There is no More Y

most people aren't happy

the priest said to me

no ones life is the way they want it to be

we all live in the garden

to a greater or lesser degree

some get cement, some sea

even He had Gestheme

as of late I have heard this line about

my cross and all I am to bear

just as I have begun to share

with all who will listen

or hell anyone within earshot

of my blind husband

and all the fears in me

at first the advice I received

made me contrite I could see

but didn't

apologetic

for failing to readily accept my new family accessory

and duty to constantly remind

the blind to carry his cane

I get tired afterall

near only medical device you'll get for free

a white cane no questions asked

no one really wants one of these

legislators figure

it's cheaper than a street cleaner

forgive me for

relying on the rhyme of E

on the eye chart it's nearly all he can

see

and E represents to me

the sum of the two I(s) / eye(s)

we once had

and between them is Y

but Y has lost its meaning

a satellite

sometimes consonant

a question, an answer

lost now in the periphery

till even the E

of ego

goes and

leaves me

the only I

By Laurel K. Graham

Joan and Jerome

i saw Joan everywhere
she was dressed in drag
(as a man)
her hair clipped
her tiny bones chipped
skin flayed
mounted on a disk
her bosom bound
heard her voice
like she Catherine, Margaret and Michael
saw her name
in spidery script
took the wax seal to mean
this little bit was real
in front of her i cried
symbolic womanhood
at her pire i offered
my feeble attempts
at avoiding sin
a series of mortal near misses
and a broken heart
but actually she wasn't there
off somewhere with Jerome
what i saw was actually
John
no one has seen Joan in along time
except for me

By Laurel K. Graham

Hedonistic Obscurantist

if i have a belief
it's in the make believe
and the practical magic
obscurantists preach
Hogwarts like seminaries
and plastic beads
thrown at worry
like Mardi Gras
Fat Tuesday
every day

i am on the verge of
piety
will redeem sanctity when
i turn in x number of envelopes
to my parish

indulgences are all mine
in my head
in my mind
especially when it rains
champagne
i mean Holy Water
rain
salty tears

well, it's wet and
it keeps coming
i thought you were only baptized
once
but maybe i was never

maybe it's that
veil of tears
real after all
and life after all is a process of dying
to ourselves
and in the end just a matter of where
we Fall

By Laurel k. Graham

My Morals

I smiled to myself
b/c I thought that I was a good person
for driving all that way to the ocean
to deliver those starfish back to their watery world.
I think that at least one other person
would have agreed with me.
But to the lady
and her
three dogs,
two children
and one stroller
parading down the middle of the road
I was a horrible person for driving
over 25 mph
on their road.
She corralled the dogs to the side of the road
Clutched her children close
and threw up her arms.
But I had no time to slow down and apologize
Only enough to put my window down
and give them all the finger.
I was saving lives,
couldn't they understand?

By Kristofer Koerber

Celestial Cathedrals

Celestial cathedrals,

Roofless above whose light glimmers endlessly:

A brothel for weary dreams

Dazed by the beauty that tickles the soul

And sends shivers down the spines of sailors

In the midnight sea,

Who lounge on the decks of their creaking boat

As it lazily covers the way to candle lit ports,

Where lovers and wine wait patiently for the return.

By Kristofer Koerber

Sunday Night

The wine never got drunk,
the girl who whispered in my ear
about hair pulls and purrs
never showed up,
The music never got turned up
and
that book never got opened
But
My loneliness decided to stay
to keep me company,
And this madness is here staring at me
from under my coffee table
as
these words continue to waltz lazily
Across my paper.

By Kristofer Koerber

Your Leg

Women who want to be men.

Men who want to be women.

Women who want women.

Men who want men.

God, so what if my Chihuahua

humps your leg.

By Raud Kennedy

Cowboy

The parking valets in Portland

are dressed as vaqueros.

Black shirts, vests and sombreros.

They hit their hat brims

sliding behind the wheels

of the cars they park.

In the rain, they sag

and drip tears of black dye.

In the rare sun,

they make them sweat

and break out.

It’s tough

being a cowboy

in Portland.

By Raud Kennedy

“And Your Mission Is…

James Bond is always on the go.

I can’t picture him going to the toilet

or trimming his toenails, doing what the rest of us do.

He doesn’t sit in cafes, bored and irritable,

like other imaginary characters that fill our evening hours,

naval gazing about his sex life.

His life is pared down to his mission.

Just his mission, and our lives depend on it.

I wish I had a mission that cut

all the drudgery and dullness from my life.

And a cool theme song, of course.

By Raud Kennedy

( Raud Kennedy is a novelist as well as a poet. View his titles at www.raudkennedy.com.

A link has been provided in the Spitoon section of the blog, way down below)

a shot at haiku/ by Kelly Pardekooper/ A pseudo poet

blue-haired lane drifters

slowly speeding into sleep
beware the Buick!

hold me through the night
push me into the corner
my arm loves the numb

the heart is heavy
and the days turn into years
she’s not coming back

guitar strings corrode

as the sweat dulls the chorus

a faux authentic

By Kelly Pardekooper ( Iowa City native Kelly Pardekooper is a singer/songwriter currently based in Madison, Wisconsin. He has toured all over the United States and Europe. )

To David

“How you gonna cross-stitch those faces
Into your dream-catchers, face catchers,
Tender cottonwood branch mandalas?”
Says the mighty derelict,
The immaculate scumbag,
The simple bum, me,
To the artist of the awful,
Artist of the ugly,
Who crafts eight-eyed beasts
And gnarled toads
And Frankensteinian dead-eyed worms
In his waking-mare,
That sleepy-frowned
David Gonzalez of Pittsburgh.

Crooked Apache shoulder shrug.

He will with slight-of-hand,
Slight of foot,
Cross-stitch the awful beatific
Of all mysteries onto tiny
Canvasses and finger-built feathers
From here all the way to Pittsburgh’s
Hot Metal Street.

By Tony Burfield