My poem “Driving Home at Midnight” is in the current Boston based print journal Ibbetson Street #33. THANK YOU Publisher Doug Holder and Managing Editor Lawrence Kessenich for including my piece with work from so many wonderful writers and literary colleagues such as Marie -Elizabeth Mali, Timothy Gager and Teisha Twomey in this robust and high spirited edition ~ Ibbetson Street # 33!
Available at
http://www.lulu.com/us/en/shop/doug-holder/ibbetson-street-33/paperback/product-21024992.html
My poem Passing the Last Buoy
is up on Austin based Bay Laurel Online (SUMMER 2013)
http://www.baylaurelonline.com/2013/06/passingthelastbuoy.html
Thank you editors Timothy Connor Dailey, AJ Reyes, Emma Kalmbach !
Passing The Last Buoy (Visual Art)
I am honored to have my poem ” On the Way Back Home” included in “Thunderclap” magazine’s commemorative book for National Poetry Month and humbled to be in the company of so many wonderful poets. Thanks and deep appreciation to Amanda Deo for this opportunity. Amanda announced the magazine will be on hiatus as she turns her attention to her own writing and her graduate work. I wish her all the best and Thanks to Amanda and to Robert Vaughan (Fiction editor) for publishing my work in Thunderclap. Deep gratitude, appreciation and respect for all of your good work. I will miss Thunderclap!
Thunderclap’s commemorative book for National Poetry Month
I am thrilled to have a short, fast and deadly little piece is in the June issue of “Short, Fast and Deadly” Thank you Joseph A. W. Quintela!http://www.shortfastanddeadly.com/
“Do you realize if it weren’t for Edison we’d be watching TV by candlelight? Al Boliska”
He strikes a heroic pose
his bicorne hat cocked at a jaunty angle
he gazes out across the sodden fields of Waterloo
stands in that iconic hand-in-waistcoat gesture
Napoleon’s hand cradles his iPod Touch
dials in the 1812 Overture
on the Classic Works of Russian Composers play list
The streets of Vienna are slick with new fallen snow
he works late into the night
hunched over a desk in the mahogany paneled study
illuminated by soft light from a MacBook Pro laptop
Dr. Freud’s face is a mask of bewilderment
as he Googles the meaning of the idiom:
“Yo Mama!”
The ship’s pilot peers through the astrolabe
sailors cluster together, speak in hushed tones
about sea serpents & sailing off the edge of the earth
Cristoforo Columbo emerges from his cabin
announces the East Indies will have to wait
his search on Mapquest has revealed
they are headed for someplace called The Bahamas
He picks up his fiddle
plays a tune that he can’t get out of his head
he’s just been told there’s trouble at Circus Maximus
“No reason to get get my toga in a twist” he thinks
“It’s only a little fire. How bad could it possibly be?”
Distracted, Nero sets the fiddle down & goes into the other room
to update his Facebook status.
How the tides of history might have turned
had Genghis Khan’s relentless advance
across the steppes been broadcast
on his twitterfeed & The Declaration of Independence
written on GoogleDocs
the Pony Express ~ going nowhere fast
had homesteading rights included
unlimited text messaging
you’ve spent a lifetime chasing paper, seeking validation
a closet full of certificates, documents, degrees and licenses
that define who you are, give you permission to practice, drive,
drink beer, shoot guns, go fishing, camp in the open, march in the street,
marry, have children, travel across borders, own houses and cars,
to show where you’re going and where you’ve been,
to prove you were born and that you exist
you bear them like a talisman, you wear them like a mask,
like armor.
you’ve spent a lifetime running just to run
from coast to coast across continents
halfway around the world and back again
climbing mountains swimming oceans flying through clouds
looking out there
for love sex magic redemption to fill that hole in your heart
it’s something that not even
sixteen shooters and a Siberian shaman
could fix.
where do you go from here?
it’s the fourth quarter, the ninth inning, the final act
match point, injury time, the shank of the evening
show down – buck-a-throw, one-eyed jacks and suicide kings are wild
no timeouts left, no do-overs, take backs or gimme puts
government, religion, politics, all the money in the world
so much smoke and mirrors
put it up on craigslist, but mention that slackers, tweakers, weasels and whiners
need not apply
you were a hamster in a wheel, a dancing bear, a bird in a gilded cage
all that chasing butterflies and rainbows, the Holy Grail and the American Dream
dialing for dollars, texting your vote and extolling the virtues
of sex and drugs and rock&roll, all that’s over
ring the mission bell, saddle the painted pinto, thank the radiant angels
send a letter to the poohbah, but you know what he’ll say
the answer you’ve been seeking
has been right here
all along
I didn’t feel the sting…
My upper lip blew up and curled into a frozen Botox Elvis sneer. I ripped through scorching versions of Devil in Disguise, All Shook Up and Kissin’ Cousins, the King’s dubious solid gold classic about incest.
I self medicated with Benadryl and vodka and channeled Samuel Coleridge. A thousand white doves fluttered from golden cages. A camel caravan snaked through drifting sands on the trail to Timbuktu. An albatross came rapping at my chamber door.
I felt like William Burroughs. I studied the distant horizon of my toes in silhouette against the wall of the Naked Lunch Diner. Outside my window the call to prayer went out from the minaret.
I awoke to find I was not in Tangier. It didn’t seem fair. I bought the ticket and took the ride. I should have been there by now, not stuck up in the crotch of a fuzzy tree.
Ladies and Gentlemen,
Elvis has left the building!
Saturday night
sun still above the western horizon
you drive north along the lake
windows down
dogs in the back seat
black lab grinning
her head hanging out the window
with her ears flying
music blasts from the speakers
you sing “The Ties That Bind”
at the top of your lungs and out of your range
big wooden schooner
out there on the water with two other boats
white sails luffing on light autumn air
as all three come about
sun dipping down behind the trees now
photographers call this the Golden Hour
this ephemeral span of moments
when everything glows
in magic light
you drive past vineyards,
a horse farm, and spent fields of corn
singing the chorus as loud as you can
your voice cracks, breaking out of your comfort zone
jangly guitars and jubilant saxophone
push your ears to the limit
evening air swirls through the open window
you brake and turn hard right
heading for home
Bobby and Jackie got married last fall
Lookin’ for a brand new start
Headed out west and started a band
But the whole thing fell apart
Now Jackie’s on the road
Lookin’ for a life
Bobby’s on the coast
Lookin’ for a wife
They both want something
They already have
Can’t see the forest for the trees
In their own backyard.
Tina is a girl
Who wants to be different
Stand out from the rest of the crowd
Pierced her nose
Dyed her hair green
Laughs just a little too loud
Mirror, mirror on the wall
who is the fairest of them all?
When she wonders
why her life is so hard
She’s missin’ it all
In her own backyard.
Johnny quit school
and joined the Army
Thought it would make him a man
Wasn’t very long, got into trouble
It didn’t work out like he planned
Now he’s over the hill
and on the run
Runnin’ down the highway
Johnny’s got a gun
Lookin’ for something he already had
Can’t see the forest for the trees
In his own backyard
Your Own Back Yard - Michael Gillan Maxwell 