| Thunder Sandwich #17
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 dweeb by jeff filipski |
| MIDNIGHT For Tim Peeler I. smashing conflict of real/surreal like a monk run unobtainable swathed in death-timed light waiting for rhythm of denial hearing atrophied nuanced singing the notes abruptly cease the string section breathes heavy, unadorned scat sighs as incisions of sound cut through a deaf and scattered audience radio surfed splashes reveal a wanton sense of memory the events of the day - no news is good news - are charted as emily watches without emotion II. demon whacked nocturnal caesura breathing like a frosted dragon sadness fueling a steroid mission ambivalence, the mode of transport one foot on this neo magic carpet the other hanging from a cosmic lair wombing his way toward a fetal past he pauses involuntarily to question memoir burdened soul plundering through treasures in a stashed crevice hiding bits and clues - the final explanation always disappoints III. hard rock night remaindered in heat the insignia is a crapped out error a falling star's a flashback of a stark and painful rape where's the nodding head - the shaking hand - the group leader who sneezes asthmatic directives at imaginations left untended on toward the crested ruins lightning's art leaving fashioned clues like a brazen man of the cloth divining his way toward god Homage I hate you, Bill Slaughter. You are the worst kind of son of a bitch. The kind of an artist who flashes, like a sex fiend, your truths which can't be denied, your simple profundity which exposes us all. You're the guy, the conscience, who comes in through some back door and lets us know, quietly, what phonies we all really are. I hate you, Bill Slaughter. I pick up your book at least every third evening and I must turn on the light to see the words, to read them, to make sure I didn't invent you, because I sure as hell don't need you. Don't need to be told that I am a liar, a fraud, a fake. Don't need to be confronted with myself, though I have fancied that I do it every day. I hate you, Bill Slaughter for showing me it could be done, that thing accomplished with such ease. That short line, short breath, logic which makes so much sense in confession ridden honesty that in my smug heart of hearts I feel defenseless, childlike, a student. How dare you take the doctor to the next level. I hate you, Bill Slaughter for doing what we could not envision, for voiding yourself of cynicism, for getting it down right, for causing us to choke on our own pretension, for making Diogenes smile, for teaching Polonius, for resurrecting Socrates, for giving Plato light, for Kierkegaard. I hate you, Bill Slaughter. I hate you in that way that one, somehow, hates the mistreated bearer of a Christmas gift. I hate you for my guilt, for my failure, my facade. I hate you for a lot of things, but most of all, I hate you because you know. AT HOME time, the clock says i have 55 minutes minimum before knowing that there might be another movie maybe one like last night's when the music brought forth once again the sights/sounds against and through the insides of my eyes i see them/saw them with my head, the brain which side left/right too much trouble to determine old man regressive visions no longer sparse and innocent realmed in all retained from chapters 1 thru 48 sifting and selecting specifics from the verge, the precipice my arthritic hip reminds me that i can't write guests/ghosts will fnd their way into the postered rooms and halls and i shall fumble with remotes selections stemming from chance musics spraying walls unconscious lackluster meaningless confab delving into worthless, banal trivia my face will be read as i laugh uncontrolled at them, of course, not with a devil i can be though it scares me wracks me with fright i'd rather wait alone hiding and covered wishing not to read not to put forth an effort with books and light merely hear inside those gushing phrases a natural eruption baking soda and vinegar maybe the foam created is the refuse from a joust head and heart in challenge as the back of the cave emerges swords, daggers, and dueling pistols fall to a shaky floor |
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| ISSN: 1534-4037 |
Edited by Jim Chandler & Haze McElhenny
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