today's special - lasagna

by bofa xesjum

the anondyne belligerence of the comatose dissolves the ecstatic fulminations of the growing boy in hot tears here is insolence indeed just when your best friend is crowned king the laughing mastodons of necessity overwhelm the posturing quoters of regulations sad, but totally understandable very well, then, order the expenses to be approved but do it yesterday in the best traditions of the department the time honored traditions of expedient delivery what? did i hear you correctly? there is no more vanilla extract in the medicine cabinet? i have always known you hated me it all goes back to the summer day when we first met at jerry’s thin crust pizza in detroit michigan which no longer exists except in a faded photograph in the wind, and the sad rain

try me again tomorrow

by wiggly jones, "the little hippie boy"

you can write a poem on a piece of paper you can catch a fish with a worm you can ask people to listen to your poems and watch the poor creatures squirm i wrote a poem about the sunset though i never go to bed the pillow on the bed was pearly white and the sunset was cherry red noah built an ark of wood jonah was swallowed by a whale my papa called himself a preacher but they still threw him in jail my mama washed rich folks underwear and hung them on the line i polished st peter’s brogans and he saw his face in the shine all you lords and ladies in your gowns and powdered wigs you’ll have a hard time getting into heaven though your bankrolls are ever so big o listen to my sad story and take heed of my fate i ate all st christopher’s biscuits there is nothing left on his plate

romain rolland: a dream

by bofa xesjum

i dreamed i was woodrow wilson with a top hat full of mice i asked d’annunzio for a sandwich but i had to ask him twice when mata hari saw my sandwich she demanded one of her own lloyd george tapped on the window but he was only skin and bone i asked sir edward grey for a pumpkin and up popped stefan zweig he offered me a crumpet and a shoelace and i had no place to hide what is this strange creature playing solitaire in the sand? i thought of asking for a ticket to cairo and it replied: romain rolland the waiter hovering in the shadows looked like babe ruth he asked if i would sign his treaty but i was afraid to tell the truth don’t cry for me, tanganyika on your carefully worded knees but bring me the price of raisins and walk in the rain, if you please

everybody and everything

by chuck leary

everybody wants to be president everybody wants to be a bum bureaucrats like their whiskey pirates are partial to rum my daddy was a preacher my mama was a railroad man some called me mister stanley by others i went by stan i went for a walk with livingstone down a shady street but although we quoted scripture no prophets did we meet we searched the sky for rainbows and signs that spelled the end we did these things together though he was not my friend we came upon a polar bear selling basketballs by the ounce we bought one for a dollar and yet it would not bounce we saw the queen of sheba ride her bicycle on the lawn and we were sorely puzzled because we thought it was frowned upon everybody wants to be president everybody wants to be a bum they tell you they know nothing but they are only playing dumb everybody knows everything you know that this is true everybody knows everything except me and maybe you

thoughts

by jean-claude etranger

there are many things that a visitor from another planet might find curious about this one. one is the situation of the drunkard, a familiar figure in virtually all earthly societies. the drunkard is despised, though not, as a rule, vehemently. he is not quite regarded as a criminal, and he does not excite the horror accorded the “drug fiend” or the contempt directed at the lecher. but the curious thing is that he is not only tolerated but enabled. in “good “ times and “bad”, in war and peace, in famine and plenty, in the golden ages of empires and the desperate declines and upheavals of civilizations, somehow the drunkard always finds a way to his drink. the river of drink never stops flowing. this despite the fact that few drunkards brew their own potions. this although the drunk, by definition, is “lazy” and “good for nothing” and a parasite on society. the constant flow of drink is never a stated public concern. no seeker of votes stands before a cheering crowd and announces, “my fellow citizens, i plan to raise taxes in order to buy booze for every bum in every doorway in the city.” no enlightened reformer of society ever declares, “the most important thing we as a nation must do is provide for the unslakable thirst of the most sluggish and inebriated among us.” no conqueror enters a city and announces, “under my enlightened rule, all law abiding citizens shall work three extra hours a day, so that an army of unwashed and unshaven rabble may sit in taverns and on sidewalks all day wallowing in self-pity and further dulling their feeble brains.” no child says, “mommy, please work as many hours as need be sewing burlap bags, never go to bed or sleep, but make sure daddy has his gin.” the drunkard has “nothing”. but the breweries and wineries and distilleries of the world never sleep, and the ocean pours forth for him, and never recedes. very strange. waiter, a bock!

alphonse

by jean-claude etranger

alphonse, a young man from the provinces whose most distinguishing feature was that he looked about fifteen yeas older than he was, arrived in paris with the aim of achieving renown as a poet, and he initially pursued this path with the same tenacity and singleness of purpose with which his peasant ancestors had tilled the soil. once settled in a little room in the old city - not indeed in a garret but on the third floor of an ancient and decaying five story building - alphonse followed a strict routine. every morning he arrived at a small cafe just before dawn, and before the cafe was open for business. when the door of the establishment opened, either the proprietress herself or sometimes a waiter or waitress would appear and take the orders of alphonse and any other early arrivals. alphonse would take a seat outside on the street, unless the weather absolutely precluded his doing so. alphonse always ordered black coffee, which he replenished at regular intervals until noon, when he switched to gin or absinthe. for nourishment, he ordered a croissant just after the sun came up, and another just before he retired for the evening, usually about an hour before midnight. alphonse carried with him a series of small black notebooks, such as schoolchildren and commercial travelers use. during his long day, when not staring into the distance, he would slowly fill the notebooks with poems, and with his thoughts on life, love, history, and immortality. his hope was that somebody - a famous poet, a distinguished literary critic, a beautiful woman, an urchin with a shoeshine kit, anyone at all - would notice his occupying himself in this way, and enquire about it. he resolved that, if, after a year, or after filling forty notebooks, whichever came first, not a single person approached him, he would return to his native town and marry the healthy and moderately dowered young woman his family had selected for him. the end approached. the last night of the year’s term he had allowed himself was coming to an end and alphonse was staring at a blank page in his thirty-ninth notebook when he was suddenly startled by the appearance of a beautiful and well-dressed young woman, who had emerged soundlessly out of the fog. “excuse me, monsieur,” the vision addressed alphonse, “but can you tell me the quickest way to the rue de h—————?” “why, of course.” by this time alphonse was very well acquainted with the geography of the area around his lodging and the cafe, and he quickly gave the young woman the precise directions she required. “thank you, monsieur.” the young woman turned to go, but alphonse stopped her. “excuse me, mademoiselle, but might i request a small favor of you?” “a small favor?” the slightest of frowns showed on her perfect forehead. “but what might that be?” “to read one of my verses, if you please.” “read one of your verses?” the young woman replied politely. “but why should i do that? i have my own business to attend to.” and with that she was gone, as silently as she had come. alphonse was left alone… with the sound of the shutters of the cafe closing for the night… with a single star in the sky overhead… and the dim light of a cab coming up the street… in the mist… with his glass of absinthe…

just like old times, part 4

by rhoda penmarq

the the tide started going out the diner was open 24 hours but not the metropolitan museum i bet your mother called you sweetie pie especially on the beach dad was a strange man how he loved the metropolitan museum! you liked it yourself remember the bus stop? strange people waited at it in tulsa oklahoma you liked tulsa oklahoma yourself when mother called you her little whatever because you were not so ordinary looking yourself especially with your evil smile spot was a good dog he waited for the bus like a person back in tulsa how about yourself? do you remember oklahoma? and spot, that wonderful dog that was how it all began on a rainy day with spot sleeping on the old couch and mother asking you to go to the drugstore because dad was acting strange and you were not so ordinary looking yourself

just like old times, part 3

by rhoda penmarq

not in a roadside diner what a cute little dog and so it all began in columbus ohio it all began not in ronnie’s roadside diner on a rainy day or a bus stop the buses run every hour you’re not so ordinary looking on a rainy day in columbus ohio you’re a strange man shall we begin? not in a roadside diner in lexington kentucky on a rainy day not in the metropolitan museum i bet your mother called you cutie pie “i am afraid i did not make myself clear” back in columbus ohio or tulsa oklahoma and yourself? not on the beach to the sound of crashing waves “as long as you are sincere” not in the metropolitan museum

last words

by jack dale coody

you know what i think? i think it’s all a scam you can call me crazy but that’s just who i am who will stop the rain? who started it? pharoah built the red sea moses parted it moses took it fast joshua took it slow everybody sang and danced at the battle of jericho alexander rode a horse a horse as white as snow when he came to the river he had nowhere to go julius caesar ruled the world and put his face on a dime everybody flipped the coin but that was in the old time mark and matthew wrote their books luke and john wrote others and yet they never saw the day when sisters would be brothers they say the end is coming now and that it won’t be long but i just walk along the road singing my little song

why?

by jack dale coody

why is the sky blue? not because of me and you why are the clouds white? because everything is going to be all right why is the grass green? maybe that is just how it seems why is the sun yellow? because uncle bob is an fine fellow why is the sunset red? ask uncle fred why is the farm quiet? because nobody wants to buy it why do birds sing? because they know everything why do snakes crawl? because they are giving it their all why does a cat meow? because it is not a cow why does a dog bark? because bodies are buried in the park why is the night black? because there is no turning back why is the ocean deep? because cousin jane is asleep

love poem

written on the flyleaf of a copy of the bright shawl by joseph hergesheimer, priced ten cents at a yard sale in truro, massachusetts

if wishes were raindrops and dreams were umbrellas you’d be one of the gals and i’d be one of the fellas we would live in a city of smiling faces we would go to the beach and we would go to the races no bosses would tell us what we had to do our eyes would be bright and our hearts would be true we wouldn’t answer the phone or look at the clock we’d just look at each other and let people talk

the lamb

by nick nelson

mary had a little lamb who had nowhere to go and the lamb was very much disturbed by mary’s ebb and flow mary liked to watch tv and eat raspberry croissants and the lamb could only wonder as she brushed crumbs from her capri pants who is this strange creature the lamb thought helplessly who never walks in the wind and rain and has no desire to be free? mary’s favorute show was friends and also star trek and cheers and gunsmoke and big valley confirming the lamb’s worst fears and so the decades drifted by in pixels and sound waves and though the lamb prayed fervently mary would not be saved

poem written on the back of a flyer for a lost cat torn off a telephone pole in oroville california

by bofa xesjum

i am special not like you the universe would fly apart if i were not the glue the universal cosmos protects you every minute the only reason that it does is because i am in it i walk the streets unnoticed unheralded and alone but if i only wished to i could turn you all to stone someday it will be raining i will sit down by the road and all of you will disappear when i lay down my load

poem written on a computer in the kearney nebraska public library

by bofa xesjum

i write this poem and since i want it to be true i write it for myself and not for you i never liked flowers i never liked birds peace and love and happiness are just words all i ever wanted was to rule the earth but everybody laughs at me because i am truly cursed i am just a lonely zombie walking in the night you think that i am nobody and you are right

identical

by timothy t jones

the cans of peaches looked identical so i picked one and the desk clerk grimaced and sneered in the shadows no, they are not identical at all i woke up trembling what a narrow escape!

just like old times, part 2

by rhoda penmarq

you don’t think they followed us all the way here from reno, do you? i wouldn’t put anything past them but that was before i met you we have to do something we are running out of time i don’t know how to say it then don’t try i am going to take a look outside why? don’t you want to live any more? the sound - it is closer now you made me what i have become but we have to do something after all this time they followed us all the way here i never would have believed it how they must hate us hatred must be all they have what did you do to them anyway? what did i do to them? what did you do to them? not that it matters now give them credit - they waited a long time longer than our love yes, you heard what i said and i will say it again our love is dead as dead as we will be when they come through the door

just like old times, part 1

by rhoda penmarq

“here we are again” i felt so strange and then i met you there is still time did you hear that? i thought i heard something i didn’t want to live any more there is still time but we have to act fast you’re a strange man did you hear that? outside in the parking lot “i never really knew you until now” they followed us all the way here i don’t know how to say it i thought i heard something you made me look at the stars agan i didn’t want to live any more all the way from oakland it’s been a long time because you’re a strange man you could say that but i didn’t want to live any more or at least from carson city you are right - i hear it i remember the first time i met you outside in the parking lot!