All

These old feelings
Like books
And grand sailing ships
Clear windows of glass
To new worlds
Now something different
Heavy chains around my neck
Running through sand
Disguising the path
Inspired by the whip
Of totally different worlds
Not great but perfect

Advertisements

Sometimes I need to hold you

Like a baby holding a baby

The sun is not up yet
You make me pay
You make me pay

The rain brings out the forest smells
Kids are walking to school in it
The dog barks at them from inside

Every day
There is so much more to learn
To burn away

We are climbing mountains on our knees
Building bridges with match sticks
The castle walls are waffle cones

Do they all know how similar we are?
How hard it is for love
To age

As American kids our lives were
Governed by burning cigarettes
Trips to the liquor store
We were so excited about our boredom

Analyzing every breath
Like it was starving
In a war torn country
Failing to convince our parents
Of things

We were right
The look of a squirrel
Is the same as forty thousand
Screaming fans

How does the dog understand the light
How could I know
This is the old man
I would be

Open Poetry presented by 8th St. Publishing Guild 1 year party / Sat. Nov. 17 @ Revolution Records (KC, MO)

It’s the one year anniversary of the Open Poetry readings at Revolution Records. We’re going to celebrate with several featured readers, an open mic, free wine, & a very special announcement from 8th St. Publishing Guild & Revolution Records. You definitely don’t want to miss this one! Open to all.

Featured readers will include Matt Roth, Evan Thomas, & Patrick Sanders

Revolution Records Kansas City
1830 Locust St, Kansas City, Missouri 64108
7-9pm
FB Event

8th St. Publishing Guild is a Kansas City-based publisher of avant-garde/surrealist poetics. We love submissions. To submit or learn more, visit us online or come to meet us in person at our monthly readings.
https://www.8thstreetpublishing.com/

Approved Transactions

I am never alone
Swiping at the pain
Touching the dirty glass
There’s nothing new about a Coke Float
Unless it is a New Coke Float

I pull through you like a car wash
Eyes like trains
Trained eyes inspire vertigo

Dharma at Arby’s
I don’t want to know how I did today
Tell me how I found love in parking lots
We laugh at tenses
The electric wind covers conversations
With simulated randomness
I could shoot a movie
“Bring something back”
We explored galaxies from the back seat
That tree was Vietnam
The streetlamp is oxygen

I don’t need to know
The rain puts you here
The window places us and then
I unlock my bicycle and ride home

Ice

Things were working
A stiffness
Prodding you in the back
Like an old boner

Attack it with a golf club
Tennis racket, garden hose
Work with professionals

People will spend a lot
To keep an ice cube
From melting in the sun

Open micing smartphones
Podcasts about poetry
Why bother being a star
When you can just look like one?

We sat with our own thoughts
And we wrote little things
On pieces of paper
That’s what we did

We ran wild in the streets
We put coins in slots
So inefficient
So disconnected
The noises told us

The land is our ocean

There are no beaches
In this town. No rolling waves to
Wash our un-wanteds back out to sea

Here we bury our trash
Dig it up after 48 hours
Then devour it
Slathered in barbecue sauce

No sliding foam across the sand
Or salty wind to mask the
Seagulls’ starving cries.

The sky has no competition
There is no port of entry. We
Have no way to see them coming

Things just pop up
Like grass. We cover
Them in colored blankets
And offer up a contract
Like soldiers in a war.

But there is no war. There
Is only God and weather.
And we do not fear the weather.

Like a mirror pointing outward
We long to be ourselves
In the reflection of the world
Like a painted mirror.
Like lipstick on a bowl of oatmeal

It’s the sin that makes the
Fucking so good
The sandbags of guilt that
Keep the church basement dry

Pure pure. It’s been so long.
The kind of pure you could just kill for.

We covet what we have
A peak within a valley
It’s different for cows

Flatness
The earth, canvass, the screen
It all disappears when we sleep
Even in sleep mode
We act like it’s the same
And it is

Mammarial Day

Take time today to
Remember dead heroes
And stoned ladies on stage

Take some more for dead heroines
The twice forgotten
Take twice as much time as that
And consider what a hero is to you

A trombone up my ass
A trombone up my ass
A little Philip Glass
And a trombone up my ass

Less attention to the speach speakers
The game gamers
The pay for prayers.
Converse with the dead.
Dead people make great listeners
You can learn a lot from a dead person.

Who painted these walls
Who put all these dents in the ball
Hunters and gatherers.
What is this stage for
It’s like
The audience forgot
How to be an audience

Sometimes in our attempts
To move boulders
We blow dust
In people’s eyes

Keeping the air clean and clear
Is all you need to see
The sculpture
Inside the enormous rock
In front of you