Illusions of Invincibility Time seems to rise and fall like the tall-grassy memories of man's youth. In this lifetime I’ve seen men at their weakest moments, so low that cracks on dirty wet porches towered above them and again, on the summit of their most triumphant accomplishment. And now, looking back I can see that the greatest differences in those men were not the strength of their bodies or the money in their pockets, but their thoughts. I’ve suffered so much pain and the loss of men that I often wonder when I might crack and fall. We called each other brothers. We were related by commonalities and friendship, a need to be around others like us who understood. We all had our own stories, some sadder than others. But we would grow to understand that the blood flowing inside our veins does not define our brotherhood. Some of us would also grow into feared men, some sooner than others. Like men in war, we bonded as brothers in arms. Some conquered their worlds with illusions of invincibility. Many of them are gone now. And now that the end is in sight, all the illusions I once shared with them subside into the past like so many of their faces have.
Daniel Klawitter
Sinner’s Song All the things I conquer They come back like fate. And the things I treasure Become the things I hate. I want a heart like Jesus But I ain’t no saint. See my fallen halo? I pick it up too late. I wrestle with my demons But I sometimes let them win. And if you don’t believe me Just ask dear Rosalyn. She will say I’m spineless Even though I’m a vertebrate. See my fallen halo? I pick it up too late. I surely ain’t no angel I never claimed I was. And sometimes if I’m drinkin’ I’m a little more than buzzed. The preacher man on Sunday Said “God don’t make mistakes.” See my fallen halo? I pick it up too late. I make my resolutions But I know my will is weak. I have the best intentions But I think I’ve sprung a leak. I’m like a broken building, You forgot to renovate. See my fallen halo? I pick it up too late. I used to have more courage I used to be admired. I’m not sure how it happened But now I’m just so tired. If you gave me a kingdom I’d surely abdicate. See my fallen halo? I pick it up too late. We all have our temptations And mine has long black hair. I know that she’s no good for me I know I should beware. Of course, I shouldn’t meet her No, I should not fornicate. See my fallen halo? I pick it up too late. All the dice are loaded And I won’t play the game. All the lies exploded And now there’s just the flame. A candle in the darkness Helps me to contemplate. But see my fallen halo? I pick it up too late. Yes, all the things I conquer They come back like fate. I know I should resist this But still I hesitate. And in my weed-choked garden No good seed will germinate. See my fallen halo? I picked it up too late.
Howie Good
Re: Vision “I’ll lick stamps,” I told the gargoyle from HR during the job interview. “I’ll lick whatever you want.” He shook his big, ugly head no. And as quick as that, I found myself back on the street. It had just started to rain when Jesus appeared. My first thought was that he looked nothing like his picture. & Horror is everywhere. If you go searching for some way to escape, you’ll just end up in a 24-hour McDonald’s beside a woman with fangs and a mustache. I’m not there even when I am, head crooked to the right, as if listening to the Carter Family sing “Wildwood Flower” via my metal fillings. & You who believe the most astounding lies, who wipe your behind and then sniff your fingers, the moon could look to you some nights like a shiny gold button dangling on a loose thread, but it never does.
Stephen Jarrell Williams
Outskirts Always thinking ahead outskirts of a typical city of now many with crimson tattoos sown into wrinkled foreheads loosening my belt finishing my potato chips and Pepsi chaser heading back to the new wilderness after voicing my opinions to those that will listen stirring a gathering crowd sticks and stones against my thick scars but something about me holds them still perhaps tired of killing others I shrug squint hearing angels in my head my fists filled with heaviness many wondering how the world came to this several miles out I’m thinking I’m free but someone sent the hounds after me I crawl into my cave temporary home possibly my final tomb but I believe I’m safe plenty of dog biscuits in my backpack always thinking ahead for a few more minutes to live.
John Tustin
FUNERALS, LOVE AFFAIRS, DEATH I’ve written more poems about funerals than I’ve attended funerals I’ve written more poems about love affairs than I’ve had love affairs I’ve written more poems about death than I’ve ever died
Randall K. Rogers
Don’t Know If I Hit That Bugger (A Christmas Poem) In solitude realization dawns higher than suggested great works consider your meditative mind playground for seasonal joy. Merry Holidays Happy Christmas Have a bang-beat, great-go, big-haul, rip-roaring, neck-or nothing, every time a bulls-eye, bell-ringin beatnik Christmas! And mighty Hanukkah! groovy Kwanza! chillin’ Ramadan! the blackest of Satan fests! Jains celebrate non-violence to microbes Noel!
Ken Rutkowski
Sunday T. Saheed
Mothers & Tales here, we are snowballs that drop. sometimes, we check up our cheeks to see if there are more stones to throw. —childhood fleets too, we dare know. mother has confessed of different stories when she sat us under an Udala tree, where our ancestry dangles their hatchet in case someone tries to ransack their remains. Don’t twitch your gazes, moimi told me the tale & our mothers do not lie, their lips only get reddened by the lard of a palm-kernel when they speak random truths. So say, you — I dare say, I loathe halloween. Mother once told me there’s a grim reaper that escapes from its demimonde every season to rip out the guts of the children who shrug to their mama’s words. So, I bandage myself into a wrapper of mom’s every night & lingo plummets on my tongue till all I say is I love you, mama. Life is not a trinket of rebirth, or the ashes of a phoenix. Tomorrow, I might ask God to make my mind the pigment of my retina. & bath me in the red sea —till all I drip is blue hue. but that’ll be a poem for another day.
Ross Vassilev
Bodhi Tree Your parents will try to close yr mind. The kids at school will try to close yr mind. Most of the teachers, too. The tv WILL close yr mind. But you gotta fight back Write poetry Watch ballet Learn how to play guitar Till you see all the blue-eyed blondes And all the green-eyed redheads Riding all the rainbow unicorns All 27 of them On the silver mountain with golden apples.
Tony Dawson
Those Were the Days A student at Leeds University, at the end of the 50s, I found a holiday job at a local factory, making jam. The first fellow worker I met was Kevin, operating the snuffing machine, topping and tailing gooseberries. I was sure Kevin could snuff a lot more than fruit. He had a wrestler’s build, with trapezius muscles that sloped like the sides of a mountain to bulging deltoids. He told me he was a recidivist whose last sentence was five years in the choky for killing a gay man who made a pass at him, then illegal. “Only five years! Astonishing! I don’t believe it! How come?” “Because” he said, “I used the Portsmouth Defence.” I wasn’t versed in legal matters; he enlightened me. It was also known as the “Guardsman’s Defence” as well as the “Gay Panic Defence”. It appealed to the prejudiced jurors of the day. If accepted in court, the perp could be treated more leniently and escape the noose. He grinned at me and winked. A shiver ran down my spine as I hastily assured him that I had a fiancée and showed him a photo of her.
The Beatnik Cowboy 