A lever can move the world, a stick a stone.
Ford put moonshiners on the road, moon-
E.E. Cummings made rain in poems rain. The moon
Once, in a faraway land, many men or one man said,
My dog will lick and nudge and skate a tinfoil pan
Rosetta’s stone now fits in a phone that sits as small
No wine glass, a coffee cup, no cup, the bottle;
My wife places apples slices on the stone
where I read and write and smoke too much.
Inshallah, I am still sitting there learning old words
most begin somewhere
the crystal lens
wash the world
they arrived early in the century
the first poems inside were thin
but curvy sexy thin
others arrived in varying weights
those I let in
in couch cushions under the stove
decades of them displaced
years passed and the fire marshal condemned
in desultory newspapers all over the world
but never “stopped by”
in pushcart after
seeing me is easy now
thumbing too seriously
but none are too sure when I tell them the special
His house once lit up like the word ambulance, birthday, or sex...he, he had cancer that he flew to Boston and made prestigious in some medical journal...
She hypercorrected her own speech and never could finish a crossword...she lost her husband then sold everything he ever owned, had their house painted, and hadn't spoken to any one of us since...
He frolicked and screwed up the complete sentence structure of conversations...he flew helicopters in Iraq and usually stood behind his wife at parties...
She had six dogs on six leashes who were liberated from shelters...she worked in a vet clinic (not soldiers but pets and wildlife) and watered every single plant in her yard individually...
His death interrupted our broken after-work talk about nothing in particular...he had Alzheimer's, bludgeoned his wife once, and couldn't remember home...
She was convinced that butterflies were conscientious about their syntax...she shaved her pubic hair into a prefect "V" as if it were half the chiasmic letter "X" or something with wings...
He never said much after the sixth grade and too many fist fights...to tell the truth, he had an incondite vocabulary, taught Shakespeare and Bukowski together, and was humbled at the thought that people talked about him behind his back.
blueberry colored eyes
the first aspects
of your figure
in for the one
in a cart full
as if plucked
from the leafing
branch of your arm
the stem pinched
between your fingers
the soft S
from the bough
of your tongue
Thanks to Mike Sukach for today's poetry and pix! About himself, Mike writes: I am seventeen years into my career as an officer in the United States Air Force and, as such, a veteran of numerous wars and conflicts, most of them familiar despite the hyperbole with which they are too often declared and subsequently rendered unrecognizable. At the moment, I live in Colorado Springs, teach writing and literature at the United States Air Force Academy, and direct the Air force Professional Writers Workshop.
Currently, Mike has fiction forthcoming in the 2012 Winter edition of Ontologica and The Citron Review. His poetry has appeared in The Blast Furnace and his poem, “Invocation,” was recently selected as a finalist in the Sow’s Ear Poetry Review’s 2012 poetry competition. He also has poetry recently anthologized in Proud to Be: Writing by American Warriors, published by Southeast Missouri State University Press. Take a closer look: www.mksukach.com.
a day in the life
no, i'm not making you another saucer of coffee...
dogs don't have regrets, i don’t think...
stop looking at me like that...
i heard you the first time...
why don't you ever pee on her side of the bed...
quit fussing, lay down...
you can't drive, get off the wheel...
i don't know what that look means...
you smell like bologna...
i'm not sure why you don't like other dogs...
i haven't seen your ball...
well, if the shower is on, you're getting in...
yes, dog is god backwards but...
i'm not sure why you have more than one name...
it’s late, go to sleep already...
i know your ears hurt...