The Colonel What you have heard is true. I was in his house. There was a kidney-shaped pool and a Donkey Kong, Jr arcade game. We sat in the living room. His wife brought out a tray of mint juleps and a plate of Extra Crispy dark. A remote control sat on the base of a bowling trophy. With a gigantic paper napkin covering his white suit and black bolo tie, he picked up the pieces of chicken one by one, cleaning the bones dry in exaggerated sucking motions then breaking them and slurping the marrow. My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing. There was talk [...]
This town is a proverb: a woman waiting. Thoughts have citations, skies are marine. All this strong weather. Chance is dead or just got tenure. Mt. Olympus is a tea. Fleeced heads loll on valedictory brick. Jam jar gaslights hold not much new.
from Pythia Says
Pythia says missile guidance systems are locked on locked out door slamming the slopes where cattle graze it’s just a satellite or he is winking and dropping into the folds her water worn down over time channeling anger and something else besides
Wood smoke dark blue sky the walls have blackened in a strategy for asset allocation it tastes like candy canyon cannons passing strange or what could be left the bends it starts far away and when we were young
It wasn’t God with us that October.
It was something bigger than we can put into solemn books and pray to
although I saw you praying as you stood over the falls,
your eyes shut for a while. I was praying too which I do when I’ve lost sight
of anything human.
Do you know Bertolt Brecht's The Hammer Throwers? One hundred men divide on right and left sides of a stage and throw hammers at each other for half an hour. Every performance, a different number of men are standing at the end, twenty nine or three, and in one performance, the most famous, one hundred and one men took a bow. Bertolt Brecht was alone in noticing that his play had given birth to a man. When asked his name, the man replied, I am Bertolt Brecht.
Gaud, lea, spry, loaf, spawn, scalp, slake, splay: (Pause for laughter). Thank you all for coming, for surviving those infamous six to ninety-four years of famine, ostensibly living off grape juice (Krane’s “zippy violet pilot of sustenance”), violent riots to claim last cups of java, searing coffee crop-dusting a talc on the tongue. Truly, the first hit of it at the top of the throat makes me believe that I have been drowning, and that, being revived, I am taking the first
gasp of breath, the rest of my life, so, thank you.
Death is here, you took a photo, sure, death Is near, remember, remember, today we fight Like birds, fight like burning rags, today we Fight like gods, today we die for gods, how Much is that ahi in the window, here you Are, here we are, no mercy, no future, lots And lots of turkey sausage, death tangles, Death shakes, death breakfast served all Night, death tangles, death shakes, death- Flavored ice-cream, deathberry gum
Joseph Lease’s critically acclaimed books of poetry include Testify (Coffee House Press, 2011), Broken World (Coffee House Press, 2007), and Human Rights (Talisman House, second edition forthcoming). Lease’s poems "'Broken World' (For James [...]