Don’t Fall

 

I tell you, “Don’t fall in love with me.”

 
What I mean is –

 
Don’t build me up on a pedestal

Imagining everything I am

 

Don’t tell me I’m your goddess

Your princess

Your muse

Yet never get to know me

 

Don’t blame me

When the cracks in the pedestal show

And you realize

I haven’t lived up to

The story you wrote

 

If you are going to love me

Love me a little at a time

For who I really am

 

Someone standing too close to the paintings

Because she refuses to wear glasses

 

Someone who gets lost

Coming back from the bathroom

And talks during movies

 

Drinks coffee at 8 P.M.

Only to complain that she can’t sleep

 

Loves the Mets like a religion

Without being able to name a single player

 

Who remembers tiny details about you

And forgets the huge things

 

Don’t fall in love with me

Falling is a quick movement

Out of control

An accident

 

If there ever comes a time

When you love me

Let it be

Slow

Soft

Deliberate

 

Don’t fall head over heals

Don’t fall at all

Just take a step

the joy of cheating death
 
white knuckled down another
back road in the sticks
 
as fast as you can, lights off
only destiny awaits
 
and as many times as i thought
i was going to die
 
there was just as many times
that i felt the joy of cheating
death
 
but youth is wasted on the
young
 
and now my knees won't let
me get into one of those fast
cars anymore
 
my mother doesn't understand
the depression these days
 
i laugh, mention something
about naming me after the two
biggest assholes she's ever known
and then acting surprised at how
it all turned out
 
these are the nights of bent
spoons and dirty needles
 
i want to be one of the lucky
ones and die with the needle
still in my arm
 
maybe melt into my bed and
rest comfortably for the first
time in years
 
the girl i lost my virginity to
killed herself a few years later
 
i don't believe in coincidences

The Shape of Things to Come II

It’s 2042 and I’m eighty years old. I was born in 1961. I’ve seen a lot in my eighty years and I’d like to talk about or tell you about how things are different now than they were back then. How things have changed since the seventies, the eighties and nineties, the two thousands up to 2022. August 8, 2022 to be exact. From 1961 to 2042 things changed. I’m here to tell how.

First of all I’m dead. Or, more exactly, we are all dead. Earth humans discovered that in 2031. It’s common knowledge now. As they say in 2042, never failing to remind us, it’s settled science! No argument here, the Earth used to be crowded, up to seven billions! Now, there is space, beautiful, peaceful, gorgeous elbow room. Lebensraum — living room, to do what you please, we finally got it.

As long as you like bugs. Because around 2031, when humans discovered the living were actually dead, the food we’d known for years, mostly natural food, was long gone. We ate the combined chemical and food elements/components of a series of species of bugs. Insects, we ate in some manufactured form, taste, and texture, all day, every day, three hundred sixty five days a year, for life. There were no more animals, large animals. Tame or wild. Like China we killed them all. Ate them. Only rodents remained. Not even birds. No more chirping. Two thousand forty two surely is a “silent spring.”

Babies don’t wail anymore either. Why give birth to death? To a dead baby? Discovering life only begins at death spelled the end of Earth, of humanity. Abortion skyrocketed. There is only death on Earth, studies determined, hammered the notion home. Again, the authorities told us it was settled science. Every scientist worth his or her salt knew the greatest agreement in science determines truth. Truth tells how to decipher reality, making it accessible, knowable. An epistemological concern.

Death is life. It was true. Odd we humans, all the greatest philosophers and thinkers couldn’t figure this out through the eras. Well, I guess the Stoics did, and Nihilists. Celebrate death and mourn birth, the Stoic creed, some always held a most true maxim. And now, in the 2040s, man, how true, how true. Birth is death and death life. Dig it, the greatest truth. The biggest, most encompassing paradigm change…since Earth, or human life on Earth, began.

Imagine, a human-less Earth. Free of pain. John Lennon did. The elites — they all who remain — convinced the people it was in their best interests. To believe. To die, to kill themselves, to let others live. In luxury. Suckers.

Previously published by Mad Swirl

Can you tell us something about your background? Are you from Bulgaria? When did you come to the US? What are Bulgarian folks like? What is the national dish? Famous writers?

Yes, I was born in Bulgaria (hold the applause). I came to America when I was 4, just like the guy in West Side Story. As for Bulgarians….Let’s just say I’m glad I don’t live there anymore. I will say that Bulgarian food is awesome. Try the feta cheese–just make sure you desalinate it in water for 24 hours. As for famous Bulgarian writers, there was Ivan Vazov, though I haven’t read any of his work. I’ve read some poems by Hristo Botev, the country’s most famous poet. They’re rather pompous, like most 19th century art and literature. Nothing to write home about.

What is the poetry scene like in Bulgaria?

I’ve read some stuff by contemporary Bulgarian poets. They like to experiment nowadays. A lot of crazy free verse and a Bulgarian iteration of haiku called “nava.” None of it stands out, though.

You are one of Chris’ and I’s favorite poets. Who are some of your favorite poets and writers?

Well, the first real poetry I ever read was, of course, Bukowski. I’m also a big fan of nila northSun, who’s a Native American poet. And I’m also a huge fan of Emily Dickinson. She wrote about death as though she’d already been there and back. No one else ever wrote about death like she did.

In your view what makes for a good poem?

I guess a poem has to be honest, first of all. Second, a poem has to be exciting, with interesting turns of phrase. It has to catch the reader off guard. There’s nothing worse than a poem that’s what the reader expects a poem to be. The rest is just intangible. Try dissecting any good poem to find out why it’s good and you’ll see that it’s impossible.

You are the former editor of Asphodel Madness, and Opium Poetry, can you give our readers your impressions of being editor of a poetry magazine? What is the most rewarding/fun/best part of being an editor? Negative experiences?

I loved reading everyone’s submissions for 2 years. I discovered ideas and ways of looking at the world that were totally new to me. It’s amazing how some people can, in the words of nila northSun, “make something out of nothing.” As for bad experiences editing those zines for 2 years, I’m pleased to say that I really can’t think of any.

What inspires you to write? Can you give us an idea of how you write a poem? Your writing technique if you have one? When do you write? How often?

I guess what inspires me to write is that I would go insane if I didn’t. This world is so insane you gotta find some sort of artistic expression to stay sane, whether it’s poetry, art, or music. You gotta just write whenever the mood hits you. Just sit down and write whatever falls outta your brain, like Bukowski said. You can spend some time rewriting but not too much. And keep all your poems, even the bad ones. But most of your poems will be bad. Poetry, like all art, is hit or miss, mostly miss. That’s just how it is.

What advice would you give to beginning writers or poets? Hemingway said stay healthy and keep writing.

Read as much as you can–books, print zines, netzines, everything. Internalize everything you read that you like and then write about your own experiences. Remember, write about your own experiences. You are you, not anyone else. Not even Bukowski.

What books do you recommend people read?

I would certainly recommend all the poetry books of Bukowski. Also, “Last House In America” by Jack Micheline. That book is Micheline at his best. All the books by nila northSun. And also Under the Volcano by Malcolm Lowry, which is one crazy-ass if somewhat difficult novel. And all the plays of Eugene O’Neill except The Iceman Cometh.

Anything else you would like to say to our readers?

Just to keep writing and not give up. And keep starting new zines for people to read and submit to. People write cuz they have to. It’s a mad compulsion but it’s a great one! So keep writing and maybe one day when the American empire collapses all those poems will really make a difference in the future world.

Nova Hart

-        For Grant Hart, 1961-2017

 

a man too young to be so old

weathered by heartbreak, heroin and happenstance

decked in jeans and wingtips, torn shirt and glasses,

strapped with a vintage guitar tuned approximately,

alone on stage at the mic

transmuting the volume of youth into the pain of age,

singing out of a place few reach,

a place deep and free from theatrics,

a man once broken and held together by his art

singing to a half-filled room, past the audience

to some version of himself he hasn’t met

on a train riding foreign tracks.

It kills you a little bit to hear the song

and understand that listening is not living,

just a scattered path to Hope.

Better Than Ezra

Son of a Bitch, the needle broke off in my arm again. It's these cheap Insulin syringes the Nuns hand out by the park. They don't last more than two or three times then they're useless. You can't even sharpen the point on a matchbook without the flimsy needle breaking off.

Can you believe this shit, here I am complaining about a free syringe given to me out of  concern by the Catholic Church for my welfare. Wait, what am I talking about? After years of battling Catholic guilt bestowed upon me by the Church and their representatives I've ended up a recovering Catholic. They owe me some type of compensation. 

However, let me say this, if they're going to supply junkies with syringes they should do better product research. 

Now I've got to dig this fucking needle out of my arm in the dark without tweezers or pliers. Ya know what? Forget it. It's not all that important. There's still  a few I've got stuck in my arms from the past. It can wait.

I do, however, need to find another syringe to get my fix. I'm sure the Nuns have packed up and are back to their Coloister to pray for the souls of God's misguided lambs. Now there's no one looking over the flock. The wolf of darkness will have his way tonight.

So I hit the angry streets pounding the pavement of desperation in search of a spike.  

The problem with this Greek Tragedy is there's a drama hangover. Every junkie I ask will want a hit in trade for a syringe, and I'm not about to give away my medicine.

South of the border in every country from Mexico throughout Central and South America, I can walk into any Farmacia and buy any type of syringe over the counter no questions asked. There's also a variety of drugs available that you'd need a prescription for in the United States but not there.  And all of it is so much more inexpensive. Did you ever wonder why it's so?  It's because of the fucking Capitalist regime holding the entire population of the United States hostage. Free country my ass.

I can't remember the reason for why I returned. I'm sure some of you are thinking,  'If you don't like it here, then leave.'  I thoroughly agree with your statement. However I am now without the funds to get my ass out. Oh ya, now I remember. I came back to collect my Social Security which I found out had been garnished by the Internal Revenue Service for filing what they determined as incorrect Tax returns. They claimed I owe them twelve thousand, six hundred and some odd dollars. God bless the USA!

Look at yourself Santiago running around this city of Vampires. They're sucking every bit of self respect from your soul. You've gotta get it together no more woe is me, cry baby bullshit. Your  daughter wouldn't want you to react this way as a result of her death. This is not the manner in which to pay tribute to her life. You're using her death as a reason for your degenerate lifestyle.  What a lame, poor ass excuse to justify your addiction. You fucking junkie.

"Hey Santiago, how you doing asshole?" I hear one of my many admirers holler from across the boulevard.

"I'm better than Ezra! ( Kickass Band) Who the hell are you? Do I know you?" I screamed back.

I knew who he was and I don't appreciate his company but dope makes extraneous friendships. So I disregarded my disdain and pasted  a half assed smirk on my face to disguise my condition.

I hope I don't owe him money  

He runs across the street to me dodging traffic with horns blaring. He also received a couple of,  "You asshole!" So I scored him a seven for his city street  prowess. 

"So Georgie, what you up to? The only time I seem to see you is in jail. Great to see you on the outside." I extended a cordial greeting. He is a small time dealer his products are usually; Cocaine, Crack, Ecstasy and halfway decent Heroin. 

"Keeping one step ahead of the Boys in Blue.  Ya know, if I remember correctly you owe me twenty five bucks from like almost a year ago when you first got back." 

Understand what I mean? 

"That could be true, I really don't remember. I can't settle up right now, my trust fund check is late."

"Funny guy as usual. Are you looking? I'm holding."

"I just told you I'm tapped out. My check is late. But would you happen to have a syringe on ya? Mine just broke off in my arm."

"Using one of them 'Nun Guns' I bet. Ya I got a couple, clean and still in the wrapper. Not from the hospital dumpsters. They're five bucks a pop though."

"Is there any way you could possibly front me for a week? I really do have a check coming next week. I'll meet you at The Mint next Friday night around eleven or so. Jessica just started working there so I'm usually there on weekends. I'd really appreciate your help man. If you can see your way clean it'd be awesome."

"I've always liked you Santiago. You've always treated me with respect. Not like the other lying, thieving junkies around this city."

"Wait, did you just call me a junkie? I'm just chipping man. I can quit this bullshit whenever I want."

"I'm sure you can give it up. No offense Santiago. I didn't mean anything by it. Listen, I'll give you a syringe and a twenty paper on the arm. You'll pay me fifty next Friday?"

"I'll be honest, I'm not sure I can pay the whole fifty but at least thirty. How does that sound?"

"See, that's what I'm talking about. You're honest with me man, up front. That's respect. Sure that'll be fine." He begins reaching up the pant leg of his shorts retrieving a syringe which he quickly stuffs into my blazer's breast pocket. 

"Follow me to the Circle K on the corner. I've gotta get the dope from my mouse across the street. Come on."

I follow him the half block to the entrance of the convenience store. He motions to a kid that has to be only ten or eleven years old.  Georgie holds up one finger and his mouse runs over and places the dope on a window sill of the store. Georgie nonchalantly strolls over and palms the dope then walks it over to me slipping it into my side pocket.

"So next Friday at 11:00 the Mint Bar, thirty bucks."

"Seguro carnal."

"Don't give me any of that Mexican lip. You're in the United States now."

See what I mean about  extraneous friendship.

"Sorry, habit I guess."

"Let me ask ya something. So you're back with that Jessica broad?  Isn't she a whore?"

"Ya but she found Jesus and gave it up. Now she's a barmaid at the Mint like I said."

"I don't know how you do it man? I couldn't be in a relationship with a bitch that was a whore."

"So you with anybody now Georgie?"

"Na, enjoying the single life. I don't need no bitch."

"Ya know what sound a sexually satisfied woman makes, Georgie?"

"No, what?"

"I'll see you next Friday, gotta giddy up. Thanks Georgie. Think about the question for a minute, you'll get it."

Maybe I won't remember my commitment next Friday. Yep but now, I'm 'Better Than Ezra'.  Giddy up.

BIG BILLY WADE

 
The sins of the father
Do not fall upon the son
Up here in the oaks and the knocks
Of Dawson County Georgia

Big Billy Wade
Tells us so
And Big Billy Wade
Is a man of the cross and the gun
And he knows a thing or two
About the mysteries of the world
And the water and the robe

Big Billy Wade
Isn’t losing any sleep
Over the massacre of the Creeks at Autosee
The Shoshone on the Bear
Or the bullets in the back
Of Spotted Elk and the Lakota at Wounded Knee

And the sins of the father
Do not fall upon the son
Up here in the pines and hollows           
Of Dawson County Georgia

Big Billy Wade
Tells us so
And Big Billy Wade
Knows a thing or two
Beneath the hood
About the machinery of the world
And Ezekiel’s sword

Big Billy Wade
Isn’t losing any sleep
Over April Fourth
369 years of the slave trade
Or anybody last name X 
Bleeding out on West 165th

Big Billy Wade
Is comfortable
In his skin.

Rudeness

He opened the door, and she shoved her way past him.
“But— what … excuse me? You can’t just push into somebody’s house!” He rushed after her.
She was standing in the middle of the living room, arms akimbo. “Well, it’s not much of a house, is it? You could have afforded better if you’d made more of an effort. And hired a decent maid service. Don’t you ever vacuum?”
He was vacillating about whether to call the police, when she strode onward into the next room, halting to look down her nose at the kitchen’s scuffed vinyl—fortunately, he’d done a good job of cleaning up the spill after dropping the milk jug at breakfast. A snort was her only comment. But she made up for it when she opened the refrigerator. “Brats, summer sausage, and bacon—oh, I’m sure that’s going to do your cholesterol a lot of good, Mr. Paunchy! And the vegetable drawer is practically empty, not to mention that celery and carrots aren’t supposed to be limp—remind you of anything?” She met his eyes haughtily.
A warm rush of familiarity swept over him as he stared at her. His wife had been dead for six months.
He forgot about his initial panic, the idea of having her arrested; she was a fine figure of a woman, even in the kerchief and no-nonsense housedress. And then he remembered the link he’d clicked on after his third lonely Scotch the night before: RudeFinder.

TV Land

The veteran homicide detective with the Basset Hound face stands in a vacant lot, staring glumly down at a mutilated corpse dumped there overnight. Violent crime is common in this rust-pocked city, and the law itself often criminal. The detective sighs wearily. He searches his pockets for a cigarette before remembering he’s quit smoking. A small plane flies over, pulling a large banner. He follows it with his eyes. SMILE EMPTY SOUL, the banner says. I’m no criminologist or any other kind of -ologist, but that’s why I need to consult someone like him, who wants to watch the world burn, then save the people he loves.

 Seahorse Monogamy Is (Sort of) a Myth 

 

It seems a seahorse 

isn’t as monogamous  

as once believed, 

but that only makes  

my underwater crush 

on the little creature 

grow even deeper. 

Male or female— 

it really doesn’t matter. 

I especially like the way 

this pale-yellow seahorse 

wraps its tail around 

the sunken plastic pirate ship 

in the saltwater aquarium 

at my favorite Thai restaurant. 

Nearby a darker yellow seahorse 

begins doing an intimate dance 

in the soft and steady current. 

I know love is a lot like food, 

and there are so many choices 

on the menu.