Randi Israelow
Randi Israelow has been an active poet in the Los Angeles area since 2008. She is a regular listener and reader at The Cobalt Poets weekly virtual reading, and she is currently writing a book of story poems. Her first book, Little Movies, was published in 2016.
The following work is Copyright © 2022, and owned by Randi Israelow and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Hey Zester Inventor, I’m Kissing You Now!
I don’t know who invented the kitchen tool
the zester
but I could kiss you right now
zester inventor!
so come on over here
and sit on my lap
and let me plant a big wet one
smack daberooney right onto your lips
so you can taste
how much more delicious
my lemony pancakes are this morning
because of all those
luscious tiny bits
added to the scratch mix
from lemon rubbing against zester
yeah
come on over here
and let me kiss you right now
with all this flavor
zester inventor
oh but first
oh yeah
first
please
please
please
shave
Gregory Davis
Gregory Davis is 69 years old. He has been writing for six years. He is seven years retired from a major aluminum producer. He has been married for forty-nine years to the love of his life, Laurie.
The following work is Copyright © 2022, and owned by Gregory Davis and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Blue Collar Blues
Heat stink, sweat stink, metal stink.
Aluminum in evolution.
1000 degree ingots,
seven tons of dull gray danger.
Feel as if they would melt your face off.
My job, callow kid.
All of nineteen.
Forktruck em outside.
Their mephitic stench a garbage dump zephyr.
Blowing back on me.
World War Two vets,
Hard union guys.
Tobacco juice staining their broken-fence smiles.
Some okay,
others mean-ass.
Givin the new guy the hard eye.
Daring you to fuck with them.
Me, armed with dad’s beer breath advice.
“Keep your eyes and ears open
and your goddamned mouth shut.”
Booze in their lockers.
Pint a night men
operating dangerous equipment
with liver-spotted hands.
Potentially fatal drunken fumblings
during the Stygian hours of graveyard shift.
Overhead cranes screech by,
steel wheels on steel rails.
Giant, angry birds.
Their eighty-five decibel sirens
fracture the body’s seven trillion nerve endings.
Punch out. Tip a few. Get a buzz.
White noise to soften stony edges.
Plug the jukebox.
Johnny Cash to drown out Little Fred.
Hunkered down in the corner, sloppy drunk.
Barstool been glued to his ass for decades.
Wife and kids done left.
Got nuthin going for him
cept boooze and toil.
Braying a broken record whine and bitch.
Same sad tune
over and over.
