September 2-8, 2019: Poetry from Dan Hendrickson and Glenn Moss

Dan Hendrickson and Glenn Moss

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Dan Hendrickson
dan1812@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

Dan Hendrickson is a screenwriter and poet who lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Currently, he’s putting the finishing touches on ComedyAlbum,  the modestly-awaited follow-up effort to 2017’s Dark Glasses. Prior to that, Hendrickson wrote and self-published a handful of works comprised mostly of experimental poetry and slapdash philosophy, all under the snazzy pseudonym Henry Rifle. He describes those efforts (Shooting Gallery, Bullet Train, A Bullet West and Ballistics Report), and fairly accurately, as ‘poetry for people who can’t stand poetry.’

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


Everywhere is Calgary

I have a buffalo soul.
One minute,
all is right
and kosher,
nothing but sweet prairie grass
and clover green.
The next, I’m at the bottom
of a steep cliff.
Everywhere is Calgary.
The world’s
a stampede.

 


Glenn Moss
gmoss22@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Glenn Moss is a  media lawyer and has been writing poetry and stories since high school. At Binghamton University, he wrote a play for a course in Jacobean Literature, and at Case Western Reserve Law School, he wrote a play for a course in Jurisprudence. Returning to NYC, Glenn writes poetry and stories amidst contracts and business plans.  Each area of writing enriches the other, with  contracts benefiting from a bit of poetic dance. Glenn has had poems and stories published in Ithaca Lit, West Trade Review, Oddville Press, Oberon, Foliate Oak Magazine, Illuminations, Qu, and 34th Parallel.

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


The Hive

Once hallowed pages are swallowed by an expanding desert
Men remove books from abandoned libraries, leaving footprints in place of history
Lawyers and preachers carry altars and sharpened blades
Parents hold dead children like a robin’s egg, a delicate offering
Conversation becomes the buzzing of vanishing bees
Following each other into waiting hives
Knowing the days of honey are over
Replaced by exhaustion and dreams of extinction


Cold French Fries

Walking the morning subway platform
Sidestepping slower feet and dried spit
I see 15 French fries
Creating a half-circle around a steel column
Each reaching for the other
Like broken yellow bones trying to reknit

Maybe a lonely Queequeg cast them there
Seeing his death before the gathering rumble
Entering the train with acceptance

At the end of the platform a former trader in futures
Shuffles down this way
Waiting for the rush hour to slow
He may be lucky to have beaten the rats
Or the kids who might sense his need

There are mornings when I wonder
As the razor tickles my throat
Will I be racing the rats for cold fries one day
I think about that
And hope he wins

 

 

 



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