A MOMENT Jim Lang

BOOK BY ITS COVER

Usually when I order a book
a poetry book
from the public library,
it arrives pristine.
Covers still shiny
with publisher gloss.
The spine would crack
with excess dried glue
when opened.

No one reads poetry anymore
At least from a public library.

But the Bukowski books
come like they stayed with Hank
in the tarpaper shack in Atlanta
or was his pillow on the park bench.
Even the ones published after his death.

I’ve read four Buk books in three weeks
2 novels, his first and his last
a compilation of letters tween him and hot avant chick
a seven year love affair
separated by only 350 miles
they never met.

And a book of poems.

Maybe it was in an inspired dream
cuz I can’t find it in any of these tomes,
but so I have heard Hank say
the world is created by what we perceive,
who we are,
so the critics that see that we are in a shithole
should know
that they are the main turds.

Maybe that’s why
the books I get
are worn, dog-eared,
re-covered
cut-out original titles
pasted to front and spine
cuz People who go to public libraries
want to read that.

Steve Goldberg

 

WE DON’T SEE THE SUN RISE

Piercing siren forces struggle
Upwards from the comfort snuggles.
Gentle stretch, search for dress
To cover up the naked flesh.

Bathroom bound, stairs lead down
Every step creates a sound.
Relief feels good and now I move
To satisfy the need for food.

Select supplies fill the void
And hush my morning appetite.
Clock ticks on, it’s time to go
Onwards to my second home.

Wait until I reach nerves end
Slow the bus drones ‘round the bend.
Traffic’s brewing, slowly moving
Stress producing, temper bruising.

Immerse myself in book or sound
Until I reach my journey’s end.
Off the bus into the mind
Of this waking city giant.

The daily chores are taking place,
The preparation for the race
Of busy, bustling, morning crowds
Taking part in daily rounds.

On I walk past different stores
Coffee scents infuse my thoughts.
No time to stop, my mouth stays dry,
No time to watch the sun rise.

Philip Soanes

 

Mark Wilson

 

THE CITY LIGHTS ITS CANDLES

green neon blurs to nowhere
the dust flakes from
her corroded flowers
she coughs leaden clouds
retches into the street
her poisonous lethargy
with which she wraps us
around her little finger
a smile a kiss
a smokestack memory
indecent as a cabal
of bankers sick with pederasty.

Dan Smith