Jonathan Beale

The soul alone on the Island

 

The Stone shack – alone austere

Birth simply happens

An almost non-event

As too is death

 

Equilibrium is as it does

Moss silently listens

Men’s blood is black

The children – know

 

The air breathed is rock

Cementing each – and – every – action.

Nothing is valueless

Everything is indivisible

 

Walking along this horizon

To a backward infinity

A thousand slated rectangles

Mirroring the light –

 

Days are as ripe as seams

Ever-expanding –

The girls dream of strawberries

And Keats wanting Lawrence

 

Boys dream of Zanzibar

Fulfilling their fathers boots

Whisky whistles a merry tune

From dusk into timeless night

 

Dark tales shared across raucous  

Laughter, horror, fear, wit, and wantonness

Then tomorrows Tells

Remind the men like a wife reminding

 

These aurora borealis 

Mystical majesty

As they in their youths blood

Know their destiny but may not understand

John D. Robinson

SCAM CALL POEM

“Hello” I answer.
“Are you the owner of a PC on this number
sir” a voice asks
“Yes” I say
“Sir, you have very serious problems with
your PC; it has been sending us data
informing that your device in under
serious threat and I can help you”
“And who are you?”
I ask
“Sir, my name is Pedro, I am calling from
PC Experts and I need
you to give me remote access to your
PC so I can save your PC Sir”
“Yeah, and I’m
Napoleon” I say
“Excuse me sir?”
the voice says and then repeats himself
“Sir Pedro” I say
“So you want to help me out because you’re
worried for me and my computer
and you’re doing this
because you’re a nice caring person and
wouldn’t want to
think of me upset and you want to
help me out for nothing”
“Excuse me sir? It is my job. I am Pedro”
the voice says
“And I’m Caligula” I say
“Excuse me sir?” the voice says
“Die fighting not waiting” I say
“Excuse me sir? the voice says and then
the line
suddenly
dies.

Steven Storrie

TWO PUSSIES

 

They’re in my garden

Jawing at one another
Nose to nose
Whisker to whisker
Claw to claw.
I gaze at them intently
And wonder why they spend
So much time together
When they clearly
Hate each other’s guts
One swipes at the other

And they screech and whine

Move back
Come together again
The black one tries to leave

Tentatively

Its eyes always on the other
Waiting for a sneak attack
It thinks better of it
Stays.

The smoky one seems to be
The boss.
It prowls and dominates
Its land
like this was ancient Egypt
and it knew it was the Queen
like it belonged to Sheba
or Nefertiti
or one of those other ones
that would have made it a God.
I’d love to know what

The hell they’re saying to

Each other
These two pussies
In my back yard.
Eventually they strut

Slowly along the fence
And finally leave
Out of sight
Nothing settled
Nothing gained.
Wait.

Why?
What the hell
did you think
This poem was
gonna be
About?

Steven Storrie

“I’ve submitted short poems to be turned loose onto your wild prairie of indomitable verse.”

 

JOHN WAYNE MOVIES
My Grandfather only ever liked two things
Fishing and John Wayne movies
He would always say that fishing relaxed him
But there was never the promise
That you would catch anything
Life is so full of uncertainties
He’d tell me as a child
More and more there are no guarantees
At least in John Wayne movies
He’d say
You know who’s gonna fucking win.

Mike Roach

De(con)struction
I. Cadence

Woke up this mornin’
Feeling like Pete Seeger when he looked like Lizzie Borden
Folklore sold me a soul like Bonnie Parker and a grin like Clyde Barrow
And they drove me home with bullet holes whispering, nibbling van Gogh’s earlobe
The sun and moon distracted her from the epilogue
Dusk and dawn were our rise and fall

The engine is writing letters and the rain is reading them aloud
Shouting, “The undertaker will be the last person to let you down!!”
And “We was then and this be now!”
Do we really want or need to see another soapbox episode?
All the little droplets dread the epilogue
As they sing the gospel of a rise and fall

Judas, in his lifelessness, lives out his loneliness
Hanging paintings in a cemetery museum
And on his tombstone when he buries his legacy alive
Is an epitaph that’ll make you laugh and cry and laugh and cry and laugh and cry
They hired me to write his obituary and the epilogue
His life and death played out like a rise and fall

Saw her smoking dirt from a tin foil hat
She screamed bloody murder and she let me have it
Let her little light shine, raised her blade, said “Goodbye, Charley Patton”
And left my throat a gorgeous disaster
Now it’s getting dark and I can’t seem to read the epilogue
Crimson smudges taste like a rise and fall

II. Memphis Died with Elvis

Sheriff’s department shine runners
Running gypsy kind up into their treehouses
With their necktie nooses tied around branches
Pulling at threads and pulling with pliers
Razor-sharp teeth from the mouths of sheep
Poison ivy crowns resting on the heads of liars
Absconded by wolves in pelts of fleece
This is where the soul of a man comes to die

III. This Machine Kills Free Thought

Forever picked a beautiful hill to die on
Buzzards circle the sunlight in anticipation
Waiting, salivating over someone else’s prey
Remember tomorrow like it happened yesterday
And never present the gift of present tense
Innocence, in a sense
Bloody fingerprints on the piano keys
I pieced myself back together with pieces of you
But I took nothing you’ll miss and I promise to
Return it all when I come back from the point of no return
You’re sentimentally insane about watching me burn
You’re the one who tied me to the stake
But I was able to walk away so
Don’t give it another thought and
Forget yourself in something eternal so you’ll never be forgotten
Open the box and put on the pawn shop diamond ring
Hope my neck doesn’t break so you can watch me swing

IV. Needle in a Needlestack

Liver decaying, salvation fading, they drag me to the guillotine
Selling souvenir transcripts of the trial from the printing press death machine
And in my passing, the man says, “Good luck, but…
Dead stars are only ever so pretty in the dark.
Who do you think you are?”
“I am nobody. How do you intend to kill a man with no body?”
“You’ll pay with your head for what you did.
And we’ll all breathe easy when your breathing ends.”
His laugh is mad and he’s made
As I moaned like a sinner on Revival Day
He cremated me and he’s compensated
With $6 in quarters taken from the coin-operated stockade in town square
Grey clouds gather and rain on the solar-powered electric chair

______________
Re:construction

I. Living in a Van Down by the River

Faust found himself down and with a story to tell
Prostituting his truth to have a story to sell
And without a word sat beneath the tree
To write in pain his train track tragedy

Faust found himself down in Clarksdale
With Legba’s hounds on his trail
A bargain on the run, bought for a broken song and sold
The highways tortured Faust’s poor paid-for soul

Faust finally found his way up to Memphis
With a bottle and a book, coming back from New Orleans
Papa’s rabid dogs ran him down
Into the dirt of the road

Faust found himself buried a few miles out of town
The sky was open any which way he looked around
His eyes rolled back and he knew the blues
When the old man with the crutch came to collect his due

II. Sultana

2 a.m., April 27, eighteen-hundred-sixty-five
Eighteen-hundred dead by sunrise
Riverboat hauling prisoners of war
And news of the death of the commander-in-chief
Battle lines were drawn in the waves
Seven miles north of Memphis, Tennessee
When sweet Sultana went down to the riverbed, up in flames
Leaving men to freeze in the Mississippi or burn with the boat
The weakened soldiers clung to life and clung to one another
And clung to branches on the trees the river had risen over
Water filled their lungs to the point of bursting
And sent visceral shrapnel into their ribcages, heartbreaking

III. Tributaries

If it keeps on raining, the levee’s gonna break
The townspeople all pray to be saved
And the runoff drains into open graves
Levees kicked down by a foot of rain a day

The bars and brothels on Beale Street form a new bluff
Some run up north, some keep with whores and get drunk
Drowning in whiskey and watching the water rise
Looking their lovers in the eyes across the river, 60 miles wide

Holding onto grandma’s wedding rings and a few old family photos
As the whole town drops to a watershed stroke
Bullets and beans are traded for hooch, opium, and coke
Men carve felled trees into boats, bloated corpses float

Conducting an orchestra of deafening thunder and struggling cries
Setting electric sculptures against a soul-swallowing sky
Sitting on the roof of a farmhouse, watching fish and furniture pass by
Dipping toes in the water and singing hymns of the endtimes

IV. Wife Gone on the Funeral Train Blues

I’m going crazy without you here
Bringing gods to their knees and stones to tears
Divert your attention, avert your eyes
I’d swim 2,000 miles of filthy water to meet you on the other side

An apparition presented, the mirror resented
The bride in the hearse, the logical poet demented
I’d do anything for you but I refuse to die
I’m gonna go where you are and bring you back alive

Two parts courage and three parts trust
Don’t look back, something might be gaining on us
I walked with you until the very end
And turned around just in time to watch you disappear again

I sang the blues until my throat bled
My fingertips blistered and the wine went to my head

I broke into hell to undo what the vipers done
I can’t love you in death, as I did in life
I’m losing my breath, but know I tried
Tread through fire to bring you back home
______________
Stress Cardiomyopathy: A Warning Shot, A Trigger Warning
As I stood in front of the mirror carved into the side of a mountain and conducted an interview with an echo, I asked how he sleeps at night. Do you know what he said?
He said, “I don’t. I usually just take an afternoon nap on some train tracks.”
Can you believe that? And he wished me good luck and said something about pretty dead stars in the dark or something…
It might be hypocritical of me (of all people, right?) to say, but I think that guy might have been way off his rocker. He was in charge of the executions — beheadings and electrocutions — and insisted on being called the “Chop ‘Em, Shock ‘Em Robot”.

When asked if I had any last words, I just wanted it noted that I never wrote about blue violets and red roses, that it was always about love, loss, struggle, exploded riverboats, and a particularly destructive flood.

******

In all seriousness and in the interest of full disclosure, I regret ending my love affair with the moon. I miss watching the cadence of the sun and its dance with my lunar mistress, making love to the silver sliver, menacing in her lunacy.

I’m a raving fucking lunatic.

I miss the times when my insanity was in its infancy. I wish all this didn’t used to keep me up at night, that I wasn’t used to losing sleep, but then again I kinda wish I still did. If I had three wishes, the other two would be to see her again…

******
I have a tendency to let things crawl under my skin and cast multiple shadows on my psyche. When I go, no one will visit, to sit in a semi-circle, strum guitars, smoke some green, and sing “Kumbaya”. Half of my friends will pray for my fate and my sorry soul to a god I spent the final years of my life fiercely denying; the other half will drink the blackberry wine that worked to so severely deteriorate my mental state and killed my will to meditate.

Gautama Buddha would be so ashamed…

******

I have worshipped Death as my deity and feared Time as my enemy, and my deity and enemy allowed me to be stupid enough to think you could maybe love me.

Depression is the spirit of prayer and moves me to spend days in bed but never rest. Dear dignified Death, I must trust that you have a plan for me, as you’ve cost me all my loves and passions.

Sometimes it seems the only good these pills could do me would be to put me to sleep more permanently. The validation will sustain me. Give me a legacy. I’ll be more than happy to pay for it.
But I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it and burn it when I cross it — honestly, most likely while I’m still on it.

******

Not that I believe, but there’s no way they’d let me in, even if I could make it to heaven.

Thriving through the self-loathing mouth of arrogance meant to disguise the abhorrence I feel every time I interview that ignorant echo.
Putting these words on paper to cope and saying them into microphones to find some sort of affection that might feel like home.

But fading out and burning away and all those old rock star cliches don’t exactly apply to broken poets, do they?
Here’s hoping…

******

Through my breakdown, my downfall, my falling apart, I broke hearts and I broke bones (mostly my own) and walked over them all to ascend to my throne.

Dear Death, spare me this Time to which you’ve sentenced me. Throw my poems into the crematorium with me. Let them burn with their bastard father and end as ashes in the river, sent to his deity and saved from his enemy. Give me your promise of peace.

“The poet is dead. Long live the poems.”

Nicole Taylor

Constant Commotion

At Jazz Station club

 

 

Singing to Mitchell singing

No, you can’t take that away from me,

the way you wear your hat,

the way you hold your tea.

 

Tapping feet to Kenny’s drum solo.

 

Watching Audie singing

Why not take all of me.

You took my heart.

 

Snacking on cheesy SunChips.

Studying Robert studying Nick on piano.

 

Watching Amy singing

I miss New Orleans?

I miss the one I cared for

more than I miss New Orleans.

 

Watching young Jesse bellowing on sax.

Sipping on local pinot noirs at a table with friends.

 

Listing a few Kenisms with Erin and Amy.

Put your hands together, you lazy Americans.

Ain’t no shame in my game.

That’s the way we roll, baby!

 

Rich, the happy drummer fills in Kenny on The Road Song.

 

Watching Anya singing

Summertime and the living is easy.

The fish jumping.

The cotton is high.

Your daddy’s rich.

Your mama’s good looking.

 

God bless the child

who’s got his own.

 

Go Eve.

Go Jesse.

 

Watching young Jesse bellowing on sax.

Sipping on local pinot noirs at a table with friends.

 

Put your hands together, you lazy Americans, announces Kenny.

 

Marty’s on guitar, filling in for Neal of Kenny’s Stone Cold Jazz band.

 

Some days we have a resident artist paint, friendly tap dancer,

a birthday potluck or with a problem guest on stage.

 

New trumpet player Tom follows and keeps in time.

 

Dancing to Kenny’s usual finale Knockout

Girl you are a knockout.

You got me in constant commotion.

 

Listening to introductions

Nick from Des Moines.

Pimpin’ Jack from Eugene.

 

Watching Eve in constant commotion.

I’ll be back for the rest, she says while carrying her flute

and equipment.

 

From January 2014

 

 

Evening Colors

Hot Mama’s Open Mic Night

 

Six guitar cases and one banjo case rest in the corner,

near the restrooms, beer specials and near the bar.

 

Katie plays originals on her blue guitar sweet folk songs and ballads

between squeaks from the speakers that hippie and Old Sal, our co host is

adjusting.

Old Rollin Joe plays his Horner Comet, his fat old harmonica and he plays

banjo from

songs, Forever Young and September Rose, from his CD’s, The Legend At

Last.

Gabe plays Rose’s blue guitar with friends, one violin and two banjos. The

blue butterfly.

Her young hands fly through this navy, midnight blue guitar.

The tall guy in center sings I’m Going Down under the Burlap Blues. I’m 

Going Down in 

the Burlap Blues.

 

Old Jimmy plays his Takamine, his shiny beige guitar with “Jack” on his

strap. He plays sad twangy old songs, So Old and Love Me Like You Did 

Yesterday.

 

Young Lex wears black hair and hat and plays a black guitar and sings

If I Die Young and

Don’t Let the Music Die.

 

Marilyn, Holly Hobbie, in her bright pink hair plays her “experimental noise”

from adjusting knobs on sound equipment, last week with her pink guitar.

Sal really enjoys this but others walk out, at least for a smoke.

Joe and Autumn play and leave, Going on Down to Alaska and I’m Going 

to Jackson.

Well, I’m going down to Jackson and I ain’t never coming back.

 

Sometimes he reads Beatnik poetry or his powerful political original poetry.

 

Two young waitresses keep busy, cleaning cup and counter before closing,

and trying not

to break more glasses while delivering more libations.

 

Two colorful creatures, one from Where The Wild Things Are, watch behind

the bar and I

watch the customers visit, laugh, sometimes too loud and not listening to

those behind

the tall mic.

November 11, 2011

 

 

 

 

Hot Folk Tunes at Hot Mama’s 

No Heavy Metal Allowed

 

Lex sang a bluesy Devil’s Ridge’s

If I die young. But she’s one of the youngest

here in this wings restaurant, bar. Then she

tells us a humorous lesbian joke.

She ends with Hallelujah every night.

Two barmaids clean the tables

under the television

in the corner by the front door,

the Padres and Giants

still plays early on Tuesday night

Open-mic at Hot Mama’s Wings.

Two diners sit across me

and under the Animal House prints and

the Oregon Ducks

prints. With banjo

in hands Sir Richard

sang sad song of ex-wives.

Aged hippie Nick sang classics,

Beatles and Clapton songs.

His friend and Sal sang

Daddy’s Little Pumpkin.

Before leaving I heard Ben from

Ohio sing his original song,

Humanity on his extended length,

illustrated leaf guitar.

 

 

Local Colors

 

The jazz band of six plays Thelonius Monk’s Blue Monk as cheerful Dona

greets many and requests donations for the new Jazz Station Club. Then a

young swearing drunk enters, asks for a sample of the red wine – an

Australian merlot or a South African syrah from the local Trader Joe’s.

These wines are offered only with a cash donation. The two people debate,

struggle and he grabs her collar while they walk out toward John Henry’s

and other clubs the state university students visit, or maybe even the city’s

many homeless. Dona’s friends Rich and Stephen follow after her. She

returns with a scarlet red angered face. Later she still appears very nervous

but sings Kissing the Bottle and Autumn Leaves with friends. I watch the

amber and umber leaves, the ochre and cadmium leaves fall and drift in

late autumn with heavy wind and rain, with a magenta setting sun.

Stephen’s paintings decorate he walls with teals and violets, with

Southwest symbols, faces and images. Cactus and classic pickups. Sue

plays piano keys to Between the Bars. A grinning Rich plays drums in back.

A young adult Kevin plays sax as his predecessor, African American Ben

Webster, watches in spirit and bathroom photograph. Today all faces here

are ivory or Caucasian, ruddy or white.

 

Matt Borczon

The secret lives of ghosts

in the

years since

the war

I have

learned

a lot

about the

secret lives

of ghosts

I can

distinguish

their voices

from rain

or the

tires squeals

that cover

their words

 

and I

can tell

who they

are by

where I

find them

in my

house

the children

are in

my daughter’s

room and

the detainees

and local

nationals are

always in

the kitchen

the ghost

soldiers

and Marines

are everywhere

and will

go anywhere

as long

I don’t ask

them to

leave

 

I have

learned to

see past

their dead

eyes their

wounds and

stumps their

pain and fear

medication

can’t make

them leave

they only

get thin

and quiet

enough to

make me

question if

they are

real and

this scares

me more

than they do

 

my therapist

says I

can make

them leave

any time

I want

since I

made them

only I

didn’t make them

the war

made them

the sand

made them

the fighting

bullet holes

and bombs

made them

the helicopters

and stretchers

bloody equipment

sleepless nights

body bags

and missed

calls home

made them

the constant

fear you

can’t do

enough to

save any

of them

made them

 

the same

way it

made me

 

whole nights sleep

After 3 nights

of my anxiety

growing

a sharp

bare tree

inside my

stomach

I finally slept

one whole

night without

remembered

dreams

but when I

woke up today

my voice was hoarse

my throat dry

as dust

or sand  and

my arm was bruised

from elbow

to wrist

 

after another night

back in the war.

 

Getting your hands dirty

a young nurse

took a long

long time

picking out

a towel to

wrap the

child’s corpse

and when we

got to the

isolation room

I could see

she didn’t want

to touch it

 

so I wrapped

the body and

gave it to

the parents

I changed

the sheet and

disinfected the

mattress all

the while I

was thinking

about a fall

day when I

found a cat

dead against

my fence

it had been

there a long

time and I

had to peel it

away from the

metal before

I could stuff

it into a

trash bag .

 

Cody Crossland

After Her, The Deluge

she was a beacon in starless night
black as death, the sky weeping,
tearing its flesh.

I was a cyclone.

rampaging vortex,

marauding across landscapes

of the fragile world.

the choice was hers alone,
to take me by the hand,
why she did,
I may never know.

long afternoon summer
found us tangled in sheets,
lips scavenging sweat for secret
yesses.

nights spent dancing
among electric cowboys,
while I fell like rain
over her charm.

she could not rope the wind
nor tame my wicked heart.
the sound of the shutting door
a thunderclap in my soul.

the levee groans against itself,
the reaping hour come round.
I sit in cigarette smoke nights,
stale poison rotting the glass,
muttering, “Play it again, Sam.”
to no one in particular.

Superman is Crying
when I see a leaf blow
in the wind,
I think of you
my friend.

tearing across eternal hunting grounds,
wild eyed and shuddering,
face bent forward
to what lay before you.

once we stood colossal
in plaything world,
walking through our myth
like two bit supermen

now you sleep
beneath the snakes,
sunday best suit,
cloaking your bones.
worms have had their fill.

as trees shed burdens
in windblown world
I watch this leaf
rush to meet you
at the banks of the river Styx.

tears won’t quit me now.

End of Night

Here I sit,
holy morning voyeur
in windblown West Texas world.

Barren,
mesquite choked pasture
harbor iron monstrosities,
rocking steady at twilight,
groaning,
as they suck life blood
from the belly of the Earth.

The sun crests the horizon,
darkness flees,
allowing dawn her moment
in virgin day.

It is the end of night,
the myth of the American night.
Azure waves roll
across pale sky,
swirls of purple and gold,
whisper,
“All time is borrowed.”

All about town,
men rise,
weary,
ready themselves
for the workaday world
of heat and sweat,
turning wrenches,
clanging metal.

Longing for 5 o’clock
smiles
of their women.
sweet sounds of laughing

children
Sips of ice cold beer
to salvage the day.

Night comes
like a thief.
the realization
that another selfsame day
draws near.

I stumble headlong,
wine stained mouth,
drunk
as a waltzing
pissant,
on the heels of revenant visions,
derelict specters,
that say,
“Go on boy,
go thou this way,
seek and you will find.”

But the bottles are bled dry now,
usless as paperweights,
when once they held
such promise.

The sun rises lazily in the east,
The great world continues to spin.
A lonesome wolf howls,
in mourning.

Steven Porter

“The Town of Anarchy Has a Single Working Light Bulb”
Right now, a man sits at his computer and tugs his
fossilized, skull-penetrating, immalleable clay cock.
There’s one light bulb left, illuminating clits
queefing in Korean. All other bulbs were
stolen sometime during a nocturnal carnival by
nympho-tourists capable of sneaking
sunlight in their electronic muffs.
The grandfather clock’s hands sting
like baby scorpion tales (the young man’s only
defense against these thieving, horny outsiders).
His balls rattle like calcium dice in a
skinny transvestite’s bony hand.
Near-sighted gods are watching
him with their prescription glasses
and high-powered binoculars: (Everyone
is a pervert when temptation tickles you
with a silk feather). After ejaculation, he
lifts up his pants and smiles at passing
dragonflies, rubbing their crunchy cleavage.
“To Loathe and Love Las Vegas”
It’s true Mr. Thompson, this is where the American Dream ends.
Many of friends have had their dreams squashed in New York,
Boston, Chicago and ended up back here. The bats weren’t in your
head, sir, I saw them too, but in Vegas we call them floor bosses.
Scorpions, snakes, and coyotes have all found their way to
Fremont Street. They pinch, bite and ensnare the American
Flag’s thinning cloth and drag it along bare, naked tits and asses,
getting fresh cum all over it. I’ve got an acid craze and I can’t get
enough of it! Cars swing by with more gyrating pussy than one
can handle. Like Jello Biafra said, “Gonna have me some money
if it costs me my very last dime.” Almost every bar and casino
doubles as a strip club; girls dancing in cages, their breasts busting
out of their Steam Punk outfits. It’s no wonder my cock is in a constant
state of attention? Half the men walk around with their hands in their
pockets (They’re most likely masturbating). There are orgies on every corner:
fingers in asses, cunts and urethras, mouths sucking cocks and clits,
lapping up pubic hair, glitter, whiskey, vodka and every other kind of
alcohol vomited up by fatass, caustic cowboys, Asian Elvis impersonators,
tourists with deep pockets, holes in pockets, and no pockets.
Neon Goddesses spread their legs and lick their lips to distract
you long enough for a vagrant midget to pick your pocket.
Vegas’ history is homeless and abandoned on the town’s
outskirts, not far from homes that couldn’t be gentrified.
Cacti watch their brothers and sisters uprooted, stuffed
and placed in “The World’s Largest Gift Shop” with price tags.
Slot junkies can get their fix at grocery stores so they can
spend their baby’s milk and food money on location.
The Strip isn’t any fun when the sun boils early morning-hookers
and you have to worry about stepping in bubbling jizz and puke piles.
Maybe we can hit up the Peppermill and find a hungover lawyer
slumped over his ashy scrambled eggs? I’m sure he’s useful for
something other than getting schizophrenic drunks out of county jail.
Mr. Thompson, why don’t you come back and see us sometime?
Drive Carefully and don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of ether,
flyswatters to keep those fucking bats away, call girls on
speed dial and an extra American Flag you can use as a blanket.
“Searching for Another Handout”
Hope-famished pets left out in a rain’s aftermath
in a season of dry apricots
brawl on the railroad tracks with dry, rough paws
searching for prey drowned out by Mosaic floods.
Cats head to the rail yards to rest in the warmth of bourbon-puddles.
Masterless dogs wake with dry bone hangovers;
a human passerby offers an empty, nail-bitten hand
to the lanky, collar-strapped animal.
It struggles to rise, knots in its hair, to search for another handout
someplace where the sun delays its rise.

Dr. Randall K. Rogers

Euthanasia

 

 

I come from a family

that doesn’t mind

dying.

We are not tethered

too tightly to this

world.

Upon diagnosis of

Cancer or what have

you we grin.

“You mean I’m gonna

get to die?”

We are above fighting

for life,

unless it’s a human,

fish, or animal opponent.

Or a condition able to

be cured by modern

medicine.

We are okay with

throwing in the towel,

pre-emptoryly

killing ourselves at

seventy-five,

or heading to Canada,

Oregon,

Mexico, or Holland

for a very short visit.

 

 

 

To All the Disabled in Any Way (and for the able-bodied too)

 

 

From 1881 to 1889

Vincent Van Gogh painted

some 900 paintings

often while looking out

the window of a

mental institute

painting what he saw.

And nothing could stop him.

Be like Vincent.