The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 10.02.10
“Yes, as through this world I've wandered I've seen lots of funny men; some will rob you with a six-gun, and some with a fountain pen.” Woody Guthrie
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
Forward March!
There they go!
The Mighty Christian Right!
Marching,
Marching,
Marching,
Marching! Through,
Communities, cities,
States, countries, and
History already written!
Marching,
Marching,
Marching,
Marching!
Intimidating!
CRUCIFYING!
Anything and anybody they don’t
Agree with or so-called threatens them,
Package it as righteousness, and
Sell it without the warning label.
WARNING: Swallowing this could
Send you faster to the Hell you are
Trying to avoid, and open the doors
To the tyranny you fear!
It’s enough to make me
Ashamed to call myself
A Christian.
Don’t they realize
That shit doesn’t work?
Didn’t they read the Bible?
Roderick Richardson
(1 poem added 10.02.10)
editor's note: There is one verse they ought to memorize, "Jesus wept." But, I think they fixated on, "I come not to bring peace, but a sword." There's always a way to justify lunacy. - mh
•••••••••••
When I Die, Take Me To City Lights
My aunt had very aggressive cancer.
By the time she died three weeks later
she had already prepared for her aged mother,
and she had made clear her wish for no funeral,
no burial, no gravestone, no casket,
no memorial, no service, no ceremony,
not even an urn to hold her ashes.
She wished to join the fire that burned her body, and
whatever remains to swirl with the dust in a dumpster.
For three weeks she knew she was dying.
She could feel the virus spreading through
the squishy gray mass inside her skull
signaling naptime only three weeks
only two weeks
only one week
only days
only hours
only minutes
only seconds
away.
Of all the ways to die,
that’s one I don’t think I could live with.
I don’t want time to prepare.
I don’t even want to wait one second
for the inevitable fade to black.
When death arrives
I want to have my eyes closed
so I won’t know it’s coming.
I’d rather catch a stray bullet
to the cerebral cortex
while walking down the street
listening to
‘This is the end, beautiful friend…’
or get into a wreck while I sleep in the backseat,
blaring speakers speak
'all the children are insane.'
And when I die,
don’t bury my artificially preserved corpse
in metal and fiberglass
with synthetic flowers adorning my slab.
I wanna go out Gram Parsons style
a barbecue in the desert.
Collect my ashes
put me in a jar,
and take me to City Lights.
Place me in the highest room in the tower
in the corner
on a stack of good books.
After that, I don’t care what you do.
Have a service or a wake
or even a drug-fueled orgy.
I don’t care. Mourning is for the living.
I’ll be distracted
by the words of the dead,
listening for The Doors to play
through the store’s speakers.
Lilly Penhall
(1 poem added 10.01.10)
editor's note: I want to read a book with the haze of her ashes reflecting little pins of soul-light in the afternoon sunrays, angling through the window. I want to smile in complicit collusion as fledgling poets come to the open mic and sneeze from the ash flakes of her up their noses. Thanks, Lilly! - mh
•••••••••••
Postpartum Postmortem (Graduation Day)
My name is Prayer Bead.
I have taken the gold baton
from my foster mother's navel
once more intending to snap the champion's tape
with my belly button.
I forgive you.
Kiss my class ring.
I have a gift for your cholesterol
(the 401K decathlon victor
offers a bikini frontal lobotomy
for your shadow):
Make addiction scrub the table after supper,
wash the car windows at the gas station
and bathe the dogs.
You have holidays to accrue
and doctors to usurp
through casual chess games.
In every can of body cream
A dozen Nefertiti's wait to go to work.
Looks mean nothing
but you must look better than all
or lose your eyes and wrists.
In every tube of spermicide
a night of drinking will occur,
not so much the inverse.
Take heed if you value your life
and fear breast milk.
A forest is a city waiting to erect:
Learn this before you tan your loin cloth.
Water fondles all it touches.
Be like water in a business suit
or lacrosse shorts.
Quinten Collier
(1 poem added 09.30.10)
editor's note: I, uh, think I got it - take this down; when any of the above are in play or about to be in play or are even implied to be about in play, take two aspirin and call me a misanthrope - after you kiss my class ring. (Quinten is just plain stange... gotta love that!) - mh
•••••••••••
"Yashi"
“I don't have much left in me”
he said when the sky crashed in
and collided with the pool, creating
infinite vibrations, worlds smothering,
apartment complexes shaking at the root,
leasing agents bouncing helplessly
like fresh popcorn. He wondered if the
autistic kid in the water with the yellow noodle
saw all of this, the rapture,
but he seemed so wrapped up in his floaty toys
that nothing- not even the end of the world-
could interrupt his play.
Shawn R. Misener
(1 poem added 09.29.10)
editor's note: And while we're on the subject; who's to say the end of the world is the divine judgment of a wrathful god? I think god is playing with floaty toys off in some other cosmic wading pool. This apocalypse will be no more than an annoyed gaia shrugging off some unbearable pests. Yeah, Shawn! - mh
•••••••••••
The Sky Is Falling
I've saved two pennies for Henny.
Quick stepping under pieces of sky,
a flood of memories pouring in, I
had forgotten to close the shutters
and the world rushed in, needle stings
in the broken fabric, my face feels wet
and I finally found the reason why.
I hear the ping, ping, of drops against
the tile roof, a symphony of litanies
crying "Duck, duck!" but my legs are
hard to bend and I can't get down. My
umbrellas are burning to keep me dry;
the doomsayers in the coffin box are
screaming "Help! we're all gonna DROWN!"
I laugh, because I'm growing old, and yes,
I think I know about sorrow and pain. The
oracles speak of the coming Apocalypse
but I know it's only rain.
Rose Morales
(2 poems added 09.28.10)
editor's note: 2012! The Mayans oughta know, gettin' their pyramid architecture and astronomy skills from the aliens, an' all. Damn right, it's gonna go down! Get yerselves a titanium umbrella and pucker them sphincters. (Or, not! - thanks Rose! See another good one from Rose on her page.) - mh
•••••••••••
Meet My Wife, Inspiration
Inspiration, she's a good love. Keeps safe. Wrap-around night, days lonely.
Sun walk no, refrained. Teachers leap from river docks.
Inevitable crash drown submerged: Air-second floating--alive!
She, the naked vixen leads me love world
No universe
No galaxy
No! No! NO! Beyond. Beyond the? Beyond the two first worlds met,
our shores beyond into; any concept by thought beyond the.
In love with inspiration? How I not?, She gives humanity. I see
Do you
I think so
Good. She secrets those within her bosom. Breast! All you for?
Of moment I she to me tongued in spine, eye smiles. Wonder
why the old, others they what think? Understand anyone does
and grab try, she me the meant for! Wahaha. Grasps breath.
Upheaval guardian smile grin, able swing
chandeliers from front audience in awe. "How does he do that? I want to be able to love
myself the way he does. Look at him go!" Shooting star
she Morrison made; withering candle flame she
I for--us eventual after highway life. Work up the morning a sweat,
wake-down Jesus chrysanthemum Jasmine yestercentury born.
River lies, liver rise
long swim the sky-bud cemeteries: Eye eventual for kicks
all the day shot from murdered velvets.
Rearranged ceremony birthed, who shook the Earth of minds asleep.
Wake now, dream true pursued. Alive wain
eventual devise. Yawn-heavy highways slow
flow grow still, suffocating soil for travel.
Eye wants out, the in for self. Mirror obese: Show me!
I need to think about you before
leaping in. Screaming true.
Jake David
(added 09.27.10)
editor's note: Yes, well. Sky-blue musings, words come, writers ramble, helpless to stop, completely at the mercy, or other, or nothing and so on. Truth is, we may think about it, but leap in anyway. Jake did! - mh
•••••••••••
All the Sights
Legs uncross and re-cross for an hour or so
on a deck chair between islands
breathing exercises don’t help
the noise of the engine, of children, of footsteps
alcohol sweats out as quickly as its drunk
the towel is itchy, the sunglasses—too heavy
cocktail straws are mangled, twisted, dropped
on plates with cello-topped toothpicks
the ocean is in the distance, its smell immediate
and caustic, filled with decay and exhaust
dinner will soon be served, something appropriate,
native and unoriginal: bananas will be set on fire
and served with vanilla ice cream.
Brendan McEntee
(2 poems added 09.26.10)
editor's note: The glossy brochures didn't guarantee anything except a destination and a price tag. But, we'll take the alcohol and the bananas-Foster anyway. Are we having fun, yet? - mh
•••••••••••
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...
Penning It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
••••••• 1st WEDNESDAY IS UPON US •••••••
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!” Jack Kerouac
Ready to get your "Awww!" on? We thought so!
0n 10.06.10, starting at 8:00, Mad Swirl will continue doing the open mic madness that what we do! Join host Johnny O and co-host MH Clay, along with the musically magical trio Swirve Wright as we do our darndest to both blow and open your minds. We will be callin' all you swirlingly mad poets, musicians, dancers, actors, singers, performers & any other miscellaneous mad ones in the Dallas/Fort Worth area to come & strut your mad, mad stuff!
Come one, come all! Come to participate. Come to appreciate. Come to be a part of the madness!
Interested in performing? Then show up the night of and get on the list!
Mad Swirl Open Mic: It's THE place to be on the first Wednesday of the month!
Where's this madness take place? Absinthe Lounge is at 1409 South Lamar Street, Dallas, TX 75215 (located in the SouthSide on Lamar building)
And please, by all means, FEEL FREE TO SPREAD THE WORD!
fo'mo'info' visit www.MadSwirl.com
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
Forward March!
There they go!
The Mighty Christian Right!
Marching,
Marching,
Marching,
Marching! Through,
Communities, cities,
States, countries, and
History already written!
Marching,
Marching,
Marching,
Marching!
Intimidating!
CRUCIFYING!
Anything and anybody they don’t
Agree with or so-called threatens them,
Package it as righteousness, and
Sell it without the warning label.
WARNING: Swallowing this could
Send you faster to the Hell you are
Trying to avoid, and open the doors
To the tyranny you fear!
It’s enough to make me
Ashamed to call myself
A Christian.
Don’t they realize
That shit doesn’t work?
Didn’t they read the Bible?
Roderick Richardson
(1 poem added 10.02.10)
editor's note: There is one verse they ought to memorize, "Jesus wept." But, I think they fixated on, "I come not to bring peace, but a sword." There's always a way to justify lunacy. - mh
•••••••••••
When I Die, Take Me To City Lights
My aunt had very aggressive cancer.
By the time she died three weeks later
she had already prepared for her aged mother,
and she had made clear her wish for no funeral,
no burial, no gravestone, no casket,
no memorial, no service, no ceremony,
not even an urn to hold her ashes.
She wished to join the fire that burned her body, and
whatever remains to swirl with the dust in a dumpster.
For three weeks she knew she was dying.
She could feel the virus spreading through
the squishy gray mass inside her skull
signaling naptime only three weeks
only two weeks
only one week
only days
only hours
only minutes
only seconds
away.
Of all the ways to die,
that’s one I don’t think I could live with.
I don’t want time to prepare.
I don’t even want to wait one second
for the inevitable fade to black.
When death arrives
I want to have my eyes closed
so I won’t know it’s coming.
I’d rather catch a stray bullet
to the cerebral cortex
while walking down the street
listening to
‘This is the end, beautiful friend…’
or get into a wreck while I sleep in the backseat,
blaring speakers speak
'all the children are insane.'
And when I die,
don’t bury my artificially preserved corpse
in metal and fiberglass
with synthetic flowers adorning my slab.
I wanna go out Gram Parsons style
a barbecue in the desert.
Collect my ashes
put me in a jar,
and take me to City Lights.
Place me in the highest room in the tower
in the corner
on a stack of good books.
After that, I don’t care what you do.
Have a service or a wake
or even a drug-fueled orgy.
I don’t care. Mourning is for the living.
I’ll be distracted
by the words of the dead,
listening for The Doors to play
through the store’s speakers.
Lilly Penhall
(1 poem added 10.01.10)
editor's note: I want to read a book with the haze of her ashes reflecting little pins of soul-light in the afternoon sunrays, angling through the window. I want to smile in complicit collusion as fledgling poets come to the open mic and sneeze from the ash flakes of her up their noses. Thanks, Lilly! - mh
•••••••••••
Postpartum Postmortem (Graduation Day)
My name is Prayer Bead.
I have taken the gold baton
from my foster mother's navel
once more intending to snap the champion's tape
with my belly button.
I forgive you.
Kiss my class ring.
I have a gift for your cholesterol
(the 401K decathlon victor
offers a bikini frontal lobotomy
for your shadow):
Make addiction scrub the table after supper,
wash the car windows at the gas station
and bathe the dogs.
You have holidays to accrue
and doctors to usurp
through casual chess games.
In every can of body cream
A dozen Nefertiti's wait to go to work.
Looks mean nothing
but you must look better than all
or lose your eyes and wrists.
In every tube of spermicide
a night of drinking will occur,
not so much the inverse.
Take heed if you value your life
and fear breast milk.
A forest is a city waiting to erect:
Learn this before you tan your loin cloth.
Water fondles all it touches.
Be like water in a business suit
or lacrosse shorts.
Quinten Collier
(1 poem added 09.30.10)
editor's note: I, uh, think I got it - take this down; when any of the above are in play or about to be in play or are even implied to be about in play, take two aspirin and call me a misanthrope - after you kiss my class ring. (Quinten is just plain stange... gotta love that!) - mh
•••••••••••
"Yashi"
“I don't have much left in me”
he said when the sky crashed in
and collided with the pool, creating
infinite vibrations, worlds smothering,
apartment complexes shaking at the root,
leasing agents bouncing helplessly
like fresh popcorn. He wondered if the
autistic kid in the water with the yellow noodle
saw all of this, the rapture,
but he seemed so wrapped up in his floaty toys
that nothing- not even the end of the world-
could interrupt his play.
Shawn R. Misener
(1 poem added 09.29.10)
editor's note: And while we're on the subject; who's to say the end of the world is the divine judgment of a wrathful god? I think god is playing with floaty toys off in some other cosmic wading pool. This apocalypse will be no more than an annoyed gaia shrugging off some unbearable pests. Yeah, Shawn! - mh
•••••••••••
The Sky Is Falling
I've saved two pennies for Henny.
Quick stepping under pieces of sky,
a flood of memories pouring in, I
had forgotten to close the shutters
and the world rushed in, needle stings
in the broken fabric, my face feels wet
and I finally found the reason why.
I hear the ping, ping, of drops against
the tile roof, a symphony of litanies
crying "Duck, duck!" but my legs are
hard to bend and I can't get down. My
umbrellas are burning to keep me dry;
the doomsayers in the coffin box are
screaming "Help! we're all gonna DROWN!"
I laugh, because I'm growing old, and yes,
I think I know about sorrow and pain. The
oracles speak of the coming Apocalypse
but I know it's only rain.
Rose Morales
(2 poems added 09.28.10)
editor's note: 2012! The Mayans oughta know, gettin' their pyramid architecture and astronomy skills from the aliens, an' all. Damn right, it's gonna go down! Get yerselves a titanium umbrella and pucker them sphincters. (Or, not! - thanks Rose! See another good one from Rose on her page.) - mh
•••••••••••
Meet My Wife, Inspiration
Inspiration, she's a good love. Keeps safe. Wrap-around night, days lonely.
Sun walk no, refrained. Teachers leap from river docks.
Inevitable crash drown submerged: Air-second floating--alive!
She, the naked vixen leads me love world
No universe
No galaxy
No! No! NO! Beyond. Beyond the? Beyond the two first worlds met,
our shores beyond into; any concept by thought beyond the.
In love with inspiration? How I not?, She gives humanity. I see
Do you
I think so
Good. She secrets those within her bosom. Breast! All you for?
Of moment I she to me tongued in spine, eye smiles. Wonder
why the old, others they what think? Understand anyone does
and grab try, she me the meant for! Wahaha. Grasps breath.
Upheaval guardian smile grin, able swing
chandeliers from front audience in awe. "How does he do that? I want to be able to love
myself the way he does. Look at him go!" Shooting star
she Morrison made; withering candle flame she
I for--us eventual after highway life. Work up the morning a sweat,
wake-down Jesus chrysanthemum Jasmine yestercentury born.
River lies, liver rise
long swim the sky-bud cemeteries: Eye eventual for kicks
all the day shot from murdered velvets.
Rearranged ceremony birthed, who shook the Earth of minds asleep.
Wake now, dream true pursued. Alive wain
eventual devise. Yawn-heavy highways slow
flow grow still, suffocating soil for travel.
Eye wants out, the in for self. Mirror obese: Show me!
I need to think about you before
leaping in. Screaming true.
Jake David
(added 09.27.10)
editor's note: Yes, well. Sky-blue musings, words come, writers ramble, helpless to stop, completely at the mercy, or other, or nothing and so on. Truth is, we may think about it, but leap in anyway. Jake did! - mh
•••••••••••
All the Sights
Legs uncross and re-cross for an hour or so
on a deck chair between islands
breathing exercises don’t help
the noise of the engine, of children, of footsteps
alcohol sweats out as quickly as its drunk
the towel is itchy, the sunglasses—too heavy
cocktail straws are mangled, twisted, dropped
on plates with cello-topped toothpicks
the ocean is in the distance, its smell immediate
and caustic, filled with decay and exhaust
dinner will soon be served, something appropriate,
native and unoriginal: bananas will be set on fire
and served with vanilla ice cream.
Brendan McEntee
(2 poems added 09.26.10)
editor's note: The glossy brochures didn't guarantee anything except a destination and a price tag. But, we'll take the alcohol and the bananas-Foster anyway. Are we having fun, yet? - mh
•••••••••••
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...
Penning It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
••••••• 1st WEDNESDAY IS UPON US •••••••
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!” Jack Kerouac
Ready to get your "Awww!" on? We thought so!
0n 10.06.10, starting at 8:00, Mad Swirl will continue doing the open mic madness that what we do! Join host Johnny O and co-host MH Clay, along with the musically magical trio Swirve Wright as we do our darndest to both blow and open your minds. We will be callin' all you swirlingly mad poets, musicians, dancers, actors, singers, performers & any other miscellaneous mad ones in the Dallas/Fort Worth area to come & strut your mad, mad stuff!
Come one, come all! Come to participate. Come to appreciate. Come to be a part of the madness!
Interested in performing? Then show up the night of and get on the list!
Mad Swirl Open Mic: It's THE place to be on the first Wednesday of the month!
Where's this madness take place? Absinthe Lounge is at 1409 South Lamar Street, Dallas, TX 75215 (located in the SouthSide on Lamar building)
And please, by all means, FEEL FREE TO SPREAD THE WORD!
fo'mo'info' visit www.MadSwirl.com
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