Sunday, August 30, 2015

A Poem about a Book That Has yet to Be Written

There is bad blood
in the genealogy
of my Grandfather’s line
on my Mother’s side,
full of strange perversions
and sexual proclivities
that are not smiled upon
in polite society.
Things that make a normal
man cringe,
especially if that man happens to be me.
I have to face the fact
that such blood runs in my veins.
I’ve detoxified on celery and carrot juice
until the cows come home,
but that kind of shit runs deep,
and sewer sludge isn’t that
easy to flush clean.

There is toxic blood
in the genealogy
of my Grandfather’s line
on my Father’s side,
full of wine and liquor,
full of ego and ink
that spills on the page
with each drink down the drain.
The type of genes
that cause the liver
to fill up like a bloated whale,
and can lead to nausea
that takes the cake, and then
vomits it up on occasions
when the nights
go too long, running
into the mornings,
once a year or so.

All this crazy blood
swirls like a genetic soup
in my harsh DNA reality.
Which is fine by me,
because I’m more into
the idea of freewill anyway.
Besides, if I had to take my pick,
I’d rather be a drunk
than some lowlife pervert,
so I must have hit
the karmic jackpot this time
around the cycle.

Now pass that bottle, baby.

--Scott Thomas Outlar 

Sunday, August 16, 2015

The Gardens

I sit embedded in these gardens; an enclosed
island that sits like a septic scab on the city's pale,
malnourished skin. Again they offer a home
and shelter from another avoided shift, that once
again grants that time which I have no desire to fill.

Another blank face passes by, their words
far too affluent for my ignorant ears to
comprehend; a voice educated but lacking
basic knowledge. I subject my nerves to this
torture, till they retreat from want of respite.

Through wilted roses, this afternoon sinks
heavier by the minute. Yet more eyes stare
through ash covered thorns, arms threaded
with silver needles. I convince them I'm busy in
minor thoughts, till I feel the breeze of their passing.

That slow dissipating moment between myself and
the dried, brittle grass now eases somewhat, returning
that clarity once more. I breathe out confusion along with
my smoke, and I refuse the chance of escape once more
which even after this haze, still seems to make sense.

-- Jonathan Butcher

Sunday, August 9, 2015

It Was on Back Roads

that they told me they loved me, always
in the dark, always with my clothes off.
How could I have known then
who I would become, how
many men it would take until I understood
it was better if I closed my eyes,
until I knew what the moon meant 
when it was hiding behind a cloud,
or when it was full and heavy,
lighting the interior of the car

just enough that they could not speak.

--April Salzano