by R.L. Wisdom I went to a hookerwho charged me nothing.Presumably I knew her.This was on a shipof the Americans' persuasion,which once blew up aRussian ship for no reason.I remember you being upsetabout me sleepingwith the hooker (wholooked like Jessiefrom Saved by the Bell)—but not for the obvious reasons.That is why Isuspect the painted ladywas … Continue reading The Painted Russian
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.
Beach Hymn
It’s right, it’s bright.
It’s brighter than
the light of the Lord out here…
At the shore there is no one
between me and the Lord, save
a thousand sleeping fish and
men hunting for hidden oil.
I walk along the coast, right
at the edge where tide rubs away
the land like an eraser, only
to pencil it back in twelve hours
later. I leave footprints in the
sand, shallow sculptures wrought
of endless shards of glass, whose
sides have been polished smooth
by the alabaster pull of the moon,
sucked clean of color by the glaring
sun. These footprints are my only
testament, proof that I’ve sought
communion with something bigger.
They alone would save me—
if not for the caustic waves, tricky as
atheist preachers, which keep on
washing my offering away.
When the wave feints into the shore
its body vanishes. But the
water remains, unchanged.
—Navarre, FL
Lightning Bug
All of this déjà vu I’ve got.
I’ll get it here or there
and grant to myself
its profundity. As if
gnostically through me
has come a signal for
some tragic event’s onset—
a terrorist bombing,
the death of a friend or a relative.
A glimpse of a past or future life.
It’s crazy.
I’ll look at the clock
and it’ll be 9:11 or 9:11
and I’ll think I’ve
somehow keyed into knowledge
that something bad
has happened, somewhere.
But then I think about
all the screwed-up
clocks throughout the world,
twenty-four time zones (at least),
the international date line, Indiana—
And, really, at any minute
of the day
any asshole
could be looking at his clock
and thinking the same thing.
Harvest Haiku
by R.L. Wisdom
Fliers go out and hopefully in
minds expand then collapse.
Material is gathered for the harvest.
Will it be a good season.
PetroArt
It's oil,not ink. Darn. We buried our pensand a thousand year laterthey exploded. Only thosewhose cars could readgot rich. The restwere leftselling scrapfrom online garages.
Go Home, Ocean
You would think that the ocean
would just give up finally.
The coast is our immovable object,
its sand a sliding ruse selling the waves
on a false hope
that they can take back the land—
stretch their sea legs with a walk in the grass,
rise and fall with the curves of the coastal highway...
At least when the ocean shows up
to our mainland party
uninvited, drunk and stumbling
all over the beach, it’s been so
thoughtful as to bring food
(even if it hasn’t bothered to
wrap the fish in the seaweed).
Like last time, we kindly accept the fish
but have to turn the frenzied tide
away because it smells like
the savage ocean and wears no clothes.
Foaming at the mouth, it drains away,
ripping straight out horizonward with
the hooks of a thousand drowning horses,
taking with it our surf boards and wetsuits,
occasionally someone’s car or sunglasses.
Out past the shelf, the ocean strikes
up a little party of its own
attracting only a few
narcoleptic pelicans, who fall like
feathered stones out of the sky
and crash the barrier-reef buffet
while skittish fish refuse to dance
with smiling sharks...
More of the ocean poem...
Life’s Wish
At some point to havebrandy with a Brandyand not reference the pun. As in, “Oh, waiter,do you think we could getsome E & J over at this fine table?"
Lipstick Sonata
red lights
red lights down and total
a buzzing from the apiary,
a bare moon
in a smoothed-out sky
pink mascara
your eyes closed
mouthing something
like wash wash wash
Full poem here...
The Great Fall
If bugs can carry diseasethen why not information?A mosquito is a flying disclooking for the hard drive of blood.Its virus binary,only live or dormant,only quiet in abeyance.Its diamond head waiting for a call,waiting for apure finger to set upon. How about this year,this month, the ninth month? Feel the month’s tummy—hear that?The sound of a … Continue reading The Great Fall
There Are No Illusions Here
A triangle with one long side and two very short sides is not much of a triangle It is me discovering the internet a fourth line to double the degrees to create a rhombus— one that makes sense only in 3-d. cow angel clown angels cow clowns What I am talking about is the whole … Continue reading There Are No Illusions Here
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