—Photos of the Salt-and-Pepper Shaker Display
at the 2015 California State Fair
by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento
LOST & FOUND
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove, CA
Some hairpins,
I think.
A mummified
Slice
Of wedding cake.
Three bowling balls.
One shoe.
Size eleven,
Possibly. Right.
A brogue, probably.
A notebook,
Something about
A water engine.
And one
Buttonhook.
All needed soon,
We know.
To be claimed
Soon, too,
We hope.
TWO, FOR YOU
—Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA
You came in with a thought-disrupting startle,
stunning as if on point of chin a fist.
A friend says a Scottish word, the delightful tartle,
conjures that wordlessness that draws down mist
around the friend you wish to introduce,
but whose holy name, one sodden moment, escapes.
Oh, tartle is also the true name for the bruise
that darkens my eyes then spreads from nose to nape
when you rise before me wholly backlit by heaven,
my shadow dear, my not-my woman young
as can be whose silhouette relights ancient stars;
whose laugh sets me to st-stammering uneven
stabs at wit, my tongue alone laced with scars.
My bumblebee abdomen torn, yet it’s not yet stung.
***
The fireworks, no, the bombs in my chest went off,
noise-rippling, sheet-metal ripping here to there,
ecstatic catenas bursting with pungent grief,
all erect standing condemned due to disrepair.
In her familiar office you stood, back
turned: yet you, no mistake. Fears, joys confirmed
by the spirals of pulsating blood I’d seemed to lack,
red throbs through fledgling veins still scarcely formed.
Never can I decide: you’re small, you’re tall—
tall, I declared forever, seeing you
true shoulders, voyager legs très militaire.
At last you faced me. Suddenly being you,
inside your skin I traced sine-wave surges and falls:
I pierced lush clouds, I gulped the much thinner air.
_____________________
SUBTRACT & CARRY
—Tom Goff
I used your absence as excuse,
I put you together from many women;
from her your shoes, from her your hair,
if hers was dark enough brown to compare.
From this one your delicate pale skin,
from that one your dearest insidious sin.
Ghosting you whole when you’d dissolved
into that vacancy of revolve
the world…well, why this translucent ruse?
I put you together from many young women,
all of them fathers’ beloved daughters,
their summer legs glistening waters, otters.
Yet all these well-put-together women
are less in sum than unfinished you
(subtract from your sum the w,
carry the mystery word, and who
might you be if not my dark omen?)…
NUMBER SEVEN
Arnold Bax, 1939
—Tom Goff
Farewell to the vast symphonic hoard, to all
the played, the unplayed, soon to be consigned
to my trunk at the White Horse Inn…to outlast my fall?
Will it now be poetry, music cast out of mind?
Farewell beforehand, small-fingered Harriet
of the sweet soft flawlessly white shape
and ivory trill, us long since caught in the net
of sun-pierced tide along Cornish coast and cape.
Farewell soon, my hearty whimsical happy Mary;
farewell to Ukraine; and Scotland; English friends;
to my lost-behind-mists green Celtic veldts of faery,
and to long-prized Willie Yeats, who this instant ends,
the ink still beading the note-heads on this fresh score
of farewell to a life of vision in love and lore.
______________________
GOODBYE TO ABBEY
—Tom Goff
Abbey, the white-black cat, with soft ears rounded
seemed always to train them, aim them as do cattle
their auricular satellite dishes to the prattle
of grass, and where the rich alfalfa lies mounded.
Her nonpareil pounce, a leap for the sofa arm;
to your mimic mews, a retort in mild sweet Cat,
nestling alongside you. Rarely her tail would bat;
at most, a Celtic burr of a purr: no harm,
no claws outed in anger I ever saw.
Abbey, you loved to browse as the bovines do,
but on softest certainty: never an empty bowl.
Wrenching, I found, to feel your small breath go,
to fondle you, kidneys shut down, through the last pink draw
of injection, one final world-to-no-world slow roll.
A lion in Zimbabwe killed a safari guide
It was right near the park where a lion named Cecil was illegally killed by an American who wanted him as a trophy
The safari guide was leading a group of tourists to see a pride of lions
How were these lions supposed to know they were not being hunted down by humans as well
and that these humans only wanted to only shoot pictures instead of guns at them?
Let this be a lesson to just let lions be and leave them alone,
and do not harass lions to make money off of them for the tourist industry
—Michelle Kunert
_____________________
A neighbor’s outdoor calico cat is always happy to see me come by
“Hello Itsy-Bitsey” I say and she comes to me to get petted
This cat enjoys the attention she gets from me
Yet this cat hardly knows me, unlike my mom’s indoor calico cat Hurley
Hurley once used to be more sociable
Now lately she runs off and hides under the sofa or heads under a bed
I don’t know what got into Hurley’s head
I never hurt Hurley in her life
I’ve also fed her good cat food and given her catnip
I’ve also offered to play with her with a teaser wand
but she doesn’t care to return any affection anymore
It appears she’s going to get grumpier in her “old age"
—Michelle Kunert
____________________
The Folsom Arts Association and City Council plan to build a 40-foot statue of Johnny Cash in a park next to a bike trail named after him
They also are planning seven other “tribute" sculptures with it
including a 7-foot guitar pick, a 17-foot high steel "Rusty Cage", and a portrayal of "Grey Stone Chapel" in granite blocks
While they are not using public tax dollars
for the estimated 8 million the project needs to raise for the cost
the real Man in Black would want contributions given instead for art, writing and music projects for Folsom’s prison inmates
as well as for other rehabilitation and employment programs
which could also include causes such as banning employment application boxes that say “Have you been convicted of a crime?"
Maybe Merle Haggard who was “rescued” from Folsom Prison by Johnny Cash could explain this better than me
—Michelle Kunert
Today's LongerNip:
DON’T KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING
—Caschwa, Sacramento
Cock the gun
Kick the can
Down the road
Take aim
Trucker lane
Geared for gain
Sugar cane
Covered from rain
Hi ho the merryo
Dang busted radio
Lots of recordings
Fresh from the studio
Someone passing
On the right
Might be a uniform
Looking for a fight
Fuel gauge low
Prices too high
Just can’t beat yesterday’s
Hot apple pie
Take the wheel, Joe
I need a nap
Visor don’t work
Borrow my cap
Here come the ladies
Wanting things nice
Gleaming with gold
And glittering ice
Stay in the kitchen
Fix me some grub
Bring that hot water
To put in the tub
Back on the highway
More road to go
More road to go
More road to go
________________________
—Medusa, thanking today's fine contributors, and suggesting that you head down to 25th & R Sts. in Sacramento tonight for Sac. Poetry Center's "Raise the Roof" open mic reading at 7:30pm, celebrating all the repairs that have gone on down there recently!
