March 10-16, 2008: Mike Lane and Josh Thompson

week of March 10-16, 2008

Mike Lane and Josh Thompson

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Mike Lane
miclane03@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

Mike Lane is an advertising art director, and a happily married father of three who lives thirty miles west of Milwaukee Wisconsin He loves cooking, fishing and reading and writing poetry Mike’s poems have appeared in Soundzine and Third Wednesday.

The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by Mike Lane and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Why Mothers Never Wrestle Their Sons or Daughters

I wrestled my mother in a dream last night, as grandmother
watched from the couch Then I took them both on, at the same time,
just to keep things interesting Today at lunch, I asked mother,
Why, after all these years, have we never once wrestled?

You sweet dear, she cooed, I wrestled you when you
were a blind, toothless cannelli bean It was a life or death match You wore a hood and I wrestled that blank cloth of hope and the sour stew
of you, shotgunned into my belly, for eight straight months
I wrestled with fear–the scalpel’s sting was meant for me,
the stainless steel nun’s hands for you I ended up pinned on my back,
an inverted turtle thrashing in a slack-tide of tropical water The warm waves carried you, pitching and bobbing in a bowl of bone,

a chubby canoe, anonymous survivor You were in the first real brawl
of your life, and then you came to be, pushed then pulled through, 
forcep bruised, body-mottled and bowlegged, perfect in your need Your clay smudged face, opened and closed,

screaming in victory, while I lay in the middle of the wet
canvas, spent and silent, as the crowds paddled off to cash in
their winning tickets, hand out fine Cuban cigars Wrestling’s your father’s job Once with you was enough for me.

I Want To Be A Young Cowboy

jump from galloping horseback,
to hook then twist the necks
of adolescent cattle until their bodies
roll over, in big submissive heaps,
and I climb on top, curved horn
in gloved grip, in control of this sawdust
world At night, calves twitchy-dream of me
and I of them.

Josh Thompson
jthompson420@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

Josh Thompson, 27, is a poet and short fiction writer living in Brooklyn, New York He bartends in Manhattan at night and works all sorts of odd jobs during the day to pay the bills and support his thirst for bourbon and Napa Valley Cabernet’s He has been previously published in Thick With ConvictionDrown In My Own Fears and has an e-book of poetry available from Literary Road.

The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by Josh Thompson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

funnel cake

she’s like a labyrinth
on fire
she’s as lost
and listless
as a flag
out on the ocean.


life as an archipelago

I was called a fascist today
for no apparent reason
by a Leninist in the grocery store…

she had a bag of walnuts in her hand…

the clerk stared me down
like a television ad for beef jerky
and I had nobody to dispel my utter confusion upon
I tell you it was horrible.

fitting birthday suits

the helium has been sucked from all the balloons
and this flaccid birthday
ends
with her singing
familiar songs
out of key
with red wine
staining her dress
like a birthmark that she can no longer conceal.