I was knocked to the ground earlier today when I did a Google search for "impatientist" and came across this article about a Baltimore painter who calls himself an "impatientist". Here is the thrust of the column (which is about Baltimore schools): "Raoul Middleman, one of Baltimore's great artists, teachers and raconteurs, calls himself an … Continue reading An Impatientist In Baltimore!
Author: johnbrandall
John Randall is a writer living in Missouri. His interests include camping, running, walking, cutting and burning wood, messing around with magnets, foraging, and listening to podcasts, many of them about baseball.
Walter the Red
Are your pillows fine I asked them & they said yes untilthey started to complain about the way I spoke: muttering dust into air, apparently skewing the TV reception. Dust? I said, Where? & they said, In the dirt, with the iris and the pupil; … Continue reading Walter the Red
Laclede the Artist
He is at home in this match-book town warmed by the nuclear power brewed out west (though he never calls on it (the gas neither.When he runs out of ice (commonly, I’m afraid he just walks down to the river and hacks off a chunk or two. ‘Sea ice!’ he boasts to guests, ‘Never have a better drink in all your life.’ Sea-hattans he calls … Continue reading Laclede the Artist
Line for Billy
How are we gonna
heat our house this winter?
One mourner has a stove
but it eats a lot of wood, he says,
standing in a line
barely any light left and ten degrees
behind an IGA
and no place for parking.
A great loss…
A great tragedy…
He sold me mulch…
He sold me flowers…
He taught me how to hunt…
We hoisted one together.
We followed The Dead.
Here we all search for understanding
on our feet for how many hours
at this crowded Northfield funeral home.
It’s not like trying to find a lost watch.
It’s not like re-building a house.
We know the faces
(but some of the names escape us…
He’s bearded,
no tie,
his hands folded for the Lord’s Prayer.
I can’t pretend I knew him
but plenty of other people did.
As I’m writing this a multitude pays its respects.
I’m sitting in a rental car drinking a beer.
For him, I say.
All’s I remember is the maroon Corvette
he couldn’t get started after JB’s funeral…
Continue with this poem...
Hey, We’re Goin To The Moon!
by R.L. Wisdom I, along w/ about 200 other americans (and 200 russians, grumble, grumble) boarded a ship slated to launch into space. It was part of an experiment to shuttle large numbers of people in order to assess thefeasibilityofthecolonizationofeitherthemoonormars The ship was extremely large w/ multiple levels. During liftoff people were roaming around, acting indifferent.There was an oversight during pre-launch … Continue reading Hey, We’re Goin To The Moon!
The Painting You Never Did & Then Never Did Again
Oh, the people will come, friendthey’ll bring their hangovers& drive right through ‘emlike union men punching their tickets to stardom Oh, the people will most definitely comethey’ll ask for chairs, they’ll sayhow about heightoh, canvas, cover meleave me manic twelve hours later "Mon frer," you said, "Art is in the doing: "Core one."You were a … Continue reading The Painting You Never Did & Then Never Did Again
Perky Corp.
Pillows used to bemade of dead ducksbut ducks won’t dieanymore; instead,superhuman corporationsfill our headrestswith conglomeratesubsidiaries of snow.
politico
snow is cold rain rain is warm snow that shit was weak, then it was right, yo “You would never run for President?” Naw, I’m too old. “Too old?” Too young, then.
Nothingness At Starboard
What time ‘s it? there’s no clock to look at butI think it’s five o’clock. like a whale breathing in the ocean I keep to my breaths … Continue reading Nothingness At Starboard
Highway One Across
I rolled into the pocket of
that eight-ball-sided dream.
I bumped out with the poetry heebie-jeebies,
crapulous and reeking of split-end angst.
I could not sleep until I brushed the clues away;
it was only then I’d filled the crossword in:
as quiet as the heron fishing
reluctantly in a culvert along the bleeding interstate;
as solemn as the screeching hawk perched in a sunset tree
meditating keen on its blind, nocturnal dinner—
At home amongst the long-legged power towers,
changing colors like a leaf, not afraid to fall.
JBR.com 