Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Not Knowing Still Haunts Me


Television glow battling bedroom darkness
Paying little attention
Straining eyes
No will to move
and put the light on



Agonising thoughts on repeat in my head
What did they get up to? Where does this leave me? Where does this leave us?
Last night
was painful and humiliating
Helplessly watching the side show unfold;
an unwilling spectator



A scenario devoid of understanding and definition
Limbo
I feel like calling it quits



Queasy feeling
An uneasy feeling
Immeasurable want
to punch a hole through the wall
selfish, and jealous
I can't apologise
I'm all too human
All too real

and I feel like calling it quits
 
 
--Simon L. Read

Monday, February 25, 2013

Pink Eye

 
as north korean rockets sail
as egypt burns
 
 
as guns of ignorance
strangle the drought of american landscapes
 
 
just as old ice melts into
the overwhelmed ocean
flooding other land
 
 
and it’s sixty degrees one day
and it’s twelve degrees on the next
 
 
he sits there
shouting into his cell phone
about how he has pink eye
 
 
how his wife his pink eye
 
 
how his daughter had pink eye
 
 
and how his son is sure to get pink eye
 
 
he sits there
disease riddled and out in the open
 
 
coughing all over us
 
 
eating a slice of pizza
picking his nose and scratching his balls
 
 
wiping his hands on everything
 
 
king of the world
 
 
king of his own little
fucking world.
 
 
 
--John Grochalski

Monday, February 11, 2013

The Blood is Dry on the Dials of the Daiquiri Maker


After you stormed off last night,
with the bells on the front door
still ringing like they could be heard,
I went off to our bedroom
and checked our joint email account.

I don’t know where you went, or are.
Don’t know if you will come back.
That was one hell of a bloody row
we threw, right there in the kitchen.

But we got a few emails that say differently.

The situation in the Middle East
emailed us and said they watched our blowup live,
and that our shouting and picking at each other’s soft spots
came off as stale, weak, phoned-in, even.

The leaked photographs
of the naked and pregnant
twentysomething celebrity
found our camera angles too jittery,
the view of our dust-up claustrophobic.

The shoving match at the Lakers game
found our tears unconvincing.

Please come back
so we can fight again,
one more time in our kitchen;
the glass has been swept up;
the blood is dry on the dials
of the daiquiri maker;
I know we can do better than this.



--Rich Boucher

Thursday, February 7, 2013

Two by Kevin Ridgeway


The House at the End of the Street

my nose and throat burn from snorting bourbon lines
laid out in long puddles across the cutting board
I’m at the house at the end of this New England street,
the punk rocker kids are nibbling on their own
waste and vomit, washing it down with Pabst Blue Ribbon
the debut of a new band is upon us in the living room,
the lead singer smashes bottles against the ketchup streaked walls
and screams into the microphone
unintelligible obscenities and manifestos
I’m not a punk but a sweater clad preppy taking in this scene
writing mental notes, a sort of twisted anthropological study
of the nation’s youth tucked away in suburban caverns
but I forget it all as I slam my drunken skull into
a nearby kid’s Mohawk head and blood drips down my nose

and I’ll go back to this house on the weekends off from
my cookie-cutter gig slinging pharmaceuticals
to my wife’s protests;
because it’s too much fun
not to burn away in the midst
of so much raging
hot apocalyptic diarrhea






The Disabled Poet

no money to clean my teeth,
shoes duct taped together
a mind like a spinning top,
time on my hands to scrawl verse
in between doctor’s visits
and monstrous moments
of a swinging mood
spotted at the food bank
with my bag of dented soup cans
and stale bread
the psychiatrist asks me
should we increase the dosage?
and I say yes
riding the smoldering bus back
to the suburban home for
broken boy soldiers
I swallow my extra pills
and transcribe the words
imprinted on the ceilings
of my mind. 


--Kevin Ridgeway




Tuesday, February 5, 2013

Boredom Never Killed Anyone

No, but it can come close.


The beta fish we had for two years
watched me from his bowl with more
genuine interest than my husband.


The first time I told a man
I loved him I had already imagined
one I might love more.


Love can be like loading and running
the dishwasher, like the humming
at the end, the signal for washed clean.


But I have opened the door with my
eyes closed, just to feel the steam
on my skin.   To feel something burn.



--Joan Prusky Glass