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A story about convincing people to do things they don't want to do, written entirely in dialogue; originally published by CHEAP POP.
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I lay on a table in a cold room in one of those little blue gowns that open in back.
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Suddenly there was a crash of thunder, and they raised their eyes for the first time heavenwards. That was the beginning of what we call civilisation. - adapted from Prolegomena to Work in Progress — Stuart GilbertIt's the third year of the third millenium,…
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My first and so far only visit to my homeland of Prague was first described to me by a tourist guidebook, which laid out many of the fundamentals one must follow while travelling there. It was pointed out, for instance, that we would be “unlikely to encou
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with braided dreads, shades,
devastating smiles,
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Anchored in my garden chair, I was looking at a hearse parked at the entrance to the Baptist Church across the street. The church is my son's church, his refuge. I had been thinking about the drive to the therapist's in Great Neck the other day. I'd hammered…
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I see her from the landing above,
wearing a white gown,
tiara and angel wings.
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Sitting together at Starbucks, we composed a long love letter which we've been mailing back and forth to each other, signing our name upon each receipt and returning it for the last nine months and it has grown to eighty seven pages, barely fitting in a shoe box.
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It is indisputable that poets love roadkill...
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I should have buried him on the saddleback and kept my mouth shut. I'll murder the bastard who did it.
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I sit in the dark, awake yet aware of another inner death. I breathe in the dark with a disinclination to the cold crimes of my mind. My skin senses the failure of evolutionary processes; a certain kind of abandonment. There is no iron cage of atone
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ANOTHER STUPID POEM Under a park bench two crows hunch. Beside the bench stands a pounder of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Beside the can glisten two splats — chunky, coagulating in the sunrise. The…
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You ask yourself, how can you be living but dead? It is not possible. Yet it can be and it can be slightly reversible, but realistically, for most people, it is not. Living but dead, is walking in the world of the in-between. Standing with one foot on the
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we bounce down a muddy road
and the driver gleefully says
“Half way there, fuckers!”
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I have things that I should do
but I will lie abed with you
in homage to our deaths last night.
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Who hasn’t at some point of the day wanted to dredge up everything in your pocket just to see what it is.
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Years ago when the smart of it was as nippy as this one.
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As we conjure our stories
memories rise like acrid smoke
from inner conflagrations
tragedy and pain barely covered
in too shallow graves
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Now your dreams are
headed for the Rhyme or Reason
Convention
where they try to convince you
you can do this
Trying to make sense of
everything
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• Don’t confuse the virtues of bananas with the virtues of banana bread
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We are infused with fear and dread/
of the world we won’t engage/
except through flat screens and remotes,
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