Friday, September 25, 2015

Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Civil War

Be mean to the dead, but revere
the savage mothers who bled
their high-caul capped daughters.
Forget the peacekeeping
shopkeepers' sons who fled
the fields and slaughtered others
under the emblem of cowardice,
who kissed the coin-eyed captain
and sliced his traitorous brother.

If God is for us, He allows us to kill.

Blessed Confederacy, blessed
Union, feel free to blame the Most
High for your freedom. Red
stones, red bricks, and the red
sickening thickens my heart.
If the devil is for peace, I'll fill
my father's well with entrails.


Friday, September 18, 2015

Mi Hermosa en Cornelia's

Closed doors. Still the same
closed doors. Laney understands.
Projector screens complicate
things. If the Queen of England,
or the Queen of Rock n' Roll,
Freddie Mercury, said to you,
"You've made it." Would you
believe it?
                 I'm blinded by love,
but the Blind Boys of Alabama
can sing -- they can hear. I hear
you. You are a conduit. You, you,
you, I live for you. When I'm
senile, I'll have three questions:
(1) Where's my music? (2) Where's
my food? (3) Where's my cutes?

Baby, you are the wind above
my wings. That's how lift actually
happens.
               Leslie, sing your heart
out. I'm always here. I'm always
here. Remember,

I'm always here.

Photo courtesy of Craig Ruttle



West of the Mississippi?

I've been told I look Irish, Swedish,
Norwegian, Cherokee cheek-boned,
Texan, Okie-ish, American, Californian,
Russian-cloaked con pelo rizado y con
una madre negra. It's all true . . . kinda.
Notice there's no Astoria nor Mannahatta.


Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Two-line Poem #27 [Redux]

[Here's a clear, boring prose poem.]

Create metrical feet in a poetic line by counting
your footsteps in each meter you walk.


Two-line Poem #27

Feet to a meter equals
footsteps in a meter. 


Tuesday, September 15, 2015

19 September 2015 Poetry Workshop





Oklahoma to Astoria, One Poet's Path and Practice
09/19/2015
3:30 - 4:30PM



KYLE ERICKSON, former high-school English Teacher (Tulsa School of Arts and Sciences), is leading a workshop for poets of all ages. Every person has poetry in their hearts, regardless of whether or not they know it. Walk in, grab a pen, and have fun!

Kyle is a co-creator of the poetry series, Kick Assonance, which has been noted by the Poetry Foundation, The Academy of American Poets, hailed as a “Critics’ Pick” by Time Out New York Magazine, and called “a notable New York Event” by The Rumpus. His work can be read in This Land Press, Promethia, B’More Poetic, and on his blog, okieinthecity.com, which was heralded as a “Top 101 New York Blog.” His first book of poetry, Enduro’s Lament, was released in 2012.


Two-line Poem #26

There is a god,
he's called money. 


Friday, September 4, 2015

A Natural

For David G. 

Geniuses are specialists
who should likely let
go of what they know.
Learn to plow snow. 


Wednesday, September 2, 2015

Tuesday, September 1, 2015

Dear Dad,


In Greenbush, Minnesota,

you wrestled your mistakes
before moving down
to Dallas to minister.
Dad, did ya experience
sinister beings in the
bible-belt

buckle?

Mother's father called
you, Damn Yankee.
He also told me grey
was good in our Civil

War.

Mutti made a home
near her fair-skinned,
Paul. She kept her hands
working till the semi
took her life, scattered
her necklace—family
stones were

tossed.

Edwin, grandfather,
worked the postal
vehicle for years
without a single
accident, he died young.
He took pieces of us
with him, though
I never knew your

Dad.

Uncle Reginald is
bold. Your big brother,
athlete among
ferocious men,
still fights glorious
flint-faced

fellows.

Aunt Becca never
left us. She slept
on horses and married
a fireman. Only to live
forever in Texas, where,

Dad,

you met your Dawne
of Creation.

Daddy dearest, keep
this letter near. We
must never forget
our home, regardless
of the murky waters
around us.

We're all displaced
persons till we return
to the dirt we're from.