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!
Category: Poems
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.
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.”
With the gleaming ink of morningDocument Block Status & Visibility Visibility Public Publish Jan 19, 2007 8:56 am Stick to the Front Page Move to trash Permalink URL betty-cave Preview https://johnbrandall.com/2007/01/19/betty-cave/(opens in a new tab) Categories Search Categories Fiction Dialogue Dreams Essay Farm Miscellany Painting Poems Travelogue Add New Category Tags Add New Tag Separate with commas Featured Image Set featured image Excerpt Write an excerpt (optional) Learn more about manual excerpts(opens in a new tab) Discussion Code editor selected
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.
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