Jeff Bagato is a writer, musician and street artist living near Washington, DC. Some of his poetry has appeared in Exquisite Corpse, Chiron Review, Shattered Wig Review, and local journals. He has published three books of poetry, And the Trillions, Spells of Coming Day, and Latest Headlines, and several novels, including The Toothpick Fairy and Computing Angels. He has recently started blogging about his writing and publishing at http://jeffbagato.wordpress.com.
Five poems by Jeff Bagato
Wardrobe Malfunction on a Foggy Bottom Stage
something ripped—
keep walking don’t
look down
threads unravel as
you rush to make
it home,
the gap
widens—
the gap widens
wider—
& on the video monitor
it looks like
you’re scratching
yourself or relieving
a wedgie, shoe untied,
fly unzipped,
shirt buttons break—
am I getting
bigger or
have these clothes
aged decades to frail
thinness in the
course of my commute?
the air attacks—
the heart attacks—
chart stabbers—
a noose appearing
from the sky—
shoe upper
separates from
sole
& now squelches with
every step;
bottom falls out
of paper cup &
the coffee burns
a hole in the sidewalk,
running into the tunnel
running into the tunnel
& the light
of the
train
Covenant of the Golden Idol
and when all
the world
shall bear my children
& all hearts
embrace my image
& all the wheels
roll by my direction
going my way,
journeying by my hand,
the wallets carry my currency,
the clocks keep
my time,
the hours I determine,
& the days,
& the days spent
in my adoration
& the days
spent in
my workhouses;
so too shall radio voice
opinions from
my lips,
& television caress
my image
in rainbow hundreds,
in hi-def resolution,
in sensurround,
& in the 8 billion pixels
dancing to my tune;
also will the hive
radiate in accordance
with my law,
& the cigarettes
& pop shall be
poisoned by my
tinctures & my salves
present your
coupons at the gate,
hand stamped
& bar code scanned,
debit card swiped
& charged &
data referenced,
& lo, thou shalt receive
my communication,
my word:
sinking to your knees,
your mind
blank, mine
& mine
& mine
Customer Service
so long
as the operator stands
by, her vocoder
mysteries keep me
guessing,
waiting,
scribbling
& scrawling
on the wall &
the floor;
crawling for crumbs
& lost magnets,
I found a paper clip
& a plastic spoon
placing pencil at the ready
& chewing my nails,
I stick tape on
my laptop to hold my
data in place,
applications blending
as an operator cut’n’pastes
gooey porn to
my driver record,
jiggling hot and proud
but sadly not
my type
Justice in the City
justice in the city
can be
like jissom
at a sperm bank—
what you can’t afford
determines the quality
thereof,
& what
you can afford
carries all manner
of diseases with
the sparks
take a long walk
down Penn—
better hold tight to your eggs;
greedy inky eyes & fingers
can write
you into labor,
or snatch away the future
& the very
evolutionary march
toward a higher being
who with gray lips
trembling might sing, “blah blah
bedtime stories,
pip pip & ESP—
how could we
be descended
from these hairy clawing
rutting animals
humping on every doorknob
& rollerskating
every blood vessel, all
uterine fields
of leaping hope, blah blah
blacklisted & euthanized
& clothed so
ugly?”
then picks his teeth
& drops the
pick, sowing new
bacterial ligatures
of pooh bah
do re mi
Willow Oak Daydream (Acorn Porn)
Andy Jackson tips his hat
as the squirrels bow
thinking of acorns;
two ducks salute & curtsey
near an arching streamer
clear & cool;
there’s a willow oak
puckering up for a kiss
with many strange sphincters,
its arms spread wide
for the tree huggers
A girl in a tight pink
summerdress walks
a black whippet on a
matching pink lead,
& some old staph
lobbyist bends
at his beer belly
to scratch under
the doggy chin;
the tree extends a heavy
limb to pat her
pink fanny & slowly
lift the fabric off
her ass
Oh to plant
my acorns between
your sweet thighs
my dear
& raise mighty green
demons in a day
Our sons would
change the world
& the wood nymphs of our union
would play across the lawn
scattering thistle & thorn,
tossing acorns
the squirrels can catch
in their hats—
they will undo
the dams & course
the fountains into capillaries
of sweet earth blood
Bring forth your sisters,
coworkers & secretaries;
I will make them
also into mothers of a new world,
populated by leafy children
of color green,
with skeletons of wood,
skulls of wood,
& brains the size
of the sun
burning forever
& giving life to the trees
torching the benches
& the cars,
garbage cans of empty lunch;
circuit court & offices
cleared for the
upwells of our new
people
Zombie Logic Review is the online literary magazine of Zombie Logic Press, one of the Midwest's oldest independent literary presses. It is edited by Thomas L. Vaultonburg and contains poetry, webcomics, artwork, and short videos. Zombie Logic Review publishes dadaist, surrealist, Outsider, and Outlaw poetry.
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