April 2003 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
I am coming
the second coming this year
preceded by my friends’ same
worn routine:
“When will you come?
Today? This hour?
In a month, or two,
or…what?
We’ll have cold beer!
Maybe even a keg!
And will sit at your feet
listen to stories
of places you’ve been.”
I wish I could raise them
to their feet and shake each
calloused hand of those
that have remained to work
on the farms or in the plant.
Show them I am no better
because I’ve been at the
un-i-vers-ity, bein’ pointless
book l’arned while they’ve been
workin’ workin’ workin’
punchin’ the clock at 7 A.M.
shortly after I’ve fallen asleep.
I’ve no good stories to tell,
no knowledge to bestow
that they haven’t already
known for years.
Here are my hands
to prove it, the scars have healed.
Now they are just useless,
long spindly fingers, that could
and would snap in an instant.
Here are my sides
free of marks–bruised
& broken ribs, this is what
the years have given me,
what they have taken away.
And I can’t drink much,
anymore.
April 2003 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
If I were governed
by the Law
of Thermodynamics
then I was (1) never created
and never will
be destroyed
I can only be
(2) transferred from mind to mind
and will continue
in this way forever
I am a debilitating neurosis
the (3) entropy I generate
always increasing in
your closed system
April 2003 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
with two toes I test
the temperature
of the linoleum
like a rookie member
of the Polar Bear Club
wondering if I plunge
right into the day
that the floor is as cold
as it looks from the cocoon
I’ve made with my bedspread
that the tiny icicles
forming on the AC ducts
are really part
of my imagination
then I’m forced
to look at Vonnegut’s
Cat’s Cradle lying
at my head board
and laugh so hard
that I’m crying
I jump out of bed
throw open the curtains
outside it’s bright
with just a touch of gray
April 2003 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
[i]for Modern Poetry Fa02[/i]
“Can you imagine
if T.S. Eliot were
to enter the room, right now.”
Beckoning the call,
almost unnoticed, insignificant
dusty silent wings fluttering
in the mid-afternoon,
the karmic incarnate
sailed into the classroom.
We were unmoved
to the unannounced visitor
to the discussion, somehow
always retrospective to certain
expatriate literary geniuses.
How for fifty years (maybe more)
the accomplished poetic deities
lorded over form and words,
commanding
make it new!
let no words not add!
Forgotten now are radio speeches,
recantations, fascist salutes–
men now only in what is left
on signed printed pages.
Cinematographers love
a hero, but the literary world
will always worship a villain.
And now in this place,
if the insect would metamorphose
into human form, who among
the struggling minds striving
to add to a generation would not rise
and proffer a hand
as if to a long gone friend.
Instead, we sit intense–
eyes glazing–bored–
asleep–dreaming of the ability
to say anything worthwhile…
The gray unidentifiable moth
slips through the chalk-scented air
(the rustic classroom befitting
of an appearance)
and does not land,
wary of being crushed
by a student wanting to destroy
history under an ignorant hand.
I wonder if some of us
are dreaming of being human
when we are really moths
set to disrupt the harmonic-
balance of the class.
March 2003 | back-issues, Janet Buck, poetry
The DOW spikes up, banking on
a dwarfish draft of Armageddon gloom.
Our president will speak at five.
No casualty is casual.
It’s hard to match a suit and tie
to splatter of the coming blood.
Ahmed, a driver in Iraq, says:
“This is a miserable life.
We spent it shopping for war
or hiding from bombs.”
He recites his summary
as if his time is finished as a boiled egg.
All eyes red from pressing
night’s extended weight.
Justice spelled so many ways our alphabets
no longer know their proper forms.
Iraqis seal their windows shut as if a roll
of tape will come between the fragile glass
and force of missiles jetting
through the tainted sky.
Stirring the hostile soup.
It seems the only spoon we own,
yet who can watch the broth of freedom
dwindle to a water drop.
Have you ever sat on a fence,
answerless and trembling,
wishing posts were firm mirage?
I swing like heavy pendulums
between the prayer to end this horror
and nightmares of approaching graves.
The writer with no salving words,
no sonnets in a pocketbook.
No talons on the olive branch,
no wings of doves, no angels near
as embassies evacuate, as guns replace
the meetings of our shattered hearts
now beetles under heavy boots.
Philanthropy or wet revenge —
I can’t decide and so I kneel
as quicksand travels to my chin.
*First Published in Ariga
February 2003 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
not shadow but
reflection
february rain from
tanguy’s sky until the streets
are all dull grey mirrors
if i keep my distance
i could be anyone
if i get in my car and drive
i could call it escape
could call it running away
which is sometimes an act of
cowardice and sometimes
an act of survival
and i sit in this room of
empty chairs instead
with my thoughts
and my bitter resentments
i believe in gorky at the age of 43
in rothko at the age of 66
but not in my father
not at any age and not in any
of the bars i spent my childhood in
i remember the threats
and all of the dire predictions
i remember fifteen years
spent perfecting the
art of silence
what a sad fucking
victory it’s become
