January 16-22, 2012: Howie Good and Jonathan Hayes

week of January 16-22, 2012

Howie Good and Jonathan Hayes

BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
click here.for submission guidelines


Howie Good
goodh51@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of the new poetry collection, Dreaming in Red, from Right Hand Pointing. All proceeds from the sale of the book go to charity, which can be read further about here: https://sites.google.com/site/rhplanding/howie-good-dreaming-in-red

The following work is Copyright © 2011, and owned by Howie Good and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Aviaries

for Joseph Cornell

1
You stare at a tree as if waiting for it to burst into bloom, rain flying so close that its feathers brush against you.

2
You make a box of the night sky, with constellations of nails; another that resembles the door to a river; and others more like windows, or caskets, or a ballerina who suffers from migraines and talks to pigeons.

3
You were hailing a taxi on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 53rd when you heard the word “beautiful,” long, thin, misunderstood. What more could you want? Well, to be guarded on either side by a stone lion.

4
You open the cage of a stuffed green parrot. It takes some people a lifetime to realize that what should occupy empty space is emptiness



Jonathan Hayes
jsh619@earthlink.net

Bio (auto)

Jonathan Hayes recently returned from Japan where he climbed Mount Fuji. Currently, he lives on Nob Hill in San Francisco, California. He works as a cook at a Mexican grill in Lafayette, California, where the Pony Express used to make stops. He is also known by some as, “Purple Hayes.”

The following work is Copyright © 2011, and owned by Jonathan Hayes and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The City is Alive!

[A Super-Organism Psalm of Sorts; Painted in Florescent Yellow.]
In response to Richard Lopez and for Mel C. Thompson

Often he called himself “He” as he felt distant from himself

If “April is the cruelest month,” then its cruelty is its bright sunshine

He walked into and out of the porn shop with pride

At the corner of Kearny and California he could no longer look up at the Fates,
they had been watching him though, from a skyscraper

Walking thru the Financial District he felt small compared to his generation
tapping their $500 toes and talking ‘bout the stock market or a weekend getaway

He walks into Wells Fargo on Market Street

(This poem is happening “now.”)

(Let’s Oppen it up!)

He writes the poem and deposits his $166 state tax refund into his checking account

Dances with Saint Patrick in Yerba Buena Gardens drunk on the City

Pop radio songs pour out of the Virgin Megastore closing sale
onto the shoe shining sidewalk mid-day pedestrian rush hour foot traffic

UPS brown truck parked one wheel up on sidewalk blinking its back yellow lights
where a movie theater used to be on the south side of Market Street near Sixth Street

He rolls up his sweatshirt sleeves to catch some sun