More then you can shake a stick at, that's what..!
We have collected poetry from the maddest poets from the maddest corners of this mad mad world and have showcased the latest Mad Ones in the Poetry Forum just for you. Currently the forum's gots lots of words from: David Kowalczyk, Ra! Gabriel, Joseph Goosey, Michael Lee Johnson, Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal & Ryan Dilbert...
My Dream Is Turquoise Marzipan
I am living at the San Diego Zoo
in a cage filled with crack vials,
banana peels, and expired bus passes.
I alternate covering my eyes,
my mouth, my ears,
while geriatric Republicans from
Tucson toss peanuts at me.
They are wise.
They feel the magic.
They know that I know
what I know, that I am
who I am because
I understand the serpent.
- david kowalczyk
Subway goes
he runs to catch the train
that doesn't stop
time is internal, spiraling now
a girl he's been practicing imagining
waits for him at some improbable stop
still unbuilt: a mere proposal on a drawing
board in some workroom
will blast through cheap restaurants and
Laundromats; will attract new
buildings and they will dine on Tofu
soup and cold, chewy noodles
- ra! gabriel
I TAKE A SEAT NEXT TO YOU
Are you hungry?
Do you want some lunch?
Will you be hungry on Saturday
around 7pm?
How was Corpus Cristi?
How is the aquarium?
Do you enjoy trumpets?
Trombones?
French horns?
French poetry?
French fiction?
Tennis? Bowling?
Do you savor dishes of fish
and rice?
Write the answer
to the aforementioned down
on a post-it, in H10 pencil,
and leave it for me
on the windshield of my
dirty dirty car.
- joseph goosey
Poem From My Grave
Don't bring the rosary beads
it's too damn late for doing repetitions.
Eucharist, I can handle the crackers and wine;
I love the Lord just like you.
Catholicism circles itself with rituals--
ground hogs and squirrels dancing with rosary beads,
naked in the sun and the night, eating the pearls
and feeling comfortable about it.
Rituals and rosary beads are indigestible
even the butterflies go coughing in the farmer's cornfields..
Cardinal George, Chicago, would choke on the damn things;
some of his priest would have thought it a gay orgasm or piece
remote found in scripture from Sodam & Gamora.
But my bones in ginger dust lie near a farm in DeKalb, Illinois
where sunset meshes corn with a yellow gold glow like rich teeth.
My tent is with friends there we said prayers privately like silent
moonlight. Farmers touch the face of God each morning after just
one cup of Folgers coffee Columbian blend,
or pancakes made with water and batter, sparse on the sugar.
Sometimes I would urinate on the yellow edge of flowers,
near the tent, late at night, before the hayride, speak
to the earth and birds like gods.
Never did I pull the rosary beads from my pocket.
It's too late, damn it, for rosary beads and repetitions.
- michael lee johnson
GIVE ME A CHANCE
It’s a mistake.
I’m not supposed
to be in here.
I didn’t do
anything wrong.
I forgot to
take my mind pills.
Without them I
get so confused.
I’m better now.
You can see that.
Why can’t I be
let go? I could
be more careful.
Give me a chance.
Whatever I
did to that poor
homeless woman
I won’t ever
do again? I
only took her
cart. She fell all
by herself. At
least she didn’t
break her hip. I
never laid a
hand on her. I’m
going back to
the place she lives
and apologize.
I will bring her
coffee, donuts,
and some spare change.
- luis cuauhtemoc berriozabal
Two-faced motherfucker
I first saw her in Starbucks black,
slim, maroon boxes around her squinty eyes.
Her face was bared to me in installments
all the grains of sugar and dust
placed into the lines of my palm
I am a two-faced motherfucker
and there is no way she could have known that
The first face I showed her
was the sweet and loyal boyfriend
the babysitter
who stockpiled friends
The next face I gave her
in the bedroom
the door closed
the girlfriend forgotten
for a few sultry moments
I left without saying goodbye
When I returned I was older, more mature, more jaded
The first face I showed her was passionate,
one she could hold in her clammy hands
that she could use to wipe up spilled soda
that called her
that tried to prove that the past wasn't a fluke
The other face was turned away
turned inward
uncaring like I thought she was
she saw that one fading off into the distance
becoming a dot
I left without leaving
and no good-bye
We met again and kept our friendship a clothesless one
The face I showed her in the dark
was erect and dripped into her cupped hands
it was a face of fire
kept warm inside a blanket
The second face I didn't show
it was indifferent,
unsure of if it was smiling or cringing
it was a icy face, rotting from the inside
full of insensitive maggots
it is one that I hate
that I try to cut off at night
with sharpened tears
I don't want to leave
I don't want to say goodbye
But she's seen the second face
and recoiled
She doesn't love the first face
But wouldn't mind being warmed by its flickering light
The other one bites into her back
and is only sorry
when it is too late
- ryan dilbert
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