July 16-22, 2007: Michael P. Lira and Joseph Goosey

week of July 16-22, 2007

Michael P Lira and Joseph Goosey

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Michael P Lira
lemonshavepits@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

My name is Michael P Lira and I was born and raised in Superior, Arizona I have seen my poems published in Concrete Chaos, Twisted Nipples, among others I have personally published my poems on the walls and toilet stalls of the dollar-beer dives from Superior to Miami to the east, and Waikiki to the west, and back.

The following work is Copyright © 2007, and owned by Michael P Lira and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

A 12-pk Ago the World Was Clearer

She’s got
the “warm temperature” for Sal,
and as Spring kicks in to full swing
that “warm temperature”
is only getting warmer
Look! At the green poles in bloom And look! With just the right
amount of imagination, and
travelling 65 m.p.h. doesn’t hurt either,
the garbage that collects
along the highways
become clumps of wild flowers
She is warm on Sal’s lap They have already made love
but this is the first time
she has ever sat on his lap
Sitting shotgun in the cab
of his best friend’s truck,
the two lovers are necking
on the same clear bottle of beer
Dean is racing down the highway
Dean is just glad his friend Sal
made it home in one piece
and finally, found himself a girl
The vehicle
Dean is barreling down on
it’s tires spit out rocks
that become butterflies
before ever hitting the windshield


K.I.A
High up in the rafters
above the earth
a love affair unfolds
she is an angel
she is an angel of mexican ascent
skin spun from sugar
she rolls a half-decent joint
and hands it to him
him is a soldier
him is a soldier of mexican ascent
he fires up the joint
he hits the joint
they smoke the joint
passing the joint back and forth
high high high
she helps him fit into his wings
she giggles
he doesn’t have a clue
how to wear the wings
he looks at her
he smiles at her
a dog tag wedged between his teeth
having been kicked up
between his two front teeth
makes her want to cry
he holds on to electrical conduits
as he walks along a steel beam
and he jumps from the
upper atmosphere
punching holes out in cloud
after cloud after cloud after cloud
plummeting plummeting
spiraling out of control
until Sycamore Street
breaks his fall
until Sycamore Street
breaks his fall
later on in the evening
at the top of
the Picket Post Mountain
she stitches buttons
onto his soul
right next to the
Iraqi Freedom Campaign Ribbon
and above his purple heart
she stitches buttons
onto his soul
they drink tall cans of beer
and they make love
at the top of
the Picket Post Mountain
the sound of glass shattering
fills the air
as bottles break
beneath the weight
of the sun setting


Joseph Goosey
joseph.goosey@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Joseph Goosey lives around Jacksonville, Florida His poetry has or will appear in one way or another in “Word Riot”, “Haggard and Halloo”, “Neon”, “Remark”, “Locust”, and “ESC!” He has 2 cats and loves a red head

The following work is Copyright © 2007, and owned by Joseph Goosey and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Somebody’s Gotta

Somebody’s gotta get up off the
fine italian leather

Somebody’s gotta kick that notion of
time/space conventiallity out on its
round ass and when she screams
through the door
.it’s raining!
spit through the keyhole.

Somebody’s gotta access what’s frozen
in the artic

Somebody’s gotta read some Rimbaud
or sing some fiddle tunes

Somebody’s gotta recognize this very dismal
and dizzying aspect

piss on the fire hose

lick the cop

oust the german shepard

jump in the ocean

Somebody’s gotta .

No, no

Not me, man

I had to work til 4.

Plagued by Roots

A belly full of
.sliding strings
You’d like the song
she sings in the passenger
seat of the car

I am ill with moving
and weighted down

The dog needs to be
fed but there’s no food here
by the brick mantle

dizzy with the
.company of
lecturers and motivators
stuffy, ain’t it?

get some water

there is a certain amount
of purple
oozing over the cliff we call
sea

plagued by roots

and still
.nowhere to grow

The State of Things Now

While reading about
a few different poetry
presses,
the front left corner
of my head
(brain?)
began to ache
with the pecking of
a blackbird’s mallet

I’d like nothing more
than to be
helicoptered in
to a valley or a
flatland
covered by pines
and invisible
from the road


A Man Who Walks Across Insterstates

He’d always
whistle &
whistle &
whistle &
occasionally
sing some
Billy Holiday
while he
cleaned
the tile
and now
he just
says
hey.

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