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The Blog Bog

The Mag Rack

Bruised Hyacinth

A cheap indie short
in a room
where white flags
and bruised hyacinth
are the only décor.

Next door,
the cats run rank,
dogs insanely bark.
The neighbors ignore this house,
and the crooked mailbox
gets no mail.

The silhouette of a shadow
sets aside a hollow point
for everyone in the room.
The ammo just came in
and this should be a turkey shoot
as Grandad would say
if he still had teeth.

Joan of Arc moves in next door.
The rent is cheap and the cancer is free.
I try to console her mother
but every girl's got a mind of her own,
So off to war she goes
and the next thing you know
she's burning at the stake.

The voices in her head
drove her: Michael, Margaret,
Catherine. Three saints
who sought victory over the king.

The sky falls from the periphery.
I'm a deuce short of twenty-one.
The projectionist takes a leak
and it's anecdotal at best.
Other voices speak,
a hollow point hits its mark.

                           Mike Jurkovic


On Tuesdays I taste the barren,
impolite paste of the plaintiff.
The mock hero who gets
all the sympathy. The whole enchillada
starts with him: Alpha. Omega.
Big fuckin' deal.
Get a ticket
'n take a seat.
Watch the full scope
of your sterile crusade.
Fold the indigo bunting
into teeny, tiny squares.

You haven't a sixpenth's chance in hell
of proving yourself a foot soldier,
comporting yourself that way.
A citizen of democracy walks aright.
No slouch, no droopy posture.
Only the wounds of war we can't heal

                           Mike Jurkovic

David Gershator