November 4-10, 2019: Poetry from Patrick Erickson and Kevin Ridgeway

Patrick Erickson and Kevin Ridgeway

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Patrick Erickson
patricktheron4@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Patrick Theron Erickson, a resident of Garland, Texas, a Tree City, just south of Duck Creek, is a retired parish pastor put out to pasture himself. His work has appeared in Poetry Super Highway, Grey Sparrow Journal, Tipton Poetry Journal, and The Main Street Rag, among other publications, and more recently in The Oddville Press, Vox Poetica, Adelaide Literary Magazine and Futures Trading.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Patrick Erickson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Canada Dry

Who ever heard
of a dry Canada

with its wetlands
and wetter ducks

Who ever heard
of a dry duck?

A dry duck
is a dead duck

A dry dock, yes

A dry dock
is for building ships
which are soon wet
when christened

like a dry baby
is wet when christened
and born again

though she sheds water
like a duck’s back

and treads water
like a duck

A dry martini is wet
even when dry

Vodka is wet
gin is wet
vermouth is wet
because alcohol is wet

Or it’s last call
for alcohol!

Drink up!

There are wet counties
and dry counties
(line break)

And dry counties
where no liquor is served
are really dry

Who ever heard
of a dry river

except in South Texas
where there is the Dry Frio

where George Strait
learned to swim?

 


Kevin Ridgeway
kevinridgeway82@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Kevin Ridgeway lives and writes in Long Beach, CA. He is the author of the poetry collection “Too Young to Know” (Stubborn Mule Press). His work has appeared or is forthcoming in SlipstreamChiron ReviewNerve CowboySan Pedro River ReviewMain Street RagThe Cape RockPlainsongsSpillwayUp the RiverGhost City ReviewKYSO Flash, Gasconade ReviewCultural WeeklyBig HammerMisfit MagazineThe American Journal of Poetry and So it Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Kevin Ridgeway and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Electraburger

was a greasy spoon
Mom and Pop burger dive
just around the corner
from my grandma’s house,
and we went there most days
after school with the money
for the lunches we held out on
in order to scarf steak fries
and swill Seven Up, with a
few quarters left to play a game
of Super Mario Bros. that was
over when we got killed by a
monster turtle before we could
achieve Mushroom Power,
and Los Lobos sang La Bamba
on the radio for afternoons
when we felt like the grand
wizards of suburban nowhere,
long before we had an ounce
of grace or any pubes to
shampoo and call our own.

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