Pizza Clock
—Photo by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento
THE WEIGHT OF DOGS
—William S. Gainer, Grass Valley
Rose
on the porch
yelling at the sky.
The thunder
stops.
She has no idea
what
she's done.
___________________
___________________
UP-CYCLING
—William S. Gainer
Been using
the magazine
from a .45 automatic
Colt
for a bookmark.
A little bulky
but it works.
__________________
OF TATTOOS
Been using
the magazine
from a .45 automatic
Colt
for a bookmark.
A little bulky
but it works.
__________________
OF TATTOOS
—William S. Gainer
If I decide to
customize
my first choice
would probably be
chrome sunglasses—
maybe a new hat
and a pair of red shoes.
I’ve always liked
red shoes.
I’m thinking they’d
go good
with a new hat
and chrome
sunglasses.
If I decide to
customize
my first choice
would probably be
chrome sunglasses—
maybe a new hat
and a pair of red shoes.
I’ve always liked
red shoes.
I’m thinking they’d
go good
with a new hat
and chrome
sunglasses.
Ashland Wood Sculpture
—Photo by Cynthia Linville
LYRIC IS STILL RUNNING
—Tom Goff, Carmichael
Lyric is still running, says the quickly
punctured e-balloon on my office computer:
It’s desired that we use this damn great
new instant messaging setup for god
knows what which I will blithely ignore
thankyouverymuch. Oh if you, Lyric,
were a woman, if you, Lyric, were a poem,
could I utter such contemptuous words
about you or to you? Lyric, you are a poem,
you are the barksprouting, leafshooting
bareassed demigoddess the sun god
worried into a dead green crown and still
never captured, never understood, forever
making music from the bafflement of his
rut wish. Lyric, you are the one woman
whose flowing brown hair I’m aching to caress,
run my hands through as the god skims
his fingers through the rippling strings
of his invention, liquid made structure.
Oh how I could structure and stress your
exquisite skin into a rippling lyric. Your
sweet-scented hair, your strong warm hands,
your small breasts all passing through my hands:
A Daphne unlaurelling, I muse as my dog
sleeps between my legs in bed, or as
the pop-up snaps right up & perky to tell me
Lyric is still running…
—Tom Goff, Carmichael
Lyric is still running, says the quickly
punctured e-balloon on my office computer:
It’s desired that we use this damn great
new instant messaging setup for god
knows what which I will blithely ignore
thankyouverymuch. Oh if you, Lyric,
were a woman, if you, Lyric, were a poem,
could I utter such contemptuous words
about you or to you? Lyric, you are a poem,
you are the barksprouting, leafshooting
bareassed demigoddess the sun god
worried into a dead green crown and still
never captured, never understood, forever
making music from the bafflement of his
rut wish. Lyric, you are the one woman
whose flowing brown hair I’m aching to caress,
run my hands through as the god skims
his fingers through the rippling strings
of his invention, liquid made structure.
Oh how I could structure and stress your
exquisite skin into a rippling lyric. Your
sweet-scented hair, your strong warm hands,
your small breasts all passing through my hands:
A Daphne unlaurelling, I muse as my dog
sleeps between my legs in bed, or as
the pop-up snaps right up & perky to tell me
Lyric is still running…
_____________________
Today's LittleNip:
EQUALLY SATISFYING
—Max West, Sacramento
—Max West, Sacramento
When no song is right
Because you’ve never heard it,
Don’t know
The name of the band
Or can’t remember
What album it’s on
You either sing your own
Or suffer the silence
I’m currently of the opinion
That it’s equally important
And satisfying
To do both
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to today's contributors, all of whom will be in the new issue of Rattlesnake Press's WTF which will be released tomorrow night at Luna's Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sac., 8pm, hosted by Editor Frank Andrick. Be there!
Ashland Unicorn
—Photo by Cynthia Linville
