August 2001 | back-issues, poetry
[b]Over and done with[/b]
blaze of fire
splash of water
fired bullet
over
husband and wife
a love forever
a daughter beloved
over
an old girlfriend
a mad coworker
a raving lunatic over
over
blaze of fire
splash of water
fired bullet
over
burn out
dry up
jam
over
blaze your fire
splash some water
pull the trigger
dead
[b]Tired[/b]
I’m tired of waking up
to the same old sun,
beautiful as it may be
I’m tired of going
to the same job,
no matter how much
money I’m making
Tired of the same
house, the same
neighbors and locals
Sweetie, I’m even
tired of you
Bang! Dead
[b]All Baptized With Sin[/b]
he watched the
blood drip slowly
slowly down the wall
stunned he walked quicker
quicker down the hall
the old dead man said
said hey y’all
he watched the young
young killer fall
the bullet pierced
pierced his flesh the
young one breathed
breathed his last the
old one he stood
stood tall said I love
you son watched
watched as you fall
down the dark pit
pit you call life
saw your blood run
run cold
you became violent
[b]I Once Had A Dream[/b]
I once had a dream of a beautiful place,
A place deep underground.
And in this beautiful, beautiful place,
Rows of graves can be found.
I walk down the tunnel which leads to the graves,
And tears roll down my face.
I stop on a grave, a fresh dug grave,
Then sit on the dirt and cry.
I wonder whose grave I’m crying at,
And open my eyes to see.
I let out a gasp and then a cry,
As I realize the grave is for me.
(c) 2001 Joy Daussin
([email]jdauss1 [at] msn [dot] com[/email])
August 2001 | back-issues, poetry
[b]glass[/b]
cinderella
a glass
house
i imagined
a million
different things
i imagined that
boredom was
a force
driving me in
all the wrong
directions
and that
moments were
special
fairy tales
felix the cat
i imagined that
moments
could be
magic
and that magic
invited
an indelibility
of time
and reason
and action
and i imagined
that we were
magic
and we
were
the chesire cat
and doomed
prometheus
magic
you disappeared
i close my eyes
and you
appear
[b]i once threw a pepsi[/b]
i once threw a pepsi
bottle through a trailer house
window…
and then, a few months later,
passed myself off
in a room full of phonies
as someone sensitive
and full of culture.
it wasnt even a bad breakup,
i mean, shit, ive lost it over
break ups.
stalked ex’s
threatened new boyfriends
slashed a tire
or two,
but this time,
with this girl,
i was just happy to get out.
to wash the taste of oklahoma
out of my mouth.
back in dallas they were all too
happy to hear about my adventures
in the bible belt
not knowing that i had grown up there
in one of those same trailers
we had such a good time
making fun of.
i mean shit, it was cool to like willie nelson,
but what if they discovered my
ernest tubb collection?
i once threw a pepsi bottle
through a trailer house window
and then crashed a car into a tree
and then rode a bus all the
way back to dallas
to be with phony friends who
were mostly from small
towns like me, but could
never admit it.
once i was drinking a pepsi
as i tried to pack my shit into
a car i was soon to wreck into
the side of a cotton wood tree,
when this girl,
whom i had always thought of
as boring and safe
and unimaginative
opened the window of her trailer
just enough to yell out:
you’re a goddamn phony
and you rape art in the name
of hedonism!
the truth hurts.
but not as much as a pepsi
bottle speeding toward your
face in a high velocity
in a perfect
tight spiral.
i missed her face by an inch,
and instantly i was glad i did.
the truth is a dangerous thing.
wars have been fought over
the merest scrap of truth.
revolutions waged.
nations have crumbled because of it.
and she has probably replaced
the window by now.
[b]the longest bus ride[/b]
it was the longest bus ride
in the history of long bus rides.
a trip that would have
taken 4 hours
in my own car
stretched into 14 as we
stopped in every little
town, picked up
everyone running from
their own life between
talihina oklahoma
and dallas texas.
why dont you ever write
poems about me?
she asked, as she lay
on the couch, leafing
thru my spirals.
the trees were black
shapes passing by the
window. the occasional
lights scattered thru
the hills seemed like
nothing more than outposts
for loneliness. a drunk
in the last row yelled
out “laura”
and then fell back into
unconsciousness.
i am waiting for you
to leave me.
i said.
the bus rolled thru
perfect highways, its
bright lights leading
us all on into something
we had already failed
at a thousand times. in
a thousand perfect ways.
for a second she seemed stunned.
and i knew that i should
try to pass it off as
a joke. or say im sorry.
or i couldnt stand
any of this without you.
i wrote “how the
fuck does this happen”
on a slip of paper
and pushed out the
top of the bus
window.
in an instant
it was swallowed
whole by darkness.
� 2001 Joel Abel
([email]cricketbomb [at] yahoo [dot] com[/email])
July 2001 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
what you want is
nothing less
than everything
this is not uncommon
the history books are
filled with murdered tyrants
the ground with forgotten
suicides
i sit at this desk
too often
obsessing over unpaid bills
i lose sleep
i yell at the baby
i watch my right hand
chop off the left
there is the day job
and the night job
and my pocket full of change
for the pay phone
i am the voice my wife
hates to hear through
fifteen miles of wire
the man my friends
speak badly of
i have no use for poets
for poetry
or for the bones dug up by
beaten dogs
anger is a fuel
and self-pity a drug
but this you already knew
if there is money
to be made in selling
your fear
i will do it
nothing is so dirty it
can never be spent
July 2001 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
this is
further west
away from the drowning girl’s
blackened bones
away from my son’s
beautiful smile
a motel room in
a pointless town
afternoon sunlight through
half-open drapes
and a partial view of
the interstate
in the bathroom a young mother
twenty-two or -three
naked in the tub and with
her wrists cut
wide open
the postcards in
the nightstand drawer left
blank
the bible stolen or
possibly
never there at all
every poem a man might
ever hope to write
hung unspoken and
just out of reach in
the shimmering
air
July 2001 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
we are safe in
this cheap motel room
we are
approaching drunk
and we are mostly silent
mostly in love
i am still
in the early stages of being
a failed writer
your sister’s miscarriage
is still
four years away
with any luck
we will find other ways
to measure these weightless
spans of time
July 2001 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
pick a day
where none of the wars
involve you
describe the sky
and the taste of the wind
do the hills spin slowly around
this piece of land you
call home?
are you in love?
there is a point
where these questions intersect
a place where your shadow is
as tall
as the man you actually are
and somewhere in the back of your mind
is a list of all the runaway girls
you knew in the summer
of butchered nuns
a list of all the reasons they gave
and now it’s ten years later
and still
no one has stopped running
it happens
anger is only another needle
waiting to be worshipped
the patron saint
of raped cheerleaders
is a myth
and these are not new rumors
and no one’s pain
is unique
no one’s future
is written
and still
it’s not that hard to guess
how badly the stories
of the disappeared
will end
