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Well Facebook annoyed the hell out of me..  it kept saying error .. try posting later… to heck with that!!!

I have written this up four times now and if my computer crashes a fifth time  I will give up. I need a new processor fan..or maybe a new computer period. Agrivating.

Anyway.. here it is :your top ten poets of the week…

1. Sean Reddan – Product

http://www.facebook.com/notes/sean-reddan/product/155698774495872

This hit me …. and consumerism is part of the problem.. however malls create jobs so it is a huge debacle of a debate. I like stores that give back.. my favorite thrift stores give their proceeds to homeless shelters, domestic violence shelters and I try to teach my kids that it is important as a society that we give back when we can…

2. Jason Hardung – Poet Fucker

http://www.facebook.com/notes/jason-hardung/poet-fucker/10150601998125074

Yup … Jason I relate to this… so much.

3. Michael Grover- Counter Revolutionary Poems #1 : Published by Unadorned Press

get your copy now : Paypal unadornedpress@ymail .com: the best buy of chapbooks of the week yo!

4. MJ Taylor; Humanity

http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=10150170815426053

not enough is said about MJ.. because of him I believe in reincarnation.. there is no way he is 18 toooo wise for his years….Happy birthday man…

5. Scott Wannberg : M.J. Soiree 2 Step Yipppeeee….for M.J.Taylor’s birthday

http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=10150183092643925

read this on Voices to Contend With Friday night… scott’s pieces are all unique ; rhythmic challenging to read.. and if you listen you can almost hear Levon Helm in the distance..

6. Anne McWilliams- Unless Im the Nurse

http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=10150184824393887

if you haven’t read her… what are you waiting for???

7. Annie Perconti;; The Patriarch 

http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=10150198281321443

heard her on Voices to Contend With  Friday night… if you have never heard/ read her.. listen to archives… glad she called in.. excellent poet..

8. Gillian Prew;  Under the Flood

http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=10150199227943561

Her chapbook is on my list of must haves… her work is always ones i read and reread…

9.April Michelle Bratten; The Blood Memory

http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=10150176271302711

everything she writes blows me away..

10. Rebecca Clark Gober;  California Dreamin

http://www.facebook.com/notes/rebecca-clark-gober/california-dreamin-a-poem/10150192397987726

You need to write more Rebecca… there is more than being a mom, working an important job, there is what makes us tick.. and I have been reading you since 2007.. don’t be afraid to get your hands dirty and write… excellent.

Inside the War Lounge; 10pm Est Monday: featuring Yossarian Hunter.

Editor of Paraphenalia Quarterly; musician, talented storywriting poet… been trying to get him on air for more than two minutes for years… be there.. and call in.. because callers like YOU are what tells me that this show matters to you.. and is needed in the poetic community.. 

I hope to see all of you reading this.,. havent used this page in a long time… maybe it is time to do something with it…

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I.       Confusion,
All is closing in ,

Beyond the grey gloom,
Shuttered windows trap the light
And I

cannot breathe

Stale confines chokes the life
the shrouded wraith

refuses to let me from its grasp,

Peering through one eye in focus

I cannot see the sun.

Bodice of metal shrapnel
cuts to the bone,

hanging by metal cord

upside down and weightless

I cannot see you anymore.

II .      Alone

is my  highway,
here there are no road signs
no welcome sign to guide the way,
just the rundown
structure(s)
peeling of paint,
broken windows,
rusty metal gate, swinging in wind

doors falling from hinges

ceiling cracking and caving in

no more salvation

every dog had its day

three minutes to midnight

and is bone tired weary

Fetch. leap. sit

Moan for the death of nothing.

III      We are alone in this life..

And the struggle is almost too much to climb through
Wading through the mire of misconceptions
Tired of the theology
of misbegotten dreams of desolate angels wing
Failure is eminent front
with woebegotten charm
waiting for us to fall.

Haggard is the sentinel
leading the way
we have no choice but to trod
weaving and dodging
the muck thrown by latter day saints and sinners
there are no heroes sent to save you
just the long road
past redemption

There are no more heroes

His hands were cut away

And buried in an unmarked grave,

We cannot find.

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the high was his love..

burning a hole in the fine fibers that once believed..
lullaby dreams are make believe and
only junk is what remains  in this picture..
the rest went up in flames
mistaken as foil
charred reminders of what once was.
he blocked everything else out as a bad reminder of what he gave away.
he would have even sold his child to get high..
He would have given anything away… and did.

the high was his love..

Time slipped by him,
forgotten were birthdays, holidays..
other peoples wants were not his own
her dreams were not his
there was no happily ever after
there was this moment and this gasp of air
and that stream
while his mind drifted away
money slipped through his fingers
paying the dealer for his next fix became his ritual
Payday was a new supply
forget the electric bill,
she can get her own heat man…
and this high was losing its charm,
for instead of rolling over and needing her in his arms
he needed his blue veined mistress
that cold dawn puff through metal pipe
that he hid where he thought she didnt see

the high was his love….

the white lady…
blaming the nose  bleed on the baby
how high could he go ..
burn and cook them together, melted on a spoon
make it all go away a little while
it was all too much
the children, the tiny house
fuck all that mundane bullshit
it could all disapear…
mix the white with the green and make Christmas
all year..
cause she just wasnt fun anymore
fuck that good for nothing bitch
she had no jewelry left to pawn
the last diamond he ripped from her ear last week
bitch just wouldnt give it up

the  high was his love
little white crosses
licked off the chest of the stripper upstairs
while her friend found his creme filled center

rolling the days away
rolling down that junk filled creek
where the dealer made house calls for a price
and nothing else mattered
but the euphoria
the high was his love….
and he woke up
with three frost bitten toes
under an overpass bridge somewhere in Iowa
where did it all go
the junk is all gone..
and someone stole his shoes
his nose still was working
he smelled something green
that would do for now.

the high was his love..
all else was forgotten.

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