POEM OF THE DAY BY RHIANNON DICKERSON

When a body in motion comes to rest, it feels like it’s still moving.



Your friend is disenchanted. You can tell by the way he sits.
By the way he leaps onto familiar objects like the table. He
bends his knees a bit; takes a hunter’s pose; interrogates

the horizon for signs of movement and raises a phantom
spear over his right shoulder and throws. He didn’t used to hunt
in the living room and you think it’s strange that he’s doing so now.

You’re a good friend, mostly, so you walk him to his room, pat him
on his back, and bring him a glass of tepid water and place
it on his bedside table.
A lot of folks are coming back this way,
Lord knows. There’s a pirate in the ballroom, a ghost with a lamp-
shade on his head, a robber in the bank. I saw a lion in a parking lot
just the other day. A lion! There’s a crab apple tree where my fica used
to be.

What kind of space is reality if we must come back to it? Tell your
friend not to fall apart. We all see the dark shape shifting in the distance.


-RHIANNON DICKERSON

POEM OF THE DAY BY EZHNO MARTIN

Soldier On


There aint nothing wrong
with having bad luck -
and knowing it -
as long as you couldn't give an infinitesimal fuck

and soldier on
smiling like a hungry drunk
holding a free bottle of booze.

Speaking of war;
how would you like to get pushed out of a plane
moments after hearing
“I won't lie to you,
most of you are about die”

and fall through the sky
facing fire
thinking of your pregnant wife?

You better believe I'm not making this shit up
so suck in those tears

There's a lot of people in wheel chairs wishing
they could take that long walk
through the neighborhood

moaning about how they just lost their job
or their girlfriend might just break their heart's
or they were just too short
or too fat to make it

and I'm sure they wouldn't have too much sympathy
for someone too stubborn to get over themselves
and try their hand at something else

so,
soldier on

knowledge-bomb
you're gonna hafta
one of these days
so what's the use of feeling sorry for yourself?

Now, I don't blame if you wanna get real drunk first;
only an asshole would deny themselves sleep
before a long day ahead
and it's just as well
to crawl into a bottle
as it is into bed
but
soldier on

any hopeless drunk
hornier than a donkey with five dicks
will tell you getting laid
is just as easy
as sticking around till closing time
on just as many days
as it takes

soldier on

any writer will tell you
it's about making a list
and crossing off the names
till you've fooled a publisher

soldier on

anyone who feels ancient will tell you
luck -
good or bad -
is all about being in places
that aren't your bedroom
alone

it's all about failure
even when you succeed

so,

I don't wanna hear your story
unless you hand me a drink

cause I could use one
to soldier on


-Ezhno Martin

POEM OF THE DAY BY STEVE BRIDGENS

ALL NOW SUNK AND LONG AGO


I started hearing stories about the sea long ago
about the Phoenicians sailing everywhere fearlessly
in their little lateen rigged ships of olive wood and
Syrian cedar, trading with the lost tribes

I heard about Odysseues and his long journey home
after the mythic little war and Aeneas and Jason,
I heard about them, they shipped out, leaving Troy
and Carthage in flames

I heard, too, about Cleo and Tony, the young lovers
it didn’t turn out so well for them at sea, as I recall-
those crazy kids, thinking they could get over on
the evil empire

They almost had it made until she turned tail at
Actium, rowing home to Egypt where she took the
little asp to her breast as it all fell apart, abandoning
Tony to twist in the dry Egyptian wind that still blows
in from that wine dark sea

And, as I said, the big ships with the big guns like
the thousand that Menelaus sent after Helen (that
little bitch)

all now sunk, and long ago gone, like me, trapped,
burning and drowned in your tawny tiger eyes


-Steve Bridgens