Catalogue of the Emperor’s Attic
Haloed raconteurs, stainless. Dozens of amiable screenwriters.
The missing climactic gun battles, a harkening of Polaroids.
Thousand island dressing.
Spats, an autobiography of John Phillips Souza. Glockenspiels.
Reststops with futuristic architecture on obscure highways.
Boxes of supporting roles.
Grass, valleys, milkmaids, dirndls, PR firms, refrigerator magnets from the feed store.
That which could be redeemed in the dropping.
Rose food.
Sports legends.
Blueprints for a Sno-Cone franchise.
Sketch comics.
An angrying of clapboards by the diptych.
A Magic 8-Ball. Need machines.
Daytraders in the luxury boxes, any spliffing the controls to say no one.
A variety of negative impacts. God and unused maps. Putatives. Nostalgia bags.
Bill Freind lives in South Jersey and his work has appeared in Jacket, Combo, Lipstick Eleven, and others. His chapbook An Anthology was published by housepress [sic] in 1999.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Mark Yakich
[from PORNOCRACIES]
* * *
I feel like biting somebody
Against the bedpost
I know a lot of people like myself
Who like myself sometimes
But it's hopeless to
Split affairs into hair
Colors I'm always thinking about
The next porn and not
The porn I'm with
If I think about it
I would say that that
Is the key to my psychology
The perfect insertion
Can't be just one insertion
Everyone has lots of insertions
Inside of him or her
But I've never been
Inside of anyone
If you know what I mean
Then explain it
Back to me please
* * *
All day and a night
I'd like to yank down my pantalones
But what's the use of abusing
You when there's no give and take
Possible for the race of
White pages I know
If I want affection
I should go to the bank
And stand underneath the cameras
If I want a good meal with friends
I should call up mother and ask her
To watch TV with me long distance
Which isn't sad
It's technological
And even since she died I don't
Believe in life or death
Sentences or these words either
* * *
Hope lied about where it came from
Tee he he what else
Is in me but queer song
In the morning I eat a lot
Of apples with their tags still on
In the afternoon I might
Steal a leaf from the neighbor's
Tree and in the night
I might climb onto the garage
Roof to get a better view
Of the neighbor he has a lot
Of friends who bring him gifts
And sometimes they play
Loud music and sometimes
They sing and I sing
And sometimes sometimes
Separates the idea
Of dying from death
If and only if I'm able
To lie daily I'm able
To kill something that isn't me
Before it kills me
This is terrible that
I have to make such rhetorical
Turns sometimes that
Turn can turn into a tune
But not a very good one
The good ones move me
And that's a shame
Because I'm moved to sing
Mark Yakich is the reality behind markyakich.com.
* * *
I feel like biting somebody
Against the bedpost
I know a lot of people like myself
Who like myself sometimes
But it's hopeless to
Split affairs into hair
Colors I'm always thinking about
The next porn and not
The porn I'm with
If I think about it
I would say that that
Is the key to my psychology
The perfect insertion
Can't be just one insertion
Everyone has lots of insertions
Inside of him or her
But I've never been
Inside of anyone
If you know what I mean
Then explain it
Back to me please
* * *
All day and a night
I'd like to yank down my pantalones
But what's the use of abusing
You when there's no give and take
Possible for the race of
White pages I know
If I want affection
I should go to the bank
And stand underneath the cameras
If I want a good meal with friends
I should call up mother and ask her
To watch TV with me long distance
Which isn't sad
It's technological
And even since she died I don't
Believe in life or death
Sentences or these words either
* * *
Hope lied about where it came from
Tee he he what else
Is in me but queer song
In the morning I eat a lot
Of apples with their tags still on
In the afternoon I might
Steal a leaf from the neighbor's
Tree and in the night
I might climb onto the garage
Roof to get a better view
Of the neighbor he has a lot
Of friends who bring him gifts
And sometimes they play
Loud music and sometimes
They sing and I sing
And sometimes sometimes
Separates the idea
Of dying from death
If and only if I'm able
To lie daily I'm able
To kill something that isn't me
Before it kills me
This is terrible that
I have to make such rhetorical
Turns sometimes that
Turn can turn into a tune
But not a very good one
The good ones move me
And that's a shame
Because I'm moved to sing
Mark Yakich is the reality behind markyakich.com.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Donald Illich
The Watch Counter
None of the clocks beneath the glass cases
show the same times. They're minutes off,
hours behind, seconds too late to witness
the correct number that's winning the race,
running ahead of thin, colored hands on
designer watches, jumping up and down
on black digital lights unable to keep up.
The salesman could spend all day fixing
the pieces, but then when would he think
about his wasted life, selling measurers
of his weeks waiting for customers to buy,
not just look; for women to show for dates
when they say they will, not cancel them;
for friends to call nights when he needs
to hear a voice, not slowly drift away,
so years add up without even a word.
Inside the display his ticking continues,
with each device only right once a day,
when the clerk puts on his brown jacket,
fishes out keys from his deep pockets,
and walks past automotive supplies,
electronics, and cosmetics to the exit
where the moon taps him on the shoulder,
and the stars tell him it's time to leave.
Donald Illich has published poems in The Iowa Review, Fourteen Hills, and New Zoo Poetry Review. He has poems forthcoming in several journals, including Passages North, Nimrod, LIT, The Sulphur River Literary Review, CrossConnect Magazine, Xavier Review, and Cold Mountain Review. He works as a writer in Rockville, Maryland. "The Watch Counter" is part of a series titled "Mall".
None of the clocks beneath the glass cases
show the same times. They're minutes off,
hours behind, seconds too late to witness
the correct number that's winning the race,
running ahead of thin, colored hands on
designer watches, jumping up and down
on black digital lights unable to keep up.
The salesman could spend all day fixing
the pieces, but then when would he think
about his wasted life, selling measurers
of his weeks waiting for customers to buy,
not just look; for women to show for dates
when they say they will, not cancel them;
for friends to call nights when he needs
to hear a voice, not slowly drift away,
so years add up without even a word.
Inside the display his ticking continues,
with each device only right once a day,
when the clerk puts on his brown jacket,
fishes out keys from his deep pockets,
and walks past automotive supplies,
electronics, and cosmetics to the exit
where the moon taps him on the shoulder,
and the stars tell him it's time to leave.
Donald Illich has published poems in The Iowa Review, Fourteen Hills, and New Zoo Poetry Review. He has poems forthcoming in several journals, including Passages North, Nimrod, LIT, The Sulphur River Literary Review, CrossConnect Magazine, Xavier Review, and Cold Mountain Review. He works as a writer in Rockville, Maryland. "The Watch Counter" is part of a series titled "Mall".
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