August 2001 | back-issues, poetry
[b]Fighting[/b]
we square off
just outside the bar
this all started when
he looked me dead in
the eyes and said:
“what the fuck are you
looking at, motherfucker?”
he outweighs me by fifty pounds
and stands six inches taller
I’m hopping up and down in place
and he’s still trying to get
his jacket off, while his
old lady is screaming at him
to kick my ass.
he is watching the swelling crowd
taking in all their bullshit
and believing it, when
he should be watching
me
I’m jumping out of my
skin
seeing everything
so clearly that the edges
of my vision
threaten to grate
against each other
and crack into a million
pieces.
“fuck it” i think
and for a second, i swear to god that
i love this half drunk red-neck and
his half tore up old lady.
i throw up a half dozen
ghost punches
1 2 3
1 2 3
light as air
a secret heart of
violence
lies at the center
of all men.
his arms struggle free
of his jacket
and i watch it flutter to
the ground
for a second it becomes
a pure wave
in the strong wind.
when it hits the ground
i am moving in.
light on my feet.
ready for pain.
my fists feel
like lightning.
howitzers.
[b]Cricket Music[/b]
stoned on a
hill top in
oklahoma
when suddenly
the band struck up
a cacophony
a blitzkrieg
an orchestra
ten million crickets
banging away like
crazy
on ten million little
gongs
cymbals
and tambourines
angry little jazz
crickets
we were
a little bit
amazed.
[b]Country music[/b]
steel guitars
and banjos
and clanging
honky-tonk
piano
the sweet
harmonies
that sound like
you’ve heard them
all your life,
and you have,
you can still remember
your mother doing
a little two step
across the kitchen
floor one day
while you were
still hanging
low in her
belly.
just think back far enough.
if you’ve ever smoked
a joint and
listened to willie nelson
hum magic
or jerry jeff
tell us how he got it all wrong
again
or hank snow
mourn for frauline…
well, then you feel it.
cause in the end
they tell us that he
is from the south
and that she finally
left him,
and that he is drunk again,
and that his heart is
sick
and will never heal
and that even this
is beautiful.
by Joel Abel
([email]cricketbomb [at] yahoo [dot] com[/email])
August 2001 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
I don’t remember how I felt
holding your naked body
against mine, our lips pressed
together, then silent mouthing
words lost in that moment.
We stayed there not speaking
our pulses slowing, regulated
by the silence, and it’s a shame
silence had to come then
when I had a head full of ideas.
It was just easier to lay there
solemn as a London guard
at post before change.
August 2001 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
Looking down
into the clear blue
depths of your eyes
beneath my outstretched arms
toes gripping the edge hard
trying not to lose balance
in the wind
blowing my hair back
like I’m James Dean
and you’re frozen in place
the last second
before a movie kiss
your eyes solid
clear
clear blue
if I fall, will you catch me?
August 2001 | back-issues, poetry
[b]The Library[/b]
A whispered hush blankets the musty room.
Pen and paper merge to pick up any
hitch hiking thoughts.
Pages rip, in disgusted fury, exposing their naked predecessors.
The silence breaks by whispered halls.
Eyes flutter, re-crust over in sleep.
Shuffled footsteps and muffled voices drift by
while half yellowing books stagger their dormant lives.
Their tattered spines hunched over on shelves like gossiping wenches sunning
their frail bodies in the fluorescent light.
My gaze, focused, upon the hundreds of thoughts steaming from bent heads.
Silent, unspoken.
Dancing around the mind like forbidden taboo.
The books hold on cover for my spying eyes,
craving the knowledge of free thought clouding up the musty room.
Curious as a boy, finding his first porn.
Glancing for only a second or so
And jealous of these dying books
staring into the face of any wondering soul.
For hours upon hours
Page after page — thoughts absorbing thoughts.
by Alicia Ranney
([email]boxdchick [at] aol [dot] com[/email])
August 2001 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
if words were bullets
my poetry would be a gun
pointed at the head of change
we all want
we all want
we all want
to
rid ourselves of red lights
dead dog days walking
down unairconditioned streets
of degradation
& explanations
& contradictions
& salutations
we all want
we all want
we all want
to
condition for the moment
and ready ourselves
for the changes
when we’re never ready
set
GO!
August 2001 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
how do I find ways to get lower
going
down
down
down
on the daisy chain game
of chutes and ladders
my number should be up
in the air among the clouds
yeah, way up where
god plays golf on the weekends
and when I get there
I’m sure he’ll let me play through
