Featured Work Archive
If I remember correctly, it's four years later and Gary still hasn't forgiven me
for standing him and Anne up in NYC. I never did ask if he had purchased
extra tickets for Phillip Glass' concert though we did. I probably should, but
what could I say in my defense? That walking toward the ocean, sand and sun warm,
the scent of it like blueberries in my hands, the green of it trembling in the mist, the
me of it, weeping on the dunes for the love of it.
How could anyone know this ocean that broke my spirit more than forty years
ago? And like Lot's wife I have become a pillar where the deepest part of me
still remains, like a salt doll, the waves lapping at my feet. I am slowly disintegrating.
Slowly washing to another shore.
The world is round
is what they told him
but he lives near Iowa,
doesn’t see it.
It’s not like he’d walk
around the planet
anyway, a dot
on a creased map
wrinkled, each section
threatens to fracture,
been folded so many times
creases have creases.
It’s a languid stroll
winter, spring, summer,
fall over one bridge
and back again,
all streets seem to rush
themselves off to work,
amble home to a tavern
and tangle back.
A burn in the calf,
a stab in the back,
the lack of breath
in a journey, all
Her pupils dilated and fixed
to some mark on the tiled ceiling
of the hospital ward,
to an opening door in geometry.
"Let us know when you are ready."
An opal of anguish escapes my mouth.
"There's a coffee machine down the corridor"
a bright-faced medic announces.
It's quiet in the yard.
Sun is out: I need to get off
I was in Tangiers
where a kindergarten friend I hadn't seen in eighteen years
tried to sell me dope.
I was in Moose Jaw, Canada;
I was at Epidaurus
the night before Papadopoulos
was toppled by a coup. Now
I pick up the phone
to a robot online
listing my prescriptions
to be filled. We're
on this little ball
falling around the sun,
and sometimes I neglect
to brush my teeth.
The Inauguration un-engaged Rebecca Ferguson
when she asked if she could sing “Strange Fruit.”
Southern trees bear strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees
Okay, that’s fine. That didn’t suit Trump’s mood.
Instead Toby Keith sang “Beer For My Horses.”
Take all the rope in Texas, find a tall oak tree
Round up all them bad boys
Hang them high in the street
For all the people to see
We got too many gangsters doing dirty deeds
Too much corruption, and crime in the streets
It's time the long arm of the law
Put a few more in the ground.
full series so far @ https://docs.google.com/document/d/1U5t4KTFyZtpYsyJNgwg3UMeRUkbsVbQ4LNNhqODP-k4/edit#
exodus stage IV
bogus buddha haircut near the dumpster
orange robe monk runs to mercedes
asking for money a woman reports
freaky asian dude ran
all wheel drive
in a tawny pickup two beards
seven seagulls on the porch thinking
we're comparatively better off
as americans garbage cans make
shelter to dream imagine
the word wrestler
did you see high school
6-3 tight muscular bubble
ass in a sentence you've been sold
collective unconscious where instinct dominates
linda playfully banters danny cowgirl style
screaming his name
matte black cadillac
the day versace died
love is 18 inches
from head to heart
cut wide open
did you see
christmas tree troubles
mailboxes were damaged but no mail
token weed in a tawny pickup two beards
seven seagulls thinking we're comparatively better off
flying fast and far away
I see pornography most every place I roam;
vulgar innuendos in waterfalls and thickets.
I'm the weary fella finger-fucking mouse holes
or arse-up 'cross the meadow tonguing an acorn.
I loom down highways strewn with tits and dicks,
stagger out of my car when it gets too much
and jerk off over the side of a humpback bridge.
On the patio soaked
from the all-day rain
turning the flat roof
into an untuned piano,
my carnivorous flower
trapping a flesh fly’s
memory of viscosity
before closing quick
to devour everything,
legs, wings, and thirst.
In my mom’s kitchen
smelling of olive oil
and herbs, her old
beef stew bubbling
like how it simmered
in her grandmothers’
stirring that reminds
of a home an ocean
away and gestation.
On the dining table,
a basket of apples,
the still life exciting
my palate too sour
from the murmurs
about the jalapeños
keen to bite a tongue
and those big-hatted
men who abandon
wives to pick fruits.
In the living room,
my feline, Siamese,
perhaps, will soon
an alien consuming
local food provision
and stealing mouse
jobs from those cats
that refuse to sully
their fur with mud.
On the marbled sink
mimicking a shore
after winds and waves,
stout bottles of wash,
and spring that comes
early on all my limbs
blushing a night fever
Metaphysic: vagipsychism is the belief that everything material, however small
and/or vulgarian, has an irreducible constituent (i.e., elementary yoni) of trans
Philosophy: vagipsychism is the view that consciousness (i.e., psyche) is a universal
and primordial feature of all things vagina. Progressive practitioners of vagipsychism
see themselves as yonian analogs in a world presently dominated by dicks.
Abstract: contemporary puss grabbers involuntarily affirm the belief that
consciousness is a universal and primordial feature of all things vagina.
As a metaphysic philosophy, vagipsychism is disputed by moldy old white males
(i.e., "stale crackers") with classic lack of rise in the levis.
Note: as a not so secret society (e.g., men's hair club) stale crackers believe in
illogical misogynous positivism and exhibit diminished cock functionality (DCF),
mid 50s algo-rhythmic "snatching,"...
We're thinking of putting together an anthology called Grab My Pussy!
Submit your work in this thread.
Goal is to put it out there on Amazon.
Subjects can be anything related to women/equal rights/trump/social commentary/anarchy/protest/social criticism/etc.
Poems, eructations, art, etc. Anything goes. Will be a mashup iconoclastic anarchist devilish publication.
@Jenn Zed has done the cover art work and inside art and other artists here can chime in, as well.
I've long been wanting to put out books under the PoetryCircle Press moniker. Maybe now is the time.
all that empty distance between god and truth,
gotta fill it up with something,
smoke and mirrors,
bloodstained words of holy liars and
if i’m sick of myself it’s always
a matter of context
if people need to be crucified to solve
the most obvious problems,
the best place to start is at the top
the best time to start is now
the future doesn’t care who
lives long enough to see it
first place trophy wife spawning upstream (fatty version)
couldn't help but notice turquoise fingernails
a cigarette lays dying in the ash tray
ginger root smolders
this has perfect breasts
long silky fawn hair
remember midnight blue chevelle
sexy coed gave the greatest
before five car garage suicide
not just another metro catholic girl
with divorce lawyers and disposable phones
in the wine cellar bottles collect
psychic scars she has an awful
pretty face ab master belly jam
contemplating the best angle to kegel
on the brazilian floor picking up marbles
with her well toned trophy wife vagina
couldn't help but notice daddy ate so much
strange pussy he got chubby
no wonder the bullet shattered his sp in e
first place trophy wife spawning upstream (slim version)
couldn't help but notice
a cigarette lays dying
in the ash tray ginger
this has perfect
breasts long silky fawn
hair remember midnight
blue chevelle sexy coed
gave the greatest...
Beer and bullshit
We were there, drunk, in this girl's apartment
and her young brother was there
and Richard was there.
We were talking and yapping
and the girl told me about how she was in love with this guy
but it didn't work out because he wanted to change her,
and she didn't want to change.
Richard told her how great she was
and he told her about how great I was.
Her brother said he forgot my name
so I told him again.
He told me about how he ended up in jail
because he got stroppy with a cop.
He told me about how he had been in the mental hospital.
Richard told me again about how great she was.
Then an argument broke out between Richard
and another guy that was there.
It went on and on, ya ya ya...
Then she slammed the door saying
'everybody is talking about the argument
and nobody is talking about who the argument is about',
because it was about her.
But everything got sorted out and they made up
and we poured more drink.
Her brother asked me to say hello to him if I saw...
my beetle, dead, not buried. i keep them, yet it fell to the floor, mysteriously lost. we try to turn disasters round, here, knowing it will be found, some time. my dear sweet sexton, the burying kind.
i learn about sub soil, all things growing,
the logistics of death.
i tidy up, hang out washing.
demands are everyday, simple things can be priceless, and while the words pound, grind, oh make us cry, while the world is turning, there is a small hope to always return home.
just stand and watch the season change, note the dew and separate ideas. remember that you stand alone. are not alone from criticism and contradiction.
beetles here turn over, legs waving, we turn them back, then, it is all repeated. empathy kicks in for all small folk who suffer, who cry in dark corners.
yet i have mislaid the black beetle too.
it was some time ago we lost.the sexton.
I'm very sorry to let everyone know that Jim Aitken (@JimAitken), an editor & extraordinary poet, died last month. His son responded to my email:
So sorry Trish to let you know that my dad passed away from a stroke back on December 4th he was buried on January 5 at fort Logan cemetery here in Colorado. Sincerely Joseph Aitken his son.
Just had my first censoring by Facebook, or any social media platform come to that .. and while I grasp their policy and reasons for using such aggressive algorithms to function as their 'Community Standards Police' the idea that any work of Art can and will be censored, for any reason, has left me fucking steaming.
I uploaded the image here in my Random Pieces thread if anyone is interested .. but, I'll also post it here so you can judge for yourself just how 'offensive' the piece is and just how 'dangerous' it might have been if seen by Minors.
I created my own Censored version to post on Facebook to replace the original they had removed .. stir it up a bit
Life is simple. Everything, ever,
has been, & is, molecular.
We die, & our molecules
burst under the spin of
the last oxygen atom
rolling over melodramatic earth
& the blunt gossip of history.
Pieces of the dead become
white belly hair.
Life is simple
& beautiful. A breath
from a dead Mayan
crushes a soft clam.
ream thru the veins
of mammalian mothers.
arrowheads thrown at
Mammoths warble in our hedges.
Life is simple. Death
is simple. Donald
Trump is the echo of the snap
of moonless desert fire before
mankind repairs whispers
with forces of fuck you poetry.
She's obsessed with me,
In pursuit of my electronics degree,
I remember a stocky girl with short dark hair,
as a student she was genius
so I didn't mind her chair
always close to mine
though I could feel the chemistry
ooze between her legs
It frightened me
but strengthened her
lust for a strawberry blonde
with big blue eyes and slender build.
She always had to be
where I was
no matter the time, place
I just heard from @Michael Ashley that longtime PoetryCircle member Larry Jordan (@ljordan) passed away last October.
Larry was one of the original members of PoetryCircle--a writer of high caliber that I always hoped this site would be able to attract. In the first link below, you will see that his contributions here date back to 2006.
Although I did not know Larry personally, I will miss him and his work greatly.
Work by Larry Jordan
Front page pieces by Larry Jordan
If anyone here knows anything about Larry or his life, please let us know.
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