Two Poems by Tim Frank

Obituary Dreams

I want my obituary to lie

and say I built underground vineyards

for motherless drunks

and duplicitous widows.

A place to blow my nose,

a place to blow my mind.

But if my obituary is honest,

it would have to say

I bulldozed a museum

and built a mental home

beside a fetid swamp.

That there were wards full of skeptics

wearing crumpled tin hats

who fell silent before Buddha

without being born.

They sold Him dead pigeons,

and severed His ear.

He was never the same

so he invented the West.

 

I wish it could be said

I had dreams about gold

pumping through my veins,

and the air that I breathed

polished my eyes

into towers of glass

so I could see distant moons.

But the truth is

I shared my nightmares

with my frail wife—

visions of P45s

and hysterical dogs

mauling our cat.

My wife passed away

beneath a layer of fog,

simply stunned by the shock.

 

Please say when I die

that I seduced the world

with an open mouth kiss.

Say I was good—

a man who read books,

all the way to the end,

and a lover

of milkshakes

that whitened my teeth.

Say I was a man,

with transparent flaws

and a face for TV—

clean shaven and blushed.

But none of that is real,

the truth is far stranger.

I ate lightbulbs with bread,

and spat out the crust.

My motto was cruel—

let there be life!

and then stamp it to death.

Above all, know this:

I just wanted to walk

with a fashionable limp,

and after I’m gone

just let the ink flow,

wherever it may.

The King

I want to sing

with a leather-clad Elvis

and taste his guitar.

I need to feel the gloom

of his blue suede shoes,

then swipe back his hair

with a samurai sword.

I’m sorry he’s dead,

we could have been friends—

flossed the meat from our teeth

and tumbled down hills.

We’d babble in tongues,

then pray through our tears.

What would he think

of a disco in flames?

What would he think

of cosmic debris?

Let me draw a graph

on his family saloon

And then pummel his gut.

The great man passed away

a long time ago,

but I still want to drown

his overgrown hands,

and then mock his beatific name,

as he lures the tides

with a deluge of jazz.

Eye Injury Hallucinations, by Ennis Rook Bashe

When they tore my eye like ripping paper

I saw a staircase of jawbones,

red velvet, gold banister

I saw Manhattanhenge in the cherry blossom esplanade

Light-sculpted fetus charging reindeer unicorn

The archways under bridges bloomed with doors

Something never a horse fluttering violet mascara-strewn lashes-

wearing human eyes,

unbloodied

too much like my own when it stared back,

when it saw me. 

Ennis Rook Bashe

Four Poems by Mark Young

A line from Alain Delon

 

I am learning the ropes of a new

role. I am not sure I want to join,

but persuade myself it's time to

escape the empty chatter that fills

 

most lives. I am somewhat uncer-

tain that it is wise to do so, still

believe that, in the main, we're all

loners, to differing degrees, that

 

close friends will always be hard

to find & maintain relationships

with. YouTube videos paint a world

without conflict, where we thrive

 

from connection, are certain that

we matter. The kind of solitude

that I desire is born from a disparity

between my personal ability & my

 

creative vision. I intend to avoid

talking about current events: what

would you like to talk about? I'm

ready. Grief demands to be felt.

 

 

retirement

 

What can we take

out of it? Just

some com-

promised

 

memories; &

perhaps a small

poem in lieu of

severance pay.

 

 

Leaving LaGuardia

 

When finished being polished,

the Mayor of New York has a

warm red color & is often used

for jewelry by the Bantu. It is

one amongst many manifestations

of him in their mythology. Some-

times he is depicted as a female

 

nude, big-breasted, long-necked,

wide-hipped, with all the orifices

one would expect from a blow-up

doll made from synthesized Ro-

manticism. Elsewhere he is seen

as the last surviving member of

an ancient group of gymnosperms.

 

But those the popular aspects. The

Priests have greater regard. To them

he is the pinochle of perfection, a

messiah already come. One who

has achieved enlightenment but

still remains on the human plane,

ready to put the self into sacrifice.

 

 

The Gates of Paradise

 

Dogs at the gates, alligators

in the conservatory — all part

of a playground for inhuman

resources. Within which, sin-

ging either in a descant or with

the assistance of a tight ankle

bracelet, impresarios line up

to offer services outside any

 

human rights laws. The key

shifts; now suitable only for a-

moebae & a few axolotls. A

changed rhythm, also. We try

to sing along, a long song, in

an impossible counterpoint.