Saturday, November 4, 2017

Poetry By Tim Meyer


This guy Meyer is unknown but rumored by some to be among the top thirty poets over fifty who owns his own car in Paoli Indiana.  Living with his Orthodox-X artist editor wife he has been published in Blue Collar Review Spring 17, Que Huong, Nobodaddies, Indiana Writes, etc.  He works in the rough trades.


I have a Jesus

He has tetracycline saddle bags
and a spring powered blade.
His mercy is campy, irrational.
I have a Jesus who talks to me
only when I am taking a dump
or climaxing shouting Mao's name.
He parts his waters to the left.


My father's Jesus had a five
tailed whip with barbs.
He didn't recognize his
and stuck to the one in the field
with the lamb, beast and children,
but the Old Jesus was there
hiding in the history of my father's father.


Build a brush arbor by the side of the road,
mix up some Kool-aid to save
the sycophants, and it's a business.
This is where my Jesus comes in:
nailing flesh to shingles
with an automatic air gun,
flying about the tabernacle
like a huge grey bat,
strafing the believers with portions
of what they have not eaten of themselves.



 The Tunnel

The sun perspires through the moon
and by her lens we are capable
of standing before God's face.
The violins at their searing peak
or poets' words when striking bone
have this cold light.


Oh, you can offer up to the sun
but in that light all is seen
and suspect before the light
like gazing upon an occultists' brazier.
The sister has fewer commandments
and through these easier rites
the fools, peasants, and poets find
their solace and, yes, their soul.



 Breath Under a Coating

Pastoral setting but for the mother's arm
coiling most tightly about the child
she is about to lose.
Sam knows where he will be buried.
He seems sure of this arrangement;
spats, slacks, they will drain him
into a burnt seed.


The stem extends around the world
or dries up.  Bilge water limns
our descent on the inner hull;
speak, oh black ship.
Father lies naked and whimpering on the church
floor amid clucking.  Sam lies down to warm him.
The damned castanets never cease.
The grease that coats the barnacled altar
is unfathomable.



Cesium Studies of Meringue


From the thicket mouse bird hinted the story.
Now gales bring green foam to the doorstep;
quick, what container will hold a spark.


Fluff blows from the waves like fat.
Catkins scattered over a countryside
forget their purpose in the delirium.


Storm wedges open the barn to possibilities
other than soft inheritance or handy plunder.
Wax runs down the knuckles just to see.


Bone marrow under x-ray.  The problem looks pretty.
Patterns of chaos form fjords of a new world
though no fauna are found here.


The tale reforms with new characters
thickening to main artery proportions
and there you are in a little wet gown.



 Necklace

The small frog saw the cat too late,
the cat that loved to kill.
Soon he was a wet lump of gleam and sticks
slowly illuminated by the moon.
The police came by, nothing much changed.
A lady was missing some pearls.
Her cat went on through the grass
in its Godliness stepping quietly.
We heated some soup for breakfast.
Tomato was what we had.
Part of the window out,
close together, each helping the other
heat that can of soup.
There were no pearls in the can.



 Off Drugs

Dreams come again to whip me like a droning baby
barking sonnets from a walless blue crib.
Four big thumbnails so there were two
with three on the column and a wad in the back
from support hose or the hair treatments.


Let's deal, Polonius was a wanker, all right,
and you can smoke cough syrup but not in the rain.
The breathers line up at the pay phone
where my night number floats in neon
so I'll give flesh in trade for anonymity.


If the trash floats it is still trash,
the fabric of blind communion.
Baleful bite and sucker marks splay
across Mother's bingo card as she tells the story
of the spitted pup coming back to life.


We do worry.  We do pain.  We do drainage.
We do what we do with two pieces
of wax paper on a knotted string
and any social workers with a glance
at their underwear will understand and condone.


The brick leaves the hand but just drops
to the floor.  A stantion keeps us on top
of the dam, but since sleep with her greasy palms
has bred the worm Uberalles to infest our dream,
the birds don't know us any more.


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Saturday, September 30, 2017

Bittersweet Observations

Bittersweet Observations comes down Monday at Rockford Art Museum, and will be replaced by a show about biker culture. Jenny and I had a lot of fun helping install this exhibit, and working with the other wonderful Rockford artists like Jeremy Klonicki and Sarah McNamara. But as Tom Petty sings in the Wildflower's song, "It's time to move on..." And we have. In fact we've already put the finishing touches on our next project, a book titled Lonely Bird. It has a wooden cover. The book release party is at Luna Datura's Curious Gifts October 7th during Fall Art Scene. For jenny it will be only one of a half dozen shows she is exhibiting in, but for me it will hopefully be the conclusion of a busy season here at Zombie Logic Press. I'll still be editing Zombie Logic Review and Outsider Poetry, and working on the book after Lonely Bird, but Winter will hopefully not be as busy as the rest of the year.

Atrocious Poems A To Z At Rockford Art Museum

Maybe after Art Scene Jenny and I will have some time to do something like what we're pretending to do in this photograph, taken by ace photographer Ryan Davis. 

Saturday, September 16, 2017

Poetry By Jon Bennett Not John Bennett or John M. Bennett

Jon Bennett has appeared in Between Hangovers, Mad Swirl, and Your One Phone Call. He is NOT John Bennett or John M. Bennett. 

Train

I assume the model train enthusiast’s
life is in perpetual disarray,
kids on drugs,
alcoholic wife:
“Go play with your trollies!”
“Not trollies, Dear,
 lo-co-mo-tives...”
but down in the basement
driving the Norfolk Southern
he’s the conductor, by God!
For the same effect
I’ve used drugs, sex, food,
and drugs
mostly drugs
they haven’t worked
so I’ve taken out a note
on a Lionel layout
deluxe model
Finally the rails
will never end!
--


Humanitarian

And I looked at her kid
who was a little baby girl
and everything she did
was magic
But the mom was an activist,
and she said,
“If you really loved
my little baby girl
you’d give a shit
about Palestine!”
so I said,
“You don’t get it, see,
I love everyone,
I’m a humanitarian!”
and that’s when
I took
the first bite.
--


Retarded

A bit of news for my fellow
clock and watch repairmen,
the Association has decided
delay mechanisms will no longer
be referred to as
“retarded”
Instead, we’ll use the term
“wound back”
and, on a personal note,
whenever my brother
pisses me off
I’ll call him,
‘wound back’
 too!

Hawaiian Islands Pidgin Poems By Joe Balaz

Joe Balaz writes in Hawaiian Islands Pidgin (Hawai'i Creole English) and in American English. Some of his recent Pidgin writing has appeared in Unlikely Stories Mark V, Beautiful Losers, Otoliths, and Yellow Mama, among others.  Balaz is an avid supporter of Hawaiian Islands Pidgin writing in the expanding context of World Literature.  He presently lives in Cleveland, Ohio.


TELLING IT LIKE IT IS


Might as well dress up like wun deer
and run in front of wun mountain lion.

Same smell. Same station. Same result.”


Dose wuz da comments
addressed to da television

dat we wuz looking at
in da living room.


Ronald had moa to say too
while we watched da news

about da teenage girl
dat had her leg bit off

by wun shark in Australia.

He continued
wit wun deadpan expression,

“Dere watah.  Dere rules,”

as we wuz informed
how da young person

wen bleed to death
and die on da beach.


Blunt and unfeeling
is wat some people would say

but Ronald
wuz just telling it like it is.


Even his cruel joke
kinnah summed it up

on how he viewed
da whole situation—


“Sharks and me
have wun understanding.

I stay out of dere ocean.

Dey stay off of my lawn.”


Poet Joe Balaz




CHILLING OUT RIGHT NOW


Eric stay chilling out right now                                              
but last night he wuz off of da chain

cause he wen lose his temper
and false crack his competition at da bar.


Too much alcohol and testosterone
wuz racing through his veins

and screwing up his brain.


He couldn’t handle
dat da adah single guy

sitting on da adah side of da woman
dat he wuz trying to talk to

wuz making moa headway
in da pickup game den he wuz

so he wen figure
he go take care of dat real fast.


Commotion
following wun idiotic notion

is wat wen ensue.


Da adah guy had no idea
dat wun suckah punch wuz coming

wen Eric wen make his move.


Da uppercut blow

wen catch da victim
right undah da jaw

and he wen collapse
and bang his head on da floor.


He ended up in da hospital
wheah he’s still in wun coma

so dats why

Eric stay chilling out right now                                    
in wun jail cell.


Foa sure
he going face multiple assault charges

cause he wen swing and connect
wit some of da cops dat wen arrest him too.


Da whole situation
will certainly go down
as wun night on da town

dat Eric nevah going forget.


Everyone has da right
to be stupid once in awhile

but it looks like
Eric wen just abuse da privilege.




CHIP SHOT



Hello

I’m sending you dis email
to inform you

dat I’m working on some new plasticity

to devise moa ways
to stay ahead of da game.


It’s wun mattah of maintenance, dear,
and it’s absolutely necessary.


Your mood swings on da links
are driving me crazy

but dats understood
as being par foa da course

in dealing wit da opposite sex.


I have to say dough
dat I haven’t seen wun birdie in awhile

and bogeys are piling up everywheah.                              


I don’t even bother to dream
about dat elusive hole in one

cause lately

I’m not even stepping out
of da golf cart.


No wondah certain guys
seem to drink wun extra amount

while sitting dere like sponges
at da nineteenth hole.


Da pressure is getting to me
and I’m tinking about exploring new greens.

Maybe wun different layout
would do me some good.


So I’m going to cancel
da upcoming tee time

while I sort tings out.


Yours truly
and brightly forevah

wit rainbows
and wun cherry on top.


Sincerely,
Chip.



COOL HER SASSY JETS



She posted on Facebook one day

dat she wuz allowed to come and go
as she pleased in high school

and dat it really didn’t mattah
if she wuz dere or not

cause latah she received
her GED in one day.


Don’t know how true dat is

but her general attitude can explain
why she’s flipping burgers

and flipping you da bird
every time you disagree wit her.


She’s wun smart aleck hard head
acting like wun know-it-all

and she’s raising your blood pressure
to new heights.


Da good ting dough
is dat at least she’s working

and not sitting on wun couch
watching television all day

wit wun new baby
as wun meal ticket

foa get all kine free social aid.


As to weadah she going turn da cornah
dat remains to be seen.


She’s wun rebel
witout any meaningful claws

but still yet she like make
kitty kine cat fight.


Moa den once
her maddah wen lament

dat she shouddah been wun boy.


It would be really good
if somehow life
would kick her in da rear end

and make her wake up.


Den maybe wun lightbulb
going get turned on in her head

to make her cool her sassy jets.