Archive for the ‘Poems’ Category

Prayer for a Harley Rider

Fear’s Dirty Little Secret

the writer’s group

Debt of Blood

Cry Buona Notta

Prayer for a Harley Rider

by Lisa Martinovic

So here I am gawking at this brand new, beefed-up
and all full of itself Harley-Davidson
Big
Black
Menacing
A veritable Rottweiler of the motorcycle world

I walk the length of this behemoth
admiring its sheer bulk
its shiny newness
Then I spy the sticker
applied somewhere above the headlight
centered just so, the sticker sneers:
If it’s too loud
You’re too old

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Fear’s Dirty Little Secret

Having suffered a series of calamities

so long and varied as to comprise a statistical impossibility
I cling to the tenuous hope that
surely
my life cannot get worse

then my computer crashes

and I am plunged headlong into a canyon of despair
deep and unfathomable as string theory
landing with an inelegant splat, I am an upended bug
flailing fruitlessly and beset
by larger insects who gnaw greedily on my exposed viscera

there is no point trying to resurrect this heap

rogue elements in my brain disagree
they concoct an army of lively
drum-beating, cymbal clashing, sword wielding
thoughts
cruel thoughts in crimson uniforms,

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the writer’s group

OK, so you’re in this new writer’s group

for years you’ve been avoiding them
like a plague of phone solicitors at dinnertime
but all your friends are going
and if you don’t get with it
before long they’ll all have Pulitzers
while you’re enjoying life as a jingle writer for local used car commercials

OK, so you’re at this new writer’s group
even though you fear them with the fear of the damned
because you’re so utterly naked
you and your purported art
and being thus exposed
there’s a sporting chance you’ll be revealed—instantly!
to have all the creative talent of a

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Debt of Blood

My name is Nila Marse
I may be older’n dirt and twice as ugly
But I ain’t never owed nobody nothin’

‘at’s right, I been worked like a mule all my life
bustin’ my ass and payin’ dues to where I’m bled drier than a salt box
I raised eight brothers and sisters with no mama
and a no ‘count daddy
Hell, he was worse than no daddy at all

I been workin’ thirty years at the chicken plant
my fingers all hobbled up
my lungs so full of dust from ground up chicken bones
every time I cough, feathers fly outta

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Cry Buona Notta

by Lisa Martinovic
buona-notte

Buona notte, he said
Do you know what that means?

the dance is over
house lights bright sting
my eyes watch musicians tired packing
a 45 hissing skips in a groove
our clothes stained muscles aching
glass slippers shattered feet bleeding
I cling, I beg for one last hug
He sighs assent
lets me curl and snake ‘round his chest
thick and muscled chest I’ve stroked and
clutched all primal urgency suckling
I became with him I became
the pleasure and succor I found
bound up in his

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