FLANNERY O'CONNOR AND FRIENDS ~

R E A D      M E









Convergent
2019

ANGEL ~

J O H N     P R I N E

1946 ~ 2020

ART FOR ALL ~

R E A D      M E

Taschen

YOKEL ( 26 ) ~

Tough Guy

Watch the snow melt

as a back door pile

from ten feet to eight

to six and then four

and now a miserable

dirty pile two feet en-

during up to the first

new leaves of May

Ceremonial

When the old farmer Ralph Burdock

Was going senile, or maybe it was Alzheimer’s

It was still a time when old folks fell between

A summation of senile, or gone funny in the head

But I would see Ralph come down our road

Where barely anyone lived, and stop his car well

Off the roadside and get out and go to his trunk

With the pace a farmer heading to a barn to milk

Cows would forever have in his gait, and snap the

Trunk open without a key and lift out his scythe

With almost the ceremony of a swordsman

The blade never touching anything but air

And it was already sharp, and with no further

Ado begin his work along the edges of our

Dirt road high wet grasses and raspberry and some

Thistle, elegantly and steadily sweep it all down

Just like he was once taught, now without his farm

Or wife or morning chores and so he came and

Helped do some of ours, even though no one really

Was alive or there for Ralph, just his scythe and purpose

And I’ve never quite seen the roadside trimmed and kept

Like that again, even by me, or the paid town workers

Yesterday Today Tomorrow

The old farm bridge we know is gone

Long gone

The stone abutments are mossy

Under young trees, forest debris

The farmer is also gone, and the farmer before him

The brook flows like it always has

______________

Bob Arnold

Yokel

Longhouse

2011

CATHERINE WALSH (IRELAND) ~

Nearly Nowhere





Well it's half-past

hangin' time/time to

go rob



S' what the old lady sd. to me



Encapsulate it

and escape it



Timeless



Even   /reiterate it



Half-past

hangin' time/time to

go rob




____________________
Catherine Walsh
Idir Eatortha
Invisible Books
1996

BARBARA MORAFF ~

     

Barbara Moraff with Allen Ginsberg

Let It Be





Logic includes no promiscuity.

Deadly Nightshade is all

promiscuity.

Promiscuity, you ask, what

really

is it, how does it

function within us

or without us.

I tell you it is ignorance.

It ignores with pig passion

eats up everything in its

path. Look into its opaque

orange eyes & you see no

reflection of the real world.

Only density where existence

is an invulnerable thickness,

helplessly poisonous

like a belief system which is

strictly linear

in spite of its branching

                                        like lungs

through space.

Deadly Nightshade is my name

for the woman who stole my husband,

who screams at my children, who calls

my son 'freak' because he can eat no

fat, who never cleans up the glass

after she's slammed the door, who dresses

in thick pelts of richly endowed lambs

and buys her own children

their scanty garb at yard sales

and auctions held to settle

estates

of those who

lived and died in poverty.



Another name for her is Scumcunt.




____________________

Barbara Moraff
Deadly Nightshade
Coffee House Press 
1988

KIEFER NOTEBOOKS 1998-1999 ~

R E A D     M E

COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS ~

WAYFARERS ~

R E A D      M E

Back pocket pal

ACROSS THE STREET ~

GEORGE CARLIN ~

JOHN PRINE ~

MIROSLAV HOLUB ~

Dreams

They sap man’s substance

as moon the dew.

A rope grows erect

from the crown of the head.

A black swan hatches

from a pebble.

And a flock of angels in the sky

is taking an evening class

on the skid pan.

I dream, so I dream.

I dream

that three times three is nine,

that the right-hand

rule applies;

and when the circus leaves

the trampled ground will

once more overgrow with grass.

Yes, grass.

Unequivocal grass.

Just grass.

______________________

Miroslav Holub

Poems Before & After

Bloodaxe Books 

THE BOXER ~

March 2020

YOKEL ( 25 ) ~

Come Closer

Once long ago in old Vermont

We stopped the car on a mud road

Into a village to ask directions from

Anyone we could find, and while you waited

In the car I went and stepped into a store, barely lit

And so dark and cavernous it seemed early-Spring-bear-like

As I finally saw a figure sitting in a rocking chair, a man,

And he asked out of the darkness how he might help

I’ll never forget that time nor that man, and of course

I have completely forgotten the name or place on the map

But it was real

Because —

A few years later, in the peach of summer, closer to home and

Again on an old road we stopped for directions, and this

Time I entered a hilltop farmhouse and could hear someone

Beckon to me to come closer down this sun dusty hallway

With the palest afternoon light, and by a corner woodstove

Sat a very old and rickety wood built man, ancient as the

Plaster walls, and he asked what he could do for me 

Imagine!

When I stepped back out the door I saw the maple trees dark

Leafed, trapping summertime in their bonnets — while broad 

Fields went to upper pastures shadowy lush and holding on

Holding on

                                                    for Richard Levasseur

After Chores

It’s just like her —

that small dish

of scented soap

at the big cast iron

kitchen farm sink

for smaller hands

Info

unshaved

bib overalls

grubby cap

in the fancy deli

for a pizza slice

sits with tourists

he once sawmilled

boards for me and I

haven't seen him in years

I said hello how you been are

you taking a break?

a break from what?

from work

I don’t know...are

you taking a break?

yup

from what?

from work

______________

Bob Arnold

Yokel

Longhouse

2011

THROUGH ~

Back Road Chalkie

R O B E R T      F R O S T

Spring 2020