Comments
  1. *of ladybugs, & downward spirals*

    his eyes remain
    fixed
    in the direction of Carlisle,
    though with each passing cycle
    it becomes harder
    to believe
    that anything can ever
    be fixed.

    on the mirror,
    reminders that this
    be not an original thought.

    there is a light
    & it pours from deep
    inside his throat
    but we know
    it does not belong to him,
    we know it is not
    his.

    in his gut,
    we think he knows it too.

    poetrypoemmotorbikecity

  2. malpractice

    his pipedreams manifested
    in full technicolor
    as he assumed the role
    of a better man,
    crown prince of second place.

    what is it in
    this life
    makes a man extraordinary?
    what keeps
    the spiders at bay?

    this choking & this
    screaming,
    those bloody palmprints
    on the bathroom tile.
    none of this is
    characteristic,
    every bit of it
    has been misprescribed.

    poetrypoemmotorbikecity

  3. it’s the dreaming that’s real



    there were days
    between
    when we wanted only for
    a breeze,
    a breeze & a line or two
    of song.
    there were days,
    both before & after,
    nothing short of dying
    would do.

    it means something
    this time,
    i can already feel
    the scar
    it’s going to leave.

    in the City,
    the orphans spin happy endings
    from spilt milk & a fistful of ash,
    sing dirges when day
    robs the night.
    in the city,
    they operate with currencies
    not yet fully
    understood.

  4. elegy, for the technicolor princess

    *tuesday, 12:48 am*


    after a fortnight
    with no taste of fruit
    they declared the throne
    vacant,
    notified all applicants that
    future memories
    would be filtered
    through a panavision lens.

    it’s an extra heavy
    brand
    of sadness
    when shiny things
    aren’t anymore,
    when special proves itself
    otherwise.

    these days, the mayor paces
    out where the big top
    used to stand,
    mutters curses in the direction
    of Carlisle.
    these days,
    the mayor just ain’t
    worth a damn.

    some claim it to be
    a function of eggs & baskets,
    others diagnose it as
    a side effect
    of pushing
    when all that was required was
    a gentle pull.

    if there were a knife,
    would it be edgy & dull?
    if there were a hole card,
    would it be a
    diamond jack?


    if there were
    tomorrow
    then what the hell use
    is today?

  5. psilocybe cubensis, PES Amazonian strain…

    psilocybe cubensis, PES Amazonian strain…

  6. talkin’ eastbound 78 blues

    Broadway Mike’s headed south
    for the winter
    hoping for a more temperate
    climb
    & Little Charlie Manson,
    he saw something
    he insists on calling
    "The Light,"
    invited Medusa to
    return
    from her exile.

    one man’s Springer moment
    is another man’s
    everyday,
    life on the
    north side of
    Motor Bike City.

    the Mayor,
    he’s aware of
    all of these
    events
    but issues no kind
    of warning,
    simply mourns the death of
    the spiders.
    there are days,& some be worth
    the remembering.
    what that this
    could be one.

    poetry

  7. thursday night in motorbike city

    it’s half past
    seven
    & the fog,
    it’s beginning to
    not lift
    but maybe just thin
    a little bit
    & I’m left here
    wondering
    where the hell has
    Tonto gone?

    on Tuesday,
    there will be
    answers,
    the mayor will return from
    sabbatical.
    the sun will break through
    whatever it is that
    needs breaking
    & the priestess may even
    ascend
    to her throne.

    at the very least
    we’ll have just cause
    to change these
    dirty shirts.

    yesterday,
    we had less than no
    idea
    what the current rotation
    might bring.
    an hour or so ago
    it occurred to us that
    we may just have been
    right.

    it’s been weeks
    now
    since we accepted the
    compromise
    & I’m left here
    wondering
    just where the hell has
    Tonto gone?

    poetry

  8. *the preacher man, he lied*

    *the preacher man, he lied*

    fractal

  9. *a jury of your peers*

    *a jury of your peers*

    fractal

  10. * a moment, & it’s attendant artifact*

    it was my favorite shirt
    for something like six weeks
    back in the summer of
    ninety-six.
    it’s reign lasted
    four days longer
    than the one of the girl
    who thought it made
    a nice gift.
    sixteen years now
    & I still have the shirt.
    I still remember the way
    her hair tangled around
    the arm of her sunglasses
    too
    but that doesn’t fold
    as nicely
    on a shelf.

    poetry

  11. i can’t though, the fog just won’t let me

    i’d like to point out
    that the war’s been over
    going on seventeen days,
    & that wasps have built on
    the underside of
    the mailbox.
    i’d like to report
    that the dope bill
    is due.

    i’d really like to know
    if anybody gives a good damn
    about anything other than
    the angle of
    the drip.

    i had an idea
    once
    but the rest of us
    didn’t like it.
    come to think of it
    we weren’t too thrilled about
    me not having it
    either.

    the drone of the highway,
    it’s got them blind,
    blind as well as dumb.
    got them,
    maybe got you
    too.

    if there’s a
    lesson
    to be learned
    in all of this,
    i’d like to play the part
    of teacher.
    chalk dust & apples
    aren’t exactly
    up my alley
    but they damn sure run
    up & down the side street
    my alley empties
    into.

    poetry

  12. and when the sun rose sacrifices were made

    meanwhile,
    the orphans have finally stopped
    singing
    the songs of their forgotten mothers.
    finding no solace in
    the sirens or the night,
    they resign,
    six more sleepers
    for the battle to ignore.

    these cuts & bruises,
    these flesh wounds & scars.
    these days we’d be happy with a postcard,
    a snapshot of the
    execution.
    a scatter gun to keep
    the buzzards at bay.

    a brick in the
    cobblestone street,
    a seedless vine that bears
    no fruit.
    a shadow in the hallway
    where no shadow
    should be.

    there are answers,
    & questions to surely follow.
    there are a hundred & four
    days
    until Constable returns from
    the gap.
    there are six of them now,
    wretched by moonlight,
    beneath the sill,
    still not singing
    & their silence is becoming
    hard to ignore.

    poetry

  13. of spiderbites & the taj majal

    two nights ago,
    we made love,
    the dolphin &
    i,
    swimming together
    along the carrier wave.

    later,
    there were cocktails.
    cocktails & harmony
    beneath the shade of
    the fourth branch
    from the bottom.

    all of which
    raises the question:
    what is left
    for saturday night?

    there are pressures,
    both internal &
    otherwise.
    most of them i’m at a loss
    to explain.

    it’s not been decided
    if their numbers
    have become too
    significant
    or it the grass
    just isn’t growing as tall
    but the snakes,
    they’re having a hard time
    keeping hid.

    poetry

  14. even Kid Charlemagne gets those ol’ walkin’ blues

    i linger for a moment
    on the pegs,
    consider their respective holes,
    & pass on reconciliation.
    the angles are all
    contorted
    & geometry in general
    has been functioning
    rather strange
    since the morning
    the lesser of us
    left

    that night,
    on the mountain,
    i considered leaving,
    weighed my absence against
    the lightning & the wind.
    it should have been
    the most automatic
    of reactions
    but i’ve already admitted to
    not presently knowing
    the difference between
    an angle
    & an arc,
    so here i am

    they lifted the curfew
    day before yesterday
    & there’s been no sleep
    going on seven days.
    on the dresser,
    car keys
    & a half loaded
    thiry-eight.
    we’ve got ‘til morning
    to make it thirty miles past
    Wichita
    'til sunset to make things
    square

    poetry

  15. surgeon general's warning: YR GONNA DIE MOTHERFUCKER!!!


    all creative writing contained herein is (c) 2011 Yossarian Hunter unless indicated otherwise. any other content is probably not. i try to provide click-thru links & proper credit if at all possible but the space-time continuum is weak here at night & there's every chance i'm nine kinds of high...