ABOUT

CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

 
THREE POEMS
by Alex Phillips

Read 'n Run: Driving Instructions

It was like overhearing the conversation
between the paper bag and the fluorescent bulb.
I knew I wanted to shut one off, pull one aside and say to it:
this is the nursery of a human baby.
You must make your way to a higher ground.
I took out my finger because it was a symbol of power
and when I pointed it, of identification.
As a path poured forth from it,
the bag nuzzled my leg in a gesture of
repentance. But I am vengeful.
I put the bag to my mouth and began
to blow. The light turned away.
It made its way along the path
and each new baby it encountered
would reveal a labyrinth of possible
decisions. The light is unsure
of its place in the natural world.
The fluorescent light is considered a scoundrel.
If my dad were still around he would have made
me keep it. He was a compassionate person.
He was a religious person who had a stone
in his heart and the stone symbolized
unbreakable faith. It grew and grew.
If my dad were a stone in my chest
I would not have hawked his false teeth.
My feet long for a bridge.
My mouth longs for a jury.
Why does this human baby whimper?



Hallelujah Heart

What do you expect from she
from El Salvador
from straightened hair
from she who might arrive at any moment
from the penal colony
she racer
who smells important smells
she in the garden next to the copper cupid
from the band of groupies
the black band on her arm
and all the gods gods
smell like beatbox
to her the forgotten sounds
she hears
does she go looking hallelujah
in the peat ha ha
for the very nest
twined in her hallelujah
heart



Sharkopath

We were lucky enough to see one
the other night.
Maybe we were the first.
Maybe we were pioneers.
We noted its measurements and
peculiar features in our
little notebooks called "logs."
I also noted that
for years we believed that
our machines were perfect.
After all, was it not our
equipment that created Merlin
who was born as an adult,
having not death but his birth
to wait for. Could we not deceive
evolution by conjuring up
Tycho Brahe, the brilliant astronomer
but fatal pants-wetter?
I know why we've been so successful,
I wrote in my log. It's because
we believe in defiance.
Negligent, useless, pointless
defiance. So much so that I
copied all this from your little book.
For, there we were camped in
front of the toob. And the
Sharkopath had just made itself
known to us. Soon so would the
juggernaut, the Bambimew,
the steamless shovel, the pavilion,
and the antiseptic spray.
We talk about perfection
in our little books
because, as it turns out,
there is one thought that could
destroy us if we think it.
The one thought I must never
mention or even conceive of.
I don't know what it is.
I know it is not perfection.
The Sharkopath when it visits your home
takes advantage of your hospitality.
It switches on the tv and everything
is coated in the oozy blue.
He has metal braces.
Your head shines like
a tit in prison.