August 11-17, 2014: David Chorlton and Patrick Theron Erickson

David Chorlton and Patrick Theron Erickson

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David Chorlton

Bio (auto)

David Chorlton was born in Austria, grew up in Manchester, England, and went to live for several years in Vienna before moving to Phoenix, where he still lives, in 1978. Arizona’s landscapes and wildlife have become increasingly important to him and a significant part of his poetry. His most recent collection is The Devil’s Sonata from FutureCycle Press. The shadow side of Vienna provides the core of The Taste of Fog, a work of fiction published by Rain Mountain Press

The following work is Copyright © 2014, and owned by David Chorlton and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Central Avenue

On the way downtown
a black cross-dresser wearing a blonde wig
whispers Yes or No
as I pass, and I can’t help glancing back
for a second look. We’re all
in this city together, walking along from one moment

to the next, somewhere to be
or not. The man huddled into a corner
next to the Channel Twelve building
isn’t moving from the cup
he’s set down on the pavement; he just stares

past the streetside screen showing
what’s on right now,
broadcasting a game show voice
asking Do you stay with twenty thousand
or try for twenty more?
as if money
were a stage prop. Two dollars

is a fare for the bus
if you can cross the road in time
when the lights change
although it only waits
as a tease, then pulls away
from a passenger reaching out from the crosswalk

but it’s a pleasant day to wait
for the next one along, in the sun with a view
of a waste lot
where a grackle is an inkstroke on the air

brushed from the widest point
on the tail and defining the elegant shape
that tapers to the fine tip of the beak. .

Yard Meditation

Cloud light on the winter grass, stillness
in the palms, and slow
growing weeds in the cracks
along the concrete driveway: it’s a warm day

in the cool season
winding down to the hour the towhees
come with their tails cocked
to the dry patch
where the back lawn used to be,

scratching earth and fallen leaves.
The snakes have disappeared
that used to surface here, green and red, leaving

their skins on a stone years ago
when they went underground
forever, back to the Hohokam who walked
away and kept going

past Nineteenth Avenue where
it crosses Grand, with the end of their world

shining on the horizon.


Patrick Theron Erickson

Bio (auto)

Patrick lives in Garland, Texas—Garland, TX to Van Nuys, CA. He used to live in Uvalde, Texas, less than a mile north of the intersection of the two longest highways in the United States—Highway 83 from Mexico to Canada and Highway 90 from the East to the West Coast. With this submission Patrick’s avocation goes without saying. As for vocation, he is a parish pastor, a shepherd of sheep, a small flock with no sheep dog and no hang-dog expression. Or he is the sheep dog, a small dog, with the hang-dog expression. Secretariat is his mentor, though he has never been an over-achiever and has never gained on the competition. He resonates to a friend’s definition of change: change coming at us a lot faster because you can punch a whole lot more, a whole lot faster down digital broadband "glass" fiber than an old copper co-axial landline cable. Of late Patrick’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Assisi; Calliope Poets; A Clean, Well-Lighted Place; Poetry Super Highway; Wilderness House Literary Review; Prairie Wolf Press Review; Poetry Quarterly; Breakwater Review; Cobalt Review.

The following work is Copyright © 2014, and owned by Patrick Theron Erickson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Boston Common

It’s not a commons
but what if it were?

a pasture for sheep and goats
the crossroads and common ground
for pilgrims and their progress

a soapbox for those
inclined to get up on one
who get up on the wrong side of the bed
one fine morning
and blow their brains out
the next

a common mall
common stocks
and a pillory

(a not so common stock-in-trade)

a public garden
with trees
a lake
and swans

a place to lull
and not to loiter

and not be mugged
or mauled

a commonwealth for common sense
for the common good
all too uncommon!

It’s not a commons
but what if it were?

What then?



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