by chinball wizard aka Phil Williams The irony was that Rock Johnson, all-city linebacker and considered in some circles as the hardest hitter this side of the generational divide between Lawrence Taylor and ray lewis, a real ‘grave-digger,’ didn’t like drugs. He knew about steroids, had been (maybe) offered steroids in various kafkian workouts where … Continue reading dancing with shadows
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.
Betty Cave
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Cleansing begins with the
eyes closed
vanquish
and thoughts of
her.
A cave
an underground stream
pure and cold
making slick
the heft
of vague & ageless rocks.
Who was this woman
Betty Cave:
(A) minor poet
(B) darts champion
(C) president’s wife, or
(D) the first American shaman
The sound of wind chimes
is air’s soliloquy
Pine needles fall
and bring to ground green fragrance
In her clinics by the brook
no one sleeps alone.
Not she
not Elizabeth Taylor
Not Kurt Cobain
nor any of the other
27 suicides.
In the morning it is
pecan waffles
with falls of syrup
(world’s highest)
Coffee is OK
In her words, “Permissible.”
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she signs the executive order
of waking, satisfied for us all.
All I Got From Finnegan’s Wake
Out of the question? Sure.My dad’s got anairline out of there calledWhistle.One-twenty one-way.Tell the reverend not to get too formal, though.I don’t know.You can’t wrap it around you.You’re gonna have towrap it around you.Where’s the clock, sir?Someone should be coming.No way.Thanks.I remember, he’s a year old.You think I’m gonnawrite something about him when he’s onlya … Continue reading All I Got From Finnegan’s Wake
Of Guns And Paintbrushes
for Charles King, 1958-2006
Seeing his son
for the first time
and the last time,
this artist-turned-soldier
dies in the desert
praying for rain,
praying for us
to pray against
those who prey on peace.
He is our king,
our frontline,
our lamentation.
And when
business-suited dignitaries
finally etch out their boundaries
all that’s left of him
are his paintings:
hulking canvasses
retelling the silently epic battles
that ravaged tanks and convoys:
machines under siege,
their treads torn—
each portrait losing its
camouflaged flesh
to the flying and
flickering sand.
Purify, Purify
I’ve gotta get this song outta my head—the one from the eighties,the one-hit wonder. I remember the title, but I won’t repeat it.For even the nameis its own inescapable melody.
Dartsanatomy
Last year was last yearpast midnight in thiscity second-floor apartment.Throwing darts against concentrationand dodging the champagnepassed around hand-to-handlike a collection plate exceptthis vessel gives, it gives, it gives.By now we’re used to the smokethough tomorrow we’ll be disgustedby the smell in our clothes, reeking like wewere out at SOME BAR last night. I seeyou grab … Continue reading Dartsanatomy
Nassau at New Year’s
palm trees wave
like they’ve been
saving me a sea
long-lost waves wash
searchfully ashore
as I sit and have
two kaliks
and a cuban-made cigar.
Camo
A chameleon can
whisper in any language.
It can tongue
the chocolate bannister of lust
and not get stuck.
If the bannister melts,
the chameleon will drink it—
it does not need a handrail,
it does not need stairs.
It scales the several stories
of a cocoa affair
with its eyes rolling,
with its coiled tail erect.
Sleep Constitutional
0As I try to feel tired,the bed speaks, wood on wood.Add that to the listof things to do on Monday.At least my pants still fit (barely).Some of those fat fattieshave really given up on life.Them and the suicides. 1Makeup and dancing.And audience participation.What’s that?! says the guy on stage.(He puts his hand to his ear.)I … Continue reading Sleep Constitutional
Mother Mary
She doesn’t bring thingsthat couldn’t accrue to other crises,such as hands holding bouquetsor a shepherd’s staff made only of E’s. The sound of my temple beatingagainst the pillow I once thoughtwas m’eyelash, though I couldn’t prove it. Even when I went stiffI could not escape the soundof my pulse licking the hay. And yet it … Continue reading Mother Mary
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