Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #3                        Page 16
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The Blog Bog

The Mag Rack


Reinvent yourself, or invite
Someone else write your death rattle
I'd rather mess my own self up

If you've made a wide swipe at life
Or poem, rush into the sexy godhead of the future
To look back at the mistakes you've made and laugh

The poems you make are who you will become
By blending of repeated layered attempts
You can revise the past to an air-brushed future

I never look before I leap
Into the next chasm,
What am I afraid of?

It's not as if I'm virginal at being smashed
Angelo Verga


The glamour girl on the other side
Of the mehitzah is wearing red heels
And smiling at me as she sings,

Singing at me as she smiles,
Throaty Biblical Hebrew
In her unmarried voice.

I am so horny, Most High Monarch,
God of Moshe, Abraham, Issac,
But also blood soaked Ariel Sharon.

I so wish I'd become a corporate lawyer,
An eminent surgeon at an esteemed hospital.
I might've been selected by a princess

To become her king, the one who is chosen.

    Angelo Verga___

The Day Before Payday

And then
suddenly sat upon my head
like an ill-fitting hat,

and then boredom
pulled into my driveway
in its Ford Pinto,
barged in without knocking,
slapped its
ABBA's Greatest Hits album
on the stereo,
put its feet up on my coffee table,
set in
like rigor mortise,

and then
boredom descended,
taking up squatter's rights
on my lap,
remodeled my kitchen
in beige,
served itself like a
shit taco
on a Styrofoam plate,
with much ennui and malaise,

handed me an empty bottle
of Johnny Walker Black,
said "Here,
have one on the house."
Stuffed my pipe
with stale bread crumbs,
"Have a smoke with your drink,

And then boredom
came tap dancing
into the room like Annie,

so I stuck a Hershey's bar
in its mouth
and sent it packing.

Then boredom
got on a soapbox,
began pontificating about how
you're not the only one
going through this tonight,
there are millions of others,
etc., etc. . . .

"That doesn't help much",
I said.

So boredom breezed
back in
like Scarlet O'Hara
in a big stupid hoop skirt,
batting its eyelashes,
"Afta awl,
tumarra es anutha daaay . . ."

And you know
what I said
to it

    Scott Blackwell___

And The Saxophone Is A Cold Piece Of Metal, After All

This summer would never have begun
if only for the sun.

So I can't orient myself
by sense anymore,
wearing loneliness like a billboard,
days slashed
into ragged sheets of blue
and black,
bruises on my skin,
above the Eden we leveled
to build the Hell we made.

And I've heard rumors
of some inherent structure
in the universe,
something like a
conscious intention.
Einstein called it "The Old One",
though he was no believer.

And I was reading an article
in my doctor's office just last week,
I think it was in Popular Mechanics,
it stated emphatically
that scientists have now proved
conception is fatal.

Yes-for many years it was
only a theory,
but it now seems
there is irrefutable evidence
that no matter what you do,
jog, exercise,
eat bran muffins, red meat,
smoke cigars,
drink whiskey like water,
shoot vitamins, smack,
it makes no difference, eventually
you are going
to die.

wine-drunk harvests,
launching the ships of the dead,
love is made and destroyed,
the tears fall and dry,

and one lifetime
is still a too-narrow crack in this
window of eternity,
as the bombs are dropped,
diseases spread,
bullets fly,

and I sincerely hope
that none of it hits you or me,
but it's gonna do what it's
gonna do,

as all roads lead to

and the saxophone
is a cold piece of metal, after all,
only waiting for someone
to make it sing.

    Scott Blackwell___

Bob Heman
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