Saturday, May 18, 2019

Robert Lee Haycock shoots


G.R. Melvin writes & shoots


“Anyone who falls in love is searching for the missing pieces of themselves. So anyone who’s in love gets sad when they think of their lovers. It’s like stepping back inside a room you have fond memories of. One you haven’t seen in a long time…”

“.. A fond, old, faraway room?”


--from “Kafka On The Shore”, Hanuki Murakami


We mind that there mustn’t be dust
On those closed blinds.
Behind those blinds,
We find us.
We find ourselves salving
Our sore selves,
Saving us so
Fleetingly. So Pretend - Completely.
And after each chapter,
Which does us delirious,
It can be meant as some payment,
It can serve to defray cost
It can’t save us, when in a night and a day,
without fail, We will derail.
Alone, All memories lost

“I choose the rooms that I live in with care,
the windows are small and the walls almost bare,
there’s only one bed and there’s only one prayer;
I listen all night for your step on the stair”

--Leonard Cohen,RIP,/ from “Tonight Will be Fine”

June Calender writes

Sick of It

I wanted to write, I truly tried to write
about the tarnished orb of the harvest moon,
the jewel brilliance of burning bushes,
the fat squirrel with his bouncing balloon tail,
the flaring apricot sunrises and gold rimmed clouds,
but my body wanted to cough and cough,
gasp for breath and make my ribs ache;
my voice could only rasp,
and my nose snorted snot.
Then we changed the time again,
a senseless imposition everyone hates.

My thoughts were crackling static on our sick
world, especially the country I want to love
where I grew up in near poverty but no violence.
Now rich old men send ill-educated young men
to wars without a purpose and without an end;
where drug companies have co-opted doctors
to addict people, even unborn babies, to pills
only the dying in their final throes could not abuse;
where men with and without power grab and grope
and otherwise see women as boobs and cunts;
where men whose grandfathers killed most of the bison
eat “buffalo wings” and collect unneeded guns;
where police always shoot to kill, even the unarmed;
where bullying Big Shots threaten nuclear annihilation
and our abundance of home-grown sickos stalk
churches to massacre men, women and children.

These thoughts will not leave my fevered brain;
I don’t get sick often and I don’t have enough tissues.
I need more tea and lemon and honey. I don’t eat
buffalo wings and, hell, I don’t even have a TV
but “the world is too much with me”. It makes me sick
enough to go transgender: I’ve just got to paw the ground
and snort, toss my long horns, gore the cowboy
and write a rant.
Buffalo Cosmos -- Kelly Moore

Steven Fortune writes


Cataclysm of recalcitrance
and aquiline charisma
the God daughter
wore the archetypal flesh
flower of deific Amun's
affidavit seed
never ceasing to reformulate
the framework of whatever
raiment glued the smoke of
fertile Punt frankincense
to her aromatic body
Her perfumed aura
shielded the fumes of new
trails branded into nature's
overgrown gardens
Fumes that would be replicated
were she granted access to our
odiously caricatured bearded lady
An odor in the kingdom
that hosted the nativity of queendom
for the womb that carried
the enlightenment of Sirius
A balance of empyreal ascension
and the Moon's hammer of adhesion
like the obelisk that poked her path
to heaven into the inflated firmament
A balance unyielding enough
to have the sacred literati hearing nothing
of the unheard-of flammation of
the common loins ignited by
the feel of golden breasts
And when she took her soul and smells
to the gardens of Amun
it's as if a people were awakened
from an equilibrium hypnosis
Born-again conservatives impaled
her existence on misshaping chisels
of an order compromised
But the walling of her obelisk
was history's retort
Her lineage-intoxicated stepson's
censorship defected to
the aim of preservation
long enough for terminology
to christen her a queen
Long enough to suture
the chronology of an epochal
matriarch of a tomorrow that ran
from the moon when seduced
and runs from the flares of a Sun
made resentful by conversion to
alternative worship