Looking For Something New

  

—Poetry by Tohm Bakelas, New Jersey 

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

641-793-8122 Dial-A-Poem
 
At first the number I dialed was incorrect.
I had a 4 where there should’ve been a 7.
When i sorted it out, an automated 
voice stated: “dial-a-poem.”
First call got me Ginsberg, I hung up. 
Second call got me Bukowski, I hung on. 
He read 3 poems.
When it was over the dial tone flatlined 
then beeped three times. 
It was 12:13am
and I was all alone
in that dark.  
 
 
(prev. pub. in Three Poets 5 with Danny D. Ford and Mark Anthony Pearce, Hickathrift Press, 2021)

 

 

 

 

 

moths dance

he quickly looked away
after i caught him
staring at me.

i saw him grimace
and laugh to himself
as he muttered something
under his breath—

i didn’t question it
i knew i’d see him soon—

i looked into his eyes
and saw the fear
he experienced
because he knew what i was
and he knew that i knew
that he wasn’t supposed
to drink on all the antipsychotics
he was supposed to be on

and so i looked away,
toward a cracked window
with buzzing moths
dancing madly in
the fluorescent light.

 

 

 

 

 

detox

 

every time i floated to detox


they made me run group


therapy on substance abuse

 



i’d always try to sneak topic

s
of depression and anxiety


in the mix, just to shake things up

 



the best group i ever ran was on suicide,


but the detox workers didn’t want that,


they wanted 12 steps and the big blue book



 

but for what it’s worth, sticking


a needle in your arm seems like


suicide to me



 

and like most things,


my view was shared alone



 

and you know something,


for as many times as i read


the serenity prayer,


it never changed


a fucking thing


(prev. pub. in Three Poets 5 with Danny D. Ford and Mark Anthony Pearce, Hickathrift Press, 2021)

 

 

 

 

 

i went to a bookstore and bought nothing

it was 13 minutes from my house and
as i drove in silence the sun chased me.
there were two sets of double doors
that i had to pull open to enter the building.
when i got through both sets
i walked to the poetry section.
i started digging for something new,
something that i believed might be found.
i pulled some books from the shelf
with titles that sounded appealing,
cracked them open,
read a few lines,
but quickly put them back.
this section held titles of best sellers
modern day poets with
education and no experience
too many writers writing about nothing
lyricists without anything to rhyme
transcendentalists without transcending
feminists calling for men to be exterminated
and classics too far past my scope of intellect.
overhead an employee announced:
“the store will be closing in ten minutes.”
i turned toward the
glass doors and began to walk.
outside the sky was dark.
i sat on the curb watching
the shadows of clouds disappear.


(prev. pub. in Punk Poets are Pretentious Assholes, Between Shadows Press, 2021)

 

 

 

 

8/4/2020
for Ava Argenio

you died on a monday,
i didn’t hear any church bells,
i didn’t hear anything
but your children crying
in the hospital wings
back home in jersey

i was driving with friends
through new york on the
way to new hampshire,
breathing the dream of
one last hoorah

i remember being a kid
at your shore house,
chasing seagulls and
finding ocean glass

i remember when you were
diagnosed with cancer, i came
over as much as i could

i thought about the picture of
you and mom hanging on my fridge,
the one my kids love so much

and then i wondered if she
was there waiting for you
on the other side of the boardwalk,
on the other side of some place
known only to you

 

 

 

  

 

 

seasons
​ ​
the world is a cracked
yellow basement windowpane
stained and riddled
with a dull pressure,
and the cold outside is
october’s hollow winds
ripping through
a hot august night.
september will begin and end,
and much like the seasons
we continue forward
we move ahead.


(prev. pub. in "Even the Spiders are Despondent", Death of Workers Whilst Building Skyscrapers, September, 2020) 

 

 

 

 

 

reflecting while pissing in a hospital urinal

an unspecified sadness lingers these halls.
the chipped paint and
cracked floor tiles
are not exempt,
everything inside this structure feels this sadness—
even the spiders are despondent.
it cannot be avoided
it cannot be changed
it just simply is.
for a very long time it has been here,
possibly as long as the building has been standing.
it will be here long after the living are gone,
long after i leave and am gone.


(prev. pub. in "Even the Spiders are Despondent", Death of Workers Whilst Building Skyscrapers, September, 2020)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.

—Kurt Vonnegut, Mother Night

_____________________

Welcome back to the Kitchen, Tohm Bakelas, and thanks for the eye-opening poetry this morning! Tohm was first featured in Medusa’s Kitchen on 11/3/21, and we posted his poem for Kent Taylor last Monday.

 

By the way, that number for Dial-a-Poem actually works.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of 

Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry events in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
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work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!