ah, it must be five-o-clock on a friday in colorado (i can smell the funk in the air)
my poem “new year’s meh” was just published in “Edge of Humanity Magazine” you can check it out here
i’ve been following Edge of Humanity for about a year now, and always enjoy the read. lot’s of good articles, poems and art. don’t forget to support e-zines like this, they publish poets like you and me =)
polyester such a pretty word when draped across the cellar door or swept across the marble floor or wadded up in a porn store dumpster say it with me now polyester i once dated identical twin sisters poly and ester they clashed and they schemed they split straight down the seam nothing loved me quite like jealous sisters gave me thrills, gave me blisters they lived in my dresser drawer which rhymes with cellar door so beautiful from the polyester mountains of puru to polyester mines of malaysia the motherload of our supply-side glows like green naugahyde tastes like formaldehyde chafes more than rawhide smells like something plastic died polyester the hidden treasure in every pair of walmart socks that’s a haiku think of all the pretty things we say every pedestrian day “pleased to meet you” or “hold the elevator” or “apocalyptic table candles” or “pancreatic cancer” or “seasick stallions” or “wandering cartwheels” or “siddhartha never sat in traffic, only under mango trees” or “hey, we’re out of toiletpaper” so beautiful polyester what word could taste sweeter pressed between the lips? not a kiss, not gossamer, not grandmother’s peach cobbler not cashmere, not lyocell, not fleece (pol-yyy-eessssssssssss-ter) what could be smoother? not vanilla, not sarsaparilla not satin, not lace certainly not velveeta what could wrap and warm our broken souls any tighter than a brand new j crew christmas sweater? sing it with me now – polyester! don’t dis on my wardrobe don’t pull on that thread you can’t break it, can’t burn it, can’t breathe it can’t eat, can’t beat it with an ugly stick can’t lose it, can’t leave it, can’t bleach it can’t bury it alive cause it comes back all angry and zombie-eyed can’t wear it out, can’t wear it in, can’t live without it can’t wash it in hot water can’t wish it all away say it with me now polyester
posted for shay’s word garden word list
tom sawyer in outer space, copyright ziggy zagmyer
four hundred and eighty-three million miles from the sun
jupiter is too far to hitchhike
also
buses don’t go there
so i wear jupiter striped sunglasses
drive a jupiter colored jalopy
swerve wide and reckless down open highways
so raindrops can’t find me
i’ve got expired tags
i’ve got weak brakes and a blown cylinder
i’ve got passengers who need to get to jupiter
immediately
he is radio free universe
she is a bootdagger blonde
he is a falcon hunting peacocks
she is the ace of flames
he wants to be sid
she wants to be nancy
(blackeyed boy down in the basement
pretends the furnace is a spaceship
he’s got snacks and supplies and a perfect place to hide
no atmosphere, no gravity, and no angry fathers
on jupiter’s loving moons, roger that, houston)
she plays violin like a cricket in a stormdrain
he plays mandolin like a weapon of mass destruction
she is a bottle of illegal fruitsugar
he is risking addiction
she throws rocks at god
he catches them when they fall
(on jupiter, jesus is nobody’s sacrificial lamb
just a man, union carpenter
throwing boy-minded smiles at his beautiful bride
his wild-lings wilding on the beach, splash! a purple sunrise
would you tell him it’s all illusion?
would you deny him one uncrucified daydream?)
she is a gang of runaway government horses
he was born and raised in the age of cartoon philosophy
(zen and the art of why did the chicken cross the road)
as we cross the rubicon
we jettison our credit cards and raise our freak flag
now we all ride in a phantom cadillac
misfit pixie kids playing grab-ass in the backseat
the blackeyed boy rides shotgun
i hit cruise control and fiddle with the radio
bobblehead jesus sings along
(run little rabbit run)
in the glovebox: band aids, rolaids, boomerangs
paper airplanes, other random things, and
mona lisa’s missing mood ring
earth gets small in the rearview
we won’t lament that cement armpit
not with ten more miles to go
so raise a glass of aftermath to the devil
pour some out for the tax collector
say a prayer for the prairie dog king
and all his kingdom come
dust to dust and luck to luck
ten thousand heavens open up and we fly in
like summertime miller moths
like
a millionbillion
little
lost
paper
gods
(poof)
gone
posted for shay’s word garden word list/ferlinghetti and earthweal
jalopy dreams 