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In the Grey Light

In the gray light
of the East Side
A fine assortment of freaks
gather the garden party.
The wine ain’t cheap
And I can’t tell
if I’ve blown
the sure double play
Or if the ump should be
tending tables. Stocking shelves.
And not upending the headspace
of strangers duly noted.

In the gray light
of the East Side
I’m walking the mulberry
and redbud. The community gardens
in flower. My mind tuned
but not to f minor
like a fevered cat on Houston.
Shadow jousting. Hailing Lenin hailing
the brightening city blue. The air hushed.
Flawless. The river a hug of diamonds.

  Mike Jurkovic __


Definite Places

Half passed Kiev
and what was wasn’t
any longer. The night train
stands empty.
The skin around the wound
raw. The rain aloof.
The busy soil.

Like time
seeks freedom
from definite places
The last ticket
still holds
the inside hand.
Nameless and nubile

death pursues.
All vast intentions
cost more than
the cure - more than
the masquerading day.
The water in dreams
never drowns. But drags you

for miles.
And miles. Then,
embedded deeper than sin,
Acid flashbacks integrate.
The nebulous calls
for reckoning. The day
is now in progress.

  Mike Jurkovic __


There’s a grammatical error up ahead
that will change everything. How and why
I don’t know because,
off the top of my head
Each mad essay
must cast doubt
on the one before
Or at least lend a hand
to its abhorrent cause
Which makes for unsure seasons,
rising seas and a lack of wonder.
And I know you have better places to be
like Dunkin’ D or debtors jail,
So I’ll try to get to what I’m getting at
before I get to where I’m going,
Which was to talk about Gracie Allen
Who knew today’s postage stamp
was yesterday’s head of state.
That a country of checks and balances
relies on checks
And that you never place a comma
Where God has put a period.

  Mike Jurkovic __

© Donna Joy Kerness:WAITING IN THE WOOD: acrylic on dead tree Bark
© Donna Joy Kerness: WAITING IN THE WOOD acrylic on dead tree Bark


Once in a while You get shone the light
In the strangest of places If you look at it right

       - Robert Hunter

I’ve got a slush pile
six bodies deep.
So my I gotta dig down
in hopes of a rhyme.
But don’t we all
have our work cut out
for us I mean?
Doesn’t some tic of burden,
like a bee in a bonnet,
rasp at all our hearts?
Doesn’t something call us
into service? Good. Bad.
Must polar opposites always collide,
leaving the the experts reeling?
Who knows? Maybe there’s something under Uncle Clive
meant to be more than an errant clue.
A chronic hint. A slap in the face to Aunt Meg
and her whole side of the story.
I don’t know. I do know I’m painting
myself into a corner w/this one
but somehow, as day rises w/birdsong
I don’t give a damn. I’ve broken my bounds
for an instant, so who am I to cry?

  Mike Jurkovic __