Another Bartender Love Affair

Maybe, it is simply because

            they provide all necessities of life,

smiling and calling us “honey”—

            whatever’s on tap.

Mere presence is life affirming,

            a semblance of social construct we all need

as we drink ourselves to death—

            a look in the mirror.

Tomorrow, we re-belly up,

            another round of affirmation,

a double whiskey back—

            one more . . . and the check.

-

My poem, "Another Bartender Love Affair," is included in Issue 21 (January 2017) of Shot Glass Journal, an on-line journal devoted to short poetry published by Muse-Pie Press. You should treat yourself to the jewels contained in the entire issue, but here is a direct link to my poem.

Eric

Garden Economics

            The beautiful landscape as we know it
            belongs to those who are like it.
                        —Muso Soseki
 
Capitalism is such a beautiful weed.
 
It grows most striking
without constraint
 
and prospers for a while
                                    in fertile soil,
 
until it chokes
on its own coiled roots
and
                        unrestrained vines—
 
a laissez-faire foliage.
 
A mindful gardener prunes such flora,
            held so fair,
 
with incisiveness, with tender love
            and care,
 
lest he be compelled to axe and spade.
 
He does not go
all Edward Scissorhands on it,
 
            snip, snip,       
                        manicure,

manipulate,                 cultivate.
 
Capitalism is a beautiful weed,
 
a living, growing thing,
                        not a delicate thing.
 
Trim, tend, and cultivate,
or axe, spade.

-

"Garden Economics" was included in Issue 13 (Spring 2016) of local Dayton journal Mock Turtle Zine. 

Past issues of Mock Turtle can be viewed online.

Eric

Lost Pepper, Roots of Evil

Lost Pepper

While clawing at the ground,

I think I uncovered history. As others

were digging up bones,

I discovered a miniature bottle

of Tabasco sauce

and a rusty blade.

My brother, the expert, says it’s a piece of crap,

but it cuts. The tiny bottle

makes his mouth water.

He covets the burn—lost pepper, vinegar,

salt in a wound—

sustained in sediment.

I wonder how long it has aged,

savor the burn.

-

Roots of Evil

Picking out parsnips and turnips,

I decide to surprise you 

with extra beets.

I know how their sweet blood pleases you.

When it drips from your lips,

I realize how ironic it is for a vampire

to be vegan.

You wipe some juice away, 

and I pretend not to notice.

You suffered through two root

canals so your hallowed fangs 

would not show.

This is how you cancel your past.

But if I 

discover a coffin in the cellar,

or find you sleeping while

hanging upside down from the ceiling,

I will regret not buying 

garlic cloves or 

rainbow carrots instead.

-

"Lost Pepper" and "Roots of Evil" were published in Issue 12 (Fall 2015) of local Dayton journal Mock Turtle Zine. 

Past issues of Mock Turtle can be viewed online.

Eric

Overdue Poems

Poor Folk

The book on her nightstand

is by Dostoevsky, one of

his early novels. She

studied him in college,

wrote a master’s thesis on

The Brothers Karamazov, his final.

The main character works as a copyist,

frequently belittled and picked on

by colleagues. His clothes

are worn and dirty. His

cousin is from the country.

He is in love.

But a rich man

proposes. She slowly

becomes accustomed to money

and leaves the copyist

alone. His plea goes

unanswered.

The book goes

unfinished. She has lost momentum.

Life happens too quickly. Two

full-time jobs leave no time

for Russian novels, only

Russian vodka.

-

It Speaks

A book begins to speak,

tells me how lonely it is

in dusty stacks,

            especially

for a book of poems.

Only poets

read poetry,

            unless

for academic assessment

or love inspires a search for clichés.

I take the poor thing home,

prove the truth it speaks,

            a poet

granting poetry

its only wish.

-

"Poor Folks" and "It Speaks" were published in Overdue Poems, a chapbook of work by members of the Wright Library Poets in Celebration of Libraries, Reading and Books, compiled and edited by Grace Curtis and Elizabeth Schmidt and made possible by a grant from the Wright Memorial Public Library Foundation.

Eric

Educational Services, East Campus, Room 6

A shark with a broken tail

hangs from the ceiling

next to the crab with only one claw.

The students are also broken—

some have twisted bodies

and shuffle sideways

through life's narrow hallways;

others are like the shark

that will bite but cannot swim.

Teachers are torn

like chum in the open sea,

so children can feed.

Some are food for others,
bones discarded, unwanted.

Few survive unscarred.

-

"Educational Services, East Campus, Room 6," along with "Not Quite Emo," is included in Issue 9 (Spring 2014) of Mock Turtle Zine. These constitute my fifth contribution to this local Dayton journal.

My poem "The Little Nun that Could" (which is included in my chapbook The Good Parts (forthcoming from Finishing Line Press)), is in Issue 8 (Fall 2013) and "All of a Sudden, but Not" was published in the Spring 2013 issue (#7).  In addition, "Beware of Poet" and "An Ubi Sunt for the Bees" appeared in the Fall 2012 issue (#6) of Mock Turtle. "An Ubi Sunt for the Bees" was originally included in issue #5.

Issues of Mock Turtle (including issues #5, #6, #7, #8, and #9) can be viewed online.

Eric

Second-Hand Trickster

Coyote the icon, the master. Coyote the student. Coyote the retired horse thief, dropping breadcrumbs and scabs to guide his way home. Coyote the second-hand trickster, finding a lump of coal under his pillow.

Coyote the widower, caressing a dead woman’s hair, remembering the scent of her breasts, the tang of her thighs. Coyote crying into open palms after midnight. Coyote waking in the morning, taking a shower, going to work in an office selling insurance. Coyote the master. Coyote the slave.

-

"Second-Hand Trickster," along with "Ode to a Sidewalk" were included in Issue 61 of Pudding Magazine.

This is my third contribution to "The Journal of Applied Poetry." My poems "Frost on the Ocean," "Old No. 2," and "This Poem" were published in the Summer 2012 issue, and "And God . . ." and "Peter Pan Must Die" were included in the Summer 2011 issue.  

Pudding Magazine is a hard-copy press. To get a copy of the any single issue or subscribe to the magazine, please go here. 

Eric

Momma Dwarf . . . , Tracing Snowflakes

Momma Dwarf Has Another Child

As if being slapped around and

downgraded wasn’t enough, the “fat asteroid,”

Pluto, has another moon—

barely big enough to spin, yet

pulling weight around her momma’s

midriff. They have named her

S/2011 P1, but call her P4 for short.

(All the good family names were taken.) Caught

on spy camera playing

between her two closest siblings,

nary a squeak.

She makes it a quartet.

Portraits provided courtesy

of Hubble Studios.

-

Tracing Snowflakes

My wife is pregnant again,

and I am watching her

as she irons the coarse weaves of my cloak.

I am trying to write, feverishly.

I am Doctor Yuri Zhivago,

and I am in self-imposed exile,

tracing snowflakes on the window.

I am dreaming of Lara.

The Bolsheviks have raided the city

and have purged the souls of the people.

The personal life is dead in Russia.

History has killed it.

I have had my fill of bloodshed.

I have looked at death with wild eyes.

I am coming home to Tonya,

to Lara—

                       

I am coming home. The key

is still where she left it.

-

"Momma Dwarf Has Another Child" and "Tracing Snowflakes" were included in Issue #2 of Vector Press, a hard-copy poetry journal in its first year of publication.

Eric

No Longer

I had to update my status today.
I am no longer tied, in the social media,
to your picture or timeline. The news
was sudden again but not a surprise—
a disappearing act I've grown used to.
I do not assume some wicked intent.
I am no longer paranoid. We still
have each other in real time, in bed
in the morning and before the light
goes out at night, in the kitchen
where we almost always make dinner
together, and lunch is still worth
eating late or early (or even quickly,
if need be) so we can be face to face.
I am not alone in some forest of
falling trees with no one here to hear,
no one to see me. I am no longer
clinging only to tangible evidence
of our relationship—the PDAs and
risqué trysts in dark alleys. I have to
believe that the bruises will fade, and
we will remain “in a relationship,”
even if “it is complicated.” I mean, really,
what is a “domestic partnership” between
a man and a woman anyway?

-


"No Longer" is included in the 2012 Prize Winner Issue of Poetry Quarterly. An on-line preview of the issue can be viewed here.

On December 18, 2013, "No Longer" was read by Conrad Balliet on Conrad's Corner, WYSO 91.3 FM as part of his local poets project.


Eric

It is Spring

The day ends with rain falling on daffodils.

It is spring and has been for weeks. The flowers

are no longer thirsty. The sky
has cried on them and spat on them.

They have been drenched for days,

but the colors are bright and the petals

are large, threatening to bend stems over

and lie them gently on tall grass.

The day ends with rain falling. It has

been falling for days. The colors

are rainbowesque, only

without the crystal spectrum

of light from the hot sun.

A drenching like Noah’s flood,

almost half of the forty days down

and counting.

The day ends with daffodils drowning

two by two. The color of blood

and the color of the lost sun swirl

around a drain. And the ancient oarsmen

call desperately. The day ends

with rain and saturated flowers,

and colors blending into darkness,

and colors fading to black.

-

"It is Spring" was read on March 21, 2013 and again on June 5, 2013, by Conrad Balliet on his radio segment, Conrad's Corner, as part of his local Dayton poets project on WYSO 91.3 FM.

Eric

Two from across the pond

Lonely Spirit

While collecting souls, 

I stumbled upon the bones of an old friend. 

We lost touch during the hurricane, 

when the wind was blowing, 

and rain beat against the window. 

The lights flickered then failed. 

I left to buy whiskey and a blanket 

to keep us warm.

When I returned, it was dark. 

The door on the porch was ajar 

and he was gone. 

How his bones came to lie in the desert, 

I do not know. I may never know.

But I drank that bottle alone,

wet and tired.

-

Midwest Mud

The mud seems almost fresh,
but the footprints fossilized

over a frozen winter, exposed

by ebbing snow.

They were likely left
by settlers moving south, seeking
steady work somewhere in Texas,

where oil has yet to run dry, where
dreams have yet to die, where
mud is still soft and squishy.

-

"Lonely Spirit" and "Midwest Mud" are included in issue 13 of Turbulence Poetry, a British poetry magazine established in 2009 and based in Hull, East Yorkshire, England. To obtain a copy of issue 13 or a subscription to Turbulence, visit the "Buying Turbulence" page. 

This is my first overseas publishing credit!

Eric