Jonathan Hayes is the Editor / Publisher of the American small press magazine, Over the Transom. His new book of poetry, Ghetto Sunshine, is forthcoming in 2022. He is also the author of the collection A Full Moon In Santa Cruz. He lives by the boardwalk in Santa Cruz, California where he can hear the screams from The Giant Dipper rollercoaster.
The following work is Copyright © 2022, and owned by Jonathan Hayes and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
after Sandra Oh
No, this isn’t a poem
about Vincent’s chair or Paul’s
I already wrote that
This is a poem about
I am sitting in
And I need a fucking cushion!
John Dorroh has never fallen into an active volcano or caught a hummingbird. However, he managed to bake bread with Austrian monks and drink a healthy portion of their beer. Two of his poems were nominated for Best of the Net. Others appeared in journals such as Feral, River Heron, and Selcouth Station. His first chapbook comes out in 2022.
The following work is Copyright © 2022, and owned by John Dorroh and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Not Staying in a House without Ketchup:
Living on the Cusp of a Coup
That you haven’t a tongue for fruits of the sea
and fish served at any other time than at Lent
behooves me, moves me, makes me want to lose me,
and there you sit, scraping your plastic knife and fork
against a Styrofoam container, mountains of sauerkraut
and secret-blend pork brats, over-salted green beans
and knotty homemade applesauce, taking whatever slice
of pie the all-volunteer staff decided to toss
into the plastic bag. CARRY OUT ONLY since viruses
have made us scratch or heads. At least they make
it look as if they respect our health.
There are Cajuns who have migrated to these parts,
to flat land-locked counties, peppered
with cows and corn, wheat and tribulations,
who, for whatever reasons moved 500 miles north
of the Gulf. They teach. They make long hauls
on spring and summer days to escort crawfish,
big pink shrimp and blue-clawed crabs to parched soils.
They mesmerize Mid-westerners with voodoo chants,
oversized stock pots and enough cayenne to make
a cowboy cry.
Arguments whether Worcestershire sauce
or A-1 should skirt a steak, butter and sour cream
on the side for the baked potatoes. You prefer flame-kissed
strips for no more than sixty seconds on each side,
which is fine if you like blood. I, on the other hand,
like meat with its juices clear, its integrity elevated
to a respectable degree of doneness. And ketchup
is always on option.