



A LITTLE TOO MUCH TO DREAM
LAST NIGHT (OR, MUSTA THOUGHT
IT WAS WHITE BOY DAY)


with apologies to The Electric Prunes,
Quentin Tarantino and Lawrence Ferlinghetti



She
with the ab-so-lutely hypnotic,
interstellar-black hair

and maliciously exposed mid-riff

(meaning that radioactive area between,
but also including,
upper-most hip bone
and lower-most rib)
asked me to stay
past last call, promising

to spirit me away
from it all (meaning, I suppose,

my otherwise meaningless life

of de-meaning, semi-skilled toil

and celibate drudgery)
to some as yet undisclosed,

but no doubt, exotic locale
for a volatile psycho/

sexual concoction which she guaranteed

would be equal parts intensive research

into the depths of human depravity

and dogged dedication to exhausting

my mental,

physical and

moral reserves.

Whereupon,
I immediately snorted awake,
hours later,
sprawled Golgotha-like
on my living room floor,
my moment of truth
too good to be anything but

a cruel, booze fueled dream,

an alcoholic alien abduction
leaving me
bedraggled

and discombobulated in its wake,
wearing nothing but

a t-shirt and a single black sock (with

big toe protruding through
as if to say “helllooooooo”),

front door and fridge wide open,

every light in the house on
and blazing

like a mid-day desert sun,

one hand clamped on some kind of

suspicious looking Dagwood sandwich,

the other around a half-full beer,

a movie blaring out
into the early morning dark

for all the good people
of the neighborhood to hear,
someone sinister saying,
"shiiit, he musta thought
it was white boy day.
It aint white boy day,is it?

"Naw, man,
it aint white boy day."




GENERATION “WHY ASK WHY”


Oh, by the way,
I ran into an incarnation
of The Buddha the other day
(and a strange variation, I gotta say),
with a mile-high pompadour,
razor-sharp chops and wrap-around shades.
He was comin' out of Davey's Stagecoach Inn
as I was walkin' in like it was fate that
we were somehow supposed to meet, there-in,
('cause I could see it in his eye
and I could tell he could see it in mine).
So, I said I'd been contemplating, lately,
the idea of entering a monestary,
at which he smiled, placidly, in that placid,
all-knowing Buddha sort of way, and asked me "why",
to which I artfully parried with "perhaps
you could first provide an example of what
a proper response might sound like"
but he just replied with "there are no proper
or improper answers, only
the questioning and the answering,"
to which I then said, "purple,"
at which he smiled again and, with what I'd swear
was a tear forming in the corner of his eye, said,
"very wise, little cricket, very wise."
So, of course I shot him where he stood
(you know, just to watch him die);
the Great Modern American Mantra repeating
happily ever after in my mind,
"Why ask why,
why ask why,
why ask why?"

Baby Buddha Pictures, Images and Photos


I CAN NEVER REMEMBER EXACTLY

Sometimes, when,
for no reason at all, even,
I'll just bolt upright
(like I been on the road too long
and almost nodded off at the wheel
and then suddenly snap to)
from one of those
deep-freeze sleeps of the senses
that the modern man-in-the-street
seems to be so prone to,

somewhere along the tracks
of my (admittedly extreme) elliptical path
around The Creator's mountain-top tower,

I can never remember, exactly,

whether I'm supposed to be
playing the part of a mouse
in the eye of a falcon,
a falcon in the eye of a storm,
a storm in the eye of The Creator
(of all mice, men, falcons and storms),

or, the "I" somewhere near
the core of a poem
(about a guy, by the way,
that's dreaming he's a mouse
(that's dreaming
it's just some guy,
not a king, not a big shot, not a hero,
just a regular dude)),

a poem forever revolving
around its own foci
like a stake that it's been chained to,

a poem that, according to
the latest estimates and indicators,
will more than likely remain,
for the rest of its unremarkable life,

completely unnoticed.




BIO:
Jason Ryberg is the author of seven books of poetry,
six screenplays, a few short stories, several angry
letters to various magazine and newspaper editors,
and a box full of folders, notebooks and scraps of paper
that could one day be (loosely) construed as a novel.
He is currently an artist-in-residence at The Prospero
Institute of Disquieted Poetics and an aspiring b-movie actor.
His latest collection of poems is Down, Down and Away
(co-authored with Josh Rizer and released by Spartan Press).
He lives in Kansas City, Missouri with a rooster
named Little Red and a billygoat named Giuseppe.
Feel free to look up his skirt at jasonryberg.blogspot.com