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

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

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

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

POEM OF THE DAY BY GEORGE CARLIN

MODERN MAN


I’m a modern man, a man for the millennium, digital and smoke-free, a diversified multi-cultural post-modern deconstructionist, politcally, anatomically, and ecologically incorrect.

I’ve been uplinked and downloaded, I’ve been inputed and outsourced, I know the upside of downsizing, I know the downside of upgrading. I’m a high-tech lowlife, a state-of-the-art bi-coastal multitasker, and I can give you a gigabyte in a nanosecond.

I’m new wave, but I’m old school, and my inner child is outward bound. I’m a hot-wired, heat-seeking, warm-hearted cool customer, voice-activated and biodegradeble. I interface with my database, and my database is in cyberspace, so I’m interactive, I’m hyperactive, and from time to time, I’m radioactive.

Behind the 8-ball, ahead of the curve, riding the wave, dodging the bullet, pushing the envelope. I’m on point, on task, on message, and off drugs. I got no need for coke and speed. I have no urge to binge and purge. I’m in the moment, on the edge, over the top, but under the radar. A high-concept, low-profile, medium-range ballistics missionary. A street-wise smart bomb, a top-gun bottom-feeder.

I wear power ties, I tell power lies, I take power naps, I run victory laps. I’m a totally ongoing bigfoot slamdunk rainmaker with a proactive outreach. A raging workaholic, a working rageaholic, out of rehab and in denial. I got a personal trainer, a personal shopper, a personal assistant, and a personal agenda. You can’t shut me up, you can’t dumb me down, ’cause I’m tireless, and I’m wireless. I’m an alpha male on beta blockers.

I’m a non-believer and an overachiever, laid back, but fashion forward, up front, down home, low rent, high maintenance; super size, long lasting, high definition, fast acting, oven ready, and built to last. I’m a hands-on, footloose, kneejerk headcase, prematurly post-traumatic, and I have a love child who sends me hate mail.

But I’m feeling, I’m caring, I’m healing, I’m sharing, a supportive, bonding, nurturing, primary caregiver. My output is down, but my income is up. I take a short position on a long bond, and my revenue stream has its own cash flow. I read junk mail, I eat junk food, I buy junk bonds, I watch trash sports. I’m gender specific, capital intensive, user friendly, and lactose intolerant.

I like rough sex, I like tough love, I use the F-word in my e-mails, and the software on my hard drive is hardcore, no soft porn. I bought a microwave at a minimall, I bought a minivan at a megastore, I eat fast food in the slow lane. I’m tollfree, bite size, ready to wear, and I come in all sizes. A fully equipped, factory authorized, hospital tested, clinically proven, scientifically formulated medical miracle.

I’ve been prewashed, precooked, preheated, prescreened, preapproved, postdated, freeze dried, double wrapped, vacuum packed, and I have an unlimited broadband capacity. I’m a rude dude, but I’m the real deal, lean and mean, cocked, locked, and ready to rock; rough, tough, and hard to bluff.

I take it slow, I go with the flow, I ride with the tide, I got glide in my stride. Drivin’ and movin’, sailin’ and spinin’, jivin’ and groovin’, wailin’ and winnin’. I don’t snooze, so I don’t lose. I keep the pedal to the metal and the rubber on the road. I party hardy, and lunch time is crunch time. I’m hangin’ in, there ain’t no doubt, and I’m hangin’ tough, over and out.


-George Carlin

POEM OF THE DAY BY DAVE ETTER

DANCING LIKE MONK

Didn’t like the party
didn’t like the people there
tossed down my whiskey
put on my corduroy coat
passed some tacky tycoons
country club bumpkins
double chins double gins
yanked open the thick front door
lit a fresh Cuban cigar
went down white stone steps
went down crooked walk
went spinning round and round
goodbye to Wall Street weirdos
bigoted Republicans
bad hearts sick with greed
glad to be out of there
turning and whirling
dancing dancing like Monk.


-Dave Etter

POEM OF THE DAY BY LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI

Two Scavengers In A Truck,
Two Beautiful People In A Mercedes

At the stoplight waiting for the light
    Nine A.M. downtown San Francisco
 a bright garbage truck
  with two garbage men in red plastic blazers
 standing on the back stoop
      one on each side hanging on
    and looking down into 
an elegant open Mercedes
with an elegant couple in it
The man
In a hip three-piece linen suit
With shoulder-length blond hair & sunglasses
The young blond woman so casually coifed
with a short skirt and colored stocking
On his way to his architect's office
And the two scavengers up since Four A.M.
Grungy from their route
On the way home 
The older of the two with grey iron hair
And hunched back
Looking like some
Gargoyle Quasimodo
And the younger of the two
Also with sunglasses and long hair
About the same age as the Mercedes driver
And both scavengers gazing down
As from a great distance
At the cool couple
As if they were watching some odorless TV ad
In which everything is possible

And the very red light for an instant
Holding all four close together
As if anything at all were possible 
Between them
Across that great gulf
In the high seas
Of this democracy

-Lawrence Ferlinghetti