Dain Sundstedt and the Rockford Poetry Renaissance

Dain Sundstedt is one of the promising younger writers, well younger to me, that are indicative of the cultural Renaissance going on in Rockford.

Sinnissippi

If you look close you can catch a Sinnissipeek

Of a turkey in a tree

Down by the creek

Bands come here to play when it’s warm

But not now when it’s this cold

Sitting in the woods, far below the fold

I listen, write, listen, write

Mother nature speaks if you wait, I am told

Louder than Netflix, all 50 inches

And you can learn a lot more from the finches

This place

This, Place

It’s all outdoors

Always to please and never to bore

Close your eyes, breathe, and be

Sinnissippi

Dust

Can you tell?

There’s dust on the shelves

Dust on the floor

Dust on the door

Dust on the books

Dust in the nooks

Just about everywhere you look

Grown, multiplied, clumped, and smeared

I didn’t ask for it, but it’s here

An indica strain of my laziness

Or time spent doing adventurous things

If I don’t clean it up

my life might do the same

Because a pile of shit grows and grows

if you let it sit for a little bit

My bed doesn’t have any dust on it

Nor does the toilet seat…

I guess that’s a start

I’ll do the rest in the morning

Burnt Toast

No matter which way you slice it,

bread still tastes like bread, and burnt toast still tastes burnt.

You either choose to eat the black, charred, crumbled ash,

or reach for a new slice

This time though, turn the toaster down

Learn from the char

Because we know what happens if you keep the same settings

The taste is too bad to relive

Plus, I hear the grocery down the street has the best new artisan bread in town

So venture out, try it, slather some butter or spread,

whatever your jam

Just be yourself, the toaster will pop when it’s ready

Three Poems By Suzanne Sykora

Suzanne Sykora has been an attorney in New York City, but now teaches English in Germany. She sent these poems in from planet Earth.

lone voyager
 

by Anna Sykora

journey-gaunt
he lay in his bay
rolled up in dense fatigue
gazing out at the
birth of nebulae
the jewel cloak of night

soft faces flitted
behind his eyes
like ghostly birds
from summer gone
700 years

the june of joy
his honeymoon journey
butterfly bright
and just as brief

on a planet long
abandoned
whose name now he
cannot recall

better alone he thinks
the last of them
the only one
the joints of his metal
mouth twitch

we used to call that a smile

he mutters
wiping the odd drop
of moisture
from his blinkless eye

detour

by Anna Sykora

poot humans more
self-important than wise
history the record
of our lies

what if reality’s
just a mistake
about to be
corrected

what if our busy
history's just
a detour from
the truth

Last transmission from

the Andromeda

by Anna Sykora

in moments the Andromeda

will cross the boundary where words

no longer heard on Earth…

while we…  to build our colony…  

but this our crew 1000 strong…

is confident… obey…

Outsider Poetry and Flash Fiction By A.R. Bender

A.R. Bender is a peripatetic writer living in Tacoma, Washington USA. He has held a variety of jobs over the years, and has travelled and lived in different parts of the USA, as well as in Europe, Asia, and South America. He is starting to peddle his short stories and flash fiction pieces, and is seeking representation for my completed historical novel. He likes living in the city, but also enjoys spending time in places off the grid.

                                                                        Tattoo

My lover’s new tattoo:

stunning

beautiful

exotic

hot

and yet

not nearly as exquisite

as the canvas

it is painted on

Grounded

After being with you

I feel so

grounded

not unlike a nail or stake

that has been

pounded

down

into a hard and deep submission

into

the dark rich

earth

Cybermuse

O Cybermuse!

Your ghostly image shimmers

like the Lady of the Lake

inside my screen,

thus reawakening

those buried and near forgotten desires

to worship and to serve,

even though

I’m far more deeply drawn

to the darker harsher

Queen Mab types.

Perhaps

there are elements

of both

in You.

Oona: A Love Story

Arlo was strolling down Pike Street one morning when saw a woman sitting in front of a sex shop madly trying to light a cigarette.  She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, slim, with azure blue hair and milky white skin adorned with tats and piercings.  She also looked vaguely familiar to him so he offered her a light and they chatted it up a bit.  

“I think I saw you at the Poetry Slam last week,” she said.

“Oh yeah, that’s where I saw you.  My name’s Arlo, by the way.”

“Hi, I’m Oona.  But listen, don’t get your hopes up.  I’m not into men.”

“That’s okay.  Neither am I.”

She laughed and they talked a little more until she stubbed out her cigarette.  “Gotta go to work now.”

“Where’s that?”

“Right here,” she said, pointing back with her thumb to the sex shop behind her.  “Ever been inside?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“If you have time I’ll give you a tour,” she said, with a fixed half-smile.  “And if you want to buy me some things, I’ll get a nice commission too.”

Arlo felt himself getting lost in her emerald green eyes.  “Let’s check it out.”

Later that week they met for coffee.  She told him that she just moved to Seattle, used to work as a dominatrix, and that her wife, Didi, was a tranny.  She also revealed that she once lived in a coven and considered herself a witch.

“So, does that mean you’ve put a spell on me or something?”

She then went into a long explanation about casting spells and how it’s not that easy and how it can’t be done to just anyone but only to a receptive mind that a witch can intuitively detect etc.

“That’s all very interesting,” he said, “but you didn’t answer my question.”

“I believe that I did.”  

Afterwards, he took her shopping for jewelry and clothes.

They met a few more times that month, each time followed by a shopping spree.  Arlo could see what was happening but it almost didn’t matter because he just wanted to be in her presence, at whatever cost.  He liked to buy her needful, shiny things.  She liked to receive those needful, shiny things.  

As the months went by, Arlo fell more into the role of servant to both Oona and Didi: running errands, delivering takeout food, chauffeuring, and helping them furnish the apartment they shared with another tranny.  He truly enjoyed this role.

After almost a year of this, the three of them met in a restaurant and Oona told him that she unexpectedly inherited some property on the East Coast and would be moving back there within the week.

After she left, Arlo fell into a spell of gloom and depression.  The world seemed dull and meaningless to him without her.  Eventually he figured out a way to sooth the pain and kick-start his life back up again; he would immortalize her in print.   

A Good Day

Bert weaved his way through the downtown Seattle traffic as fast as he could since he overslept and was going to be late for the Germany-Sweden World Cup game.  The World Cup tournament had been a passion for him ever since he first saw the games on TV as a youth in the 1970’s.

When he arrived at the Feierabend pub, the game had already started.  He couldn’t find any of his workmates there, but ein freundlicher Mann named Klaus invited him to his table when he noticed Bert’s Bayern Munchen t-shirt.  Right away, Bert meshed with everyone there as they watched the game while consuming massive quantities of bier mit brats und brot.  Germany did their part by beating the Swedes in another display of beautiful attacking fussball, so all was joyous in the Feierabend.  Bert said auf wiedersehen to his new friends, promising to meet them when Germany played again.  

When he got back home, he tried to do some writing on his much-neglected book, but could barely get through one page.  His mind was elsewhere and he found himself gazing out the window.  The clouds had lifted and it was a warm and sunny June day.  He grabbed a book at random from his shelf and browsed through it a moment; it was a collection of poems from a writer he had almost forgotten about.  He went outside and read the poems, transfixed, while basking in the sun.  He laughed and cried as he did so and was totally blown away by all those raw and open verses.  He felt a growing connection to the poet as he read on.

After an hour, he went back inside and was so inspired by what he read that he wrote another page on his book.  Later, he rustled up some dinner and then went back outside to read more of that kick-ass poetry, pausing to watch the setting sun through the filtered light of backyard trees.  

Feeling restless, he took a short walk from his place to Broadway and bumped into some friends from his writers group who were headed to the Comet Tavern on the Pike-Pine corridor.  On the way there, they all cheered for the riders in the Dykes-On-Bikes parade, part of the Pride Week activities that were going on in the city.

In the Comet, they bought each other rounds of drinks and read aloud some of their bad haikus and much worse poetry, while basking in the raucous, manic energy of all that was queer and bent and dangerous.

Bert stumbled home a little drunk and collapsed on the couch.  It had been a good day: he made a few new friends, reconnected with some old ones, wrote just enough to keep his harsh muse at bay, took part in some amazing celebrations, and watched his German fussball team advance to the round of eight.

However, the best thing by far that happened to him on this day was rediscovering Bukowski.

Final Sequence of Poems From The Blood Dark Sea

In my attempt to serialize the poems of The Blood Dark Sea, I have placed batches of poems in the sequence they appear in the book at Outsider Poetry, not quite blank, The Journal of Outsider Poetry, Olivia Sucks, and my personal blog, Zombie Logic. After a couple of weeks of this process I have come nearly to the end of The Blood Dark Sea and want to post some poems by Dennis Gulling here at the flagship of Zombie Logic Press. 

 WHITMORE COUNTY 3 A.M.

My headlights

Push back the darkness

As I’m driving home to you

My hands are clammy on the wheel

Wondering how much you know

About why I’ve been gone

Did somebody tell you

How I got this car

Or what happened at the racetrack

With that woman from Indonesia

I cross the river bridge

Just north of town

Close my eyes

And see you sleeping

Your hair falls across

That angel face and

Your hands are restless

On the covers as you dream

No matter what I do

Or how long I stay away

We’ll be together forever

At least sometimes

T-SHIRT

He was going through

Dumpsters for cans

In the alley behind

Bailey’s Liquir

When he found a bloody t-shirt

With knife slits

Down the front

He took it home

And nailed it

To the wall

Above his bed

Like a crucifix

For 3 nights straight

He dreamed a wolf

Lead him through

Dark empty streets

To the river

Where the water ran red

In the moonlight

WISDOM

All she has left of him

Is a wisdom tooth

Wrapped in cotton

In a red velvet box

She keeps under the bed

In her dreams

He sings to her

From deep in her bones

A siren song she wants to follow

But can’t seem

To find the way

Then she’s awake again

In a bed too big

In a house too cold

And his leaving

Is just something else

That happened in her life

THE BLOOD DARK SEA

I will leave paradise

Scratched and stained

As a map so

You might find me

Before my boat is torn apart

On the blood dark sea

And I will live forever

In that moment

When I know

There’s no turning back to harbor

My downhearted lover

My savage renegade

You were damaged

By my kindness and

Made whole by my departure

It was all I could give you

That wouldn’t cost me

All I had

There’s no way home from here

No redemption now

The light is fading fast

Night is all around me

And now your memory

Pulls me under

To a place cold and deep

Where all dreams end

With a wolf at the door

Where every darkness has its ghost

SOME CRUEL HEAVEN

I’m on a burning ship

In the middle of the ocean

Dying from a gunshot wound

The wind is howling

A storm is coming on

And I don’t know

If you’ll ever read this letter

But I had to tell you

I never meant to let you down

Or leave the way I did

And you can keep

All that money you owe me

Use it to buy yourself

Something nice

And if you ever think of me again

Let it be for those

One or two things I did right

That didn’t make you cry

I want you to know

I didn’t have to come this far

To disappear

I’ve been doing it all my life

Even when

I was standing in front of you

It’s the one thing I didn’t have to learn

It’s hard-wired in my blood

I was always more gone than not

Now I’m getting cold

Under these sheets

The night sounds far away

And I know where this ship is taking me

I’ll be alive forever

In some cruel heaven

You’ll be with me then

And those are the poems from The Blood Dark Sea, a book of Outlaw Poetry by Rockford poet Dennis Gulling. Saturday night I had the pleasure of being Dennis Gulling in a way. A couple of hours before a reading he was scheduled to appear at I got a text that he was ill and the host asked if I could do a set. I said I would if I could pretend to be Dennis Gulling and read his poems. Well, I didn't say I would pretend to be Dennis Gulling, I just asked if it would be alright if I read from his book. I was given permission, and I had a good time reading some of my favorite poems from the book. I have seen Dennis read these poems, and they are so well constructed the audience almost invariably reacts at exactly the moment you would hope they would. 

Anyway, June 11th will be Dennis Gulling's chance for real to read from his book for the first time to an audience. We have scheduled a book release party for The Blood Dark Sea at J.R. Kortman Center for Design in Rockford, Illinois. All the writers from The Rock River Literary Series will be reading that night, including myself. I suppose I also have to host, but I can't even start stressing out about that yet. Here is the event page for The Blood Dark Sea Book Release Party on Facebook, and you can like ZLP while you're there. I've put quite a cramp in my back bending over this contraption, and I think I'll finish my tea and go to bed.