Monday, December 16, 2013

POEM OF THE DAY BY ED TATO

ODE TO THE SLAP


Yes to the slap
because its sound is flesh

on flesh and flesh
ought be part of any ode.

Yes to that succulent whomp of body
on body, of hips and bellies and butts

as hands grab a lover's flesh.
I praise the slap that got me breathing

air not amniotic fluid,
tough guys in movies who know to slap you around or slap you silly,

a cold slap on the face,
the sizzle of a steak your lover's slapped against the griddle.

Or maybe it's the short-order cook sleeved in hula girl tattoos
waiting for the shift to end, and a chance to change his shirt.

Huzzah for slapjacks, slapshots, slapstick,
pimp-slaps, bitch-slaps, and slapdashedness.

~

Earl Edwards, NFL head-slapping scourge,
was a boyhood hero for the mayhem his taped-up right hand dealt.

My own behavior, on the other hand,
construed as mayhem by adults around me,

induced many a slap from my mother –
who never had the heart to give us

a good whacking crack –
but what could mothers know of lunatic boys?

I forgive my father
for slapping my face or just as often my behind –

stinging blows meant to sting,
and correct,

when I did those things you do,
like soak yourself slapping home through puddles.

And I forgive
the ocean,

and lakes and rivers and all bodies of water
that slap against the shore

to leave us lonely and alone –
longing for that sound, that slapping slosh

which soothed us long before we woke to air
and our first cold slap.




-Ed Tato

Thursday, October 31, 2013

A SWEET LITTLE HALLOWEEN POEM FROM GEORGE WALLACE.

TRICK OR TREAT AMERICA
OPEN UP YOUR BIG FAT MOUTH
trick or treat america open up your mouth spit it out you are not earth's only miracle you are also a great big fucking pain in the Ass and a launching pad of terrible ambitions unbalanced egg cream the moon and planets make way for you & your super-ego men your beauty castaways your ecstatic frack-happy legal thieves O god you are an awkward nation with your sidewalk soup and your belly side up your fist full mountain dew put up or shut up open me first and your dreams your dreams! Your dreams die here on your blacktop highway on your trail of tears you ripped off the Indians you left em for dead you been and Look what you gave back beercans tossed from the gravy train -- america your football helmets crash pads crop dusters and charlton heston your easy terms and no deposit oh drugstore carnival oh panty raids and unrepentant capitalism when i have said i love you i did not lie i love you open twentyfour hours i love you bald headed as a bassett hound and your pagan love song I love your neighbors yes and your Soupy sales & magic tricks roadrunner ain’t got nothing on you & your apple farms poolhalls and palm trees jazzified in the new Orleans creole night o FUCK it america all your glory’s gone up your nostrils but what the shit, it’s Halloween! my favorite pagan holiday! I forgive y ou I love you I god bless You! Trick or treat Ding Dong Hand over the candy Motherfucker!


-George Wallace

Monday, October 14, 2013

POEM OF THE DAY BY GEORGE WALLACE


WARHOL SOUP 
hey waiter waiter what’s this jellyfish doing in my Warhol soup -- why 
I’ll tell you mister it's doing the watusi it’s doing the backstroke it’s 
doing the merengue & the fly

it’s meditating like a fuck bunny from mars it’s a devil in disguise & it’ll 
screw you up with its silkscreen elvis & its angular ass & tits with its 
wingtips & its long sharp teeth

but waiter waiter what’s this marilyn doing in my Warhol soup -- why 
you don’t know what you’re messing with mister it’s doing the ‘i tease 
you’ it’s doing the ‘turn me on dead man’

it’s doing the i use, you you use me -- the i suck you, i eat you, then i 
spit you out like snake meat on a cold plate

but waiter waiter what’s this mushroom cloud doing in my Warhol soup -- 
why listen up mister it’s doing the edie it’s doing the joe

it’s doing the heroin freak the hedonist rag it’s doing the candy darling 
the nico the ultraviolet & the lou reed too -- & if i told you once i told 
you a thousand times

a spoonful of that long hard darkness will get you all tangled up & 
wishing you could throw that bitches broth away but you can’t


-GEORGE WALLACE

Friday, September 6, 2013

POEM OF THE DAY BY JACKIE TREIBER

"Spa Psychic"

You will have a vision of your true love
in the fumes of toxic nail polish.
A child’s face will manifest
in a post-sauna mirage.
The glyph that eventually leads
you down a light path
will appear in a mud mask spread.
The pains of your future lost limb
will be transmuted in the hot rock
stone massage of now.
You are not your muscles--
but a cloud of impressions:
blue in the shade, violet when you lie
white when you’re being read.
No longer a Hanged Man--
spurred black boots on a wire
but a pre-life soldier
waiting in the hotsprings
of psychic disorder.


-Jackie Treiber

Thursday, July 4, 2013

POEM OF THE DAY BY HARLEY ELLIOT

REPORT ON THE FOURTH


Alone in the house on
the fourth of july bang
one hundred and five all around

no shade the orioles bang and
sparrows droop panting in the trees
and the bang and the beer
marches bang bang from the refrigerator

a dripping line of bottles
along the living room floor
bang the policemen doze like sweating birds

one man bang bang one man
is arrested in drunken slow motion
while trying to get a bang

a drink of water from a
filling station air hose
bang on the fourth of july.


-Harley Elliott

Friday, April 5, 2013

POEM OF THE DAY BY JOSH RIZER



i wish i could remove things
in answer to this western solution
of adding things on,
this triple quarter pounder big mac of solutions and remedies,
this high fructose, blazing sodium seasoning 
used to spice up spoiled food for thought.
i wish deft and expert hands could move along your body, removing
gaffs, tridents, harpoons, rescue hooks,
all the leisters
that the tiny little people have lashed to you
to bring you down.
the acupuncture didn’t work after all,
not with the tools they used anyway,
the hypodermic needles,
the ballpoint pen tracheotomies,
the intubations,
all of it ghastly and invasive,
all of meant to
vaccinate you from the truth of yourself.
baggage?
you’ve got a luggage rack, pal.
i wish i could take that away instead of inventing more storage.
cross to bear?
buddy, your hauling all of latitude and longitude itself
and i wish i could remove that
instead of strutting it on some sick runway.
it would be great to scrape off the irritations
instead of adding meditations to cope with them.
basically we’re talking about subtracting illness
as opposed to adding medication, 
make sense?
what i’m getting at is that most of us don’t need
needles put in,
we need syringes pulled out,
the needles that crocheted the spaghetti of our brains
into some foreign tapestry.
imagine an expert coming along quietly,
painlessly removing 
the darts, 
the flechettes, 
the arrows,
the pikes,
the spears,
pulling off the bear traps,
slipping the thorns from your paw
and finally, with the help of several orderlies,
removing you from the life you have embedded yourself in
like an alabama tick.
it would be nice to apply that dentist’s vacuum
and withdraw all the slobber
from your cheeks,
the salivation from coveting greener grass.
it would be best if that
suction tube were applied,
withdrawing the thing that came to term in you
that you never came to terms with. 
the thing they shot you full of
when they fucked you.
in fact,
come to think of it,
it would be healthiest if
you just forgot you ever read this.


-Joshua Rizer

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

POEM OF THE DAY BY IRIS APPELQUIST



THE DOG

the dog was born
with three legs, which is
a lot better than
one of his legs
having been rent
from his body in
an accident or maiming.
there was no visible scar,
no missing patch of fur
to tell others that he
was once whole; once,
but no longer,
much like themselves.
he learned to walk, still…
even run, even hunt. his life
was just as busy as that
of any dog with
four legs.
he once saw a dog
with five legs—a stunted,
lame leg grown out of its
chest and he felt
a feeling that, for dogs,
is as close to pity
as i can describe.
after adolescence, he
could forget that
he was so obviously different
from other dogs, whose
differences would
require some investigation.
he took several mates
and begat many
children, none of whom shared
his defect. he had trouble
with dances and swimming.
he sometimes became
irrational for seemingly
no reason.


-Iris Appelquist

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

POEM OF THE DAY BY ARTHUR SZE

Earthstar
Opening the screen door, you find a fat spider
poised at the threshold. When I swat it,

hundreds of tiny crawling spiders burst out.
What space in the mind bursts into waves

of wriggling light? As we round a bend,
a gibbous moon burnishes lava rocks and waves.

A wild boar steps into the road, and around
another bend, a mongoose darts across our headlights.

As spokes to a hub, the very far converges
to the very near. A row of Siberian irises

buds and blooms in the yard behind our bedroom.
A moth flutters against a screen and sets

off a light. I had no idea carded wool spun
into yarn could be dipped and oxidized into bliss.

Once, hunting for chanterelles in a meadow,
I flushed quail out of the brush. Now

you step on an unexpected earthstar, and it
bursts in a cloud of brown spores into June light.


-Arthur Sze

Monday, February 11, 2013

POEM(S) OF THE DAY BY JASON AMMERMAN

Gallows (long)


Hanging in the breeze
limp clothes on a clothesline
clean hoods over heads
cover their grimaces

Bodies at peace, swaying
Like ripe fruit on
a tree
in the open sun

Their lives poured out in passion
the consequences of actions lost
They followed uncontrolled desire
The prayers of the one day to be condemned are loud, long before the sentence.

Permanent fixation of muscle
The tent given up
hanging

Bloated
The blood starting to dry
The emotion is getting quiet

All the onlookers leave
It is quiet enough for the scared souls to creep out of their bodies

Spirits released the executed step out into the sunshine
Like a man yawning at waking and reluctantly stepping into the full day light.

They hover blinking
Bare skin newly naked

The noble host of the maker awaiting their arrival, shines upon them
The voice is of confidence and simple, noble kindness

"Clean linen for the back of the thief, long gown for the whore, and give the preacher pants."

"They are all welcome. Let us give them a home."



Gallows (Short)


Hanging in the breeze
limp clothes on a clothesline
clean hoods over heads
cover their grimaces
at peace, swaying
in the open sun

Permanent fixation of muscle
the tent given up
hanging

Spirits released
the executed step out
into the sunshine
Bare skin newly naked

The maker shines above them
his voice is of confidence
and simple noble kindness

"Clean linen for the back of the thief, long gown for the whore, and give the preacher pants."

"They are welcome. Make them at home."
 -Jason Ammerman

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

POEM OF THE DAY BY JACOB JOHANSON


A LUNAR OUTLOOK ON THE NEWS HOUR


every time i try to talk to the moon
about the news of the day
he just rolls his eyes
and reminisces about carson,
waits for me
to start talking about girls
because
having looked through enough windows
is convinced of his ideas
about what's really important anyway,
the moon wants a tuxedo
so he can crash weddings on his off nights
dancing with bridesmaids
and eating cake
the moon
couldn't care less about gun control
or the economy,
leaving those concerns
for the last burlesque dancer at armageddon
who he claims
was the first girl
that ever made him wish for a body
and a solid copy
of the karma sutra
the moon
just wants to have a good time,
maybe play a little poker
at the caesar's hotel in vegas
with baudelaire and dali
because he thinks it would be
one hell of an evening,
ending in the sort of poverty
he could tell his children about
the moon will point out
in utter despondency
the most action he ever gets
is when venus is aligned,
the damn tease,
leaving him with fantasies
of celestial collisions
and never-mind the aftermath,
he says
that sort of thinking
is what you get
from watching too much news,
gaining a taste for apathy
and a shortsighted viewpoint
the moon lays his head
on the the dawn
stretching,
reminds me
he'll be back tomorrow
and he expects
so will the rest of the mess.


-Jacob Johanson

Monday, January 21, 2013

POEM OF THE DAY BY ABIGAIL BEAUDELLE

DINOSAUR FACTORY



The first time
I saw a grain elevator
chipped-tooth white in the sun
outside Kansas City
I was East -
Coast-Ignorant,
the magnitude of a nation's
hunger presenting itself
like a dinosaur factory,
huge and ungainly in the light.

nearly 160 million acres
plowed under in one generation -
the Flint Hills remain
one of the last bastions of the American Prairie,
too much shale, flint
limestone renders it unworkable
we let it be -
give it national preserve status,
call ourselves conservationists.

Beneath the surface
prehistoric sea creatures
bed down in stone
at the center of our nation.

ii.
Topological landmark in a seabed
state -
the grain elevators
straddle the landscape -
pelvic remnants of biblical giants;

displaced small gods
congregate like
caveblind amphibians
in their shadows, they

remember what the land
was
weep silent
for dying bees -
remember
what the land was
weep silent
for lost butterflies

Buffalo specters
drift past Quicktrip parking lots
their glassine torsos
framing sandwich signs
coffee and glazed donut
$1.95 + tax
raise their heads
at the scent of wheat.


-
Abigail Beaudelle