August 6-12, 2012: Patrick Theron Erickson and Mel C. Thompson

week of August 6-12, 2012

Patrick Theron Erickson and Mel C. Thompson

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Patrick Theron Erickson

Bio (auto)

With this submission Patrick’s avocation goes without saying. As for vocation, he is a parish pastor, a shepherd of sheep, a small flock with no sheep dog and no hang-dog expression. Or he is the sheep dog, a small dog, with the hang-dog expression. Secretariat was his mentor, though he has never been an over-achiever and has never gained on the competition. He resonates to a friend’s definition of change: change coming at us a lot faster because you can punch a whole lot more, a whole lot faster down digital broadband “glass” fiber than an old copper co-axial landline cable.

P.S. Of late Patrick’s work has appeared in Assisi; Calliope Poets; A Clean, Well-Lighted Place. Patrick makes his home in Garland, Texas, with his wife Judy, her brother Steve, and an odd assortment of cats.

The following work is Copyright © 2012, and owned by Patrick Theron Erickson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Ask her about the morning after
and she will blush deeply

the way a prune blushes

even a dried prune

But who knows this
except the one who is fond of prunes

dry prunes in particular
dry and pitted?

Ask about the morning yourself
and perhaps you too will blush deeply

like a prune
pitted of course

a dried prune
or a dried fig
from a dry tree

and you a eunuch

a dry tree yourself.


Mel C. Thompson

Bio (auto)

Mel C. Thompson has been anthologized in Poetry Salzburg Review, (University of Austria at Salzburg), the Beatitude Golden Anniversary Issue (1959-2009), The Las Positas College Anthology and Poets From Hell (New American Underground Poetry). In the 90s the author started Mel Thompson Publishing under the labels of Cyborg Productions, Blue Beetle Press and Citi-Voice Magazine, where he published such literary figures as Michael McClure, Alan Kaufman and Bruce Isaacson. He is semi-retired from active publishing, although he still publishes other authors from time to time. Also in the 90s his poetry was published in such magazines as The Chiron Review, The Bay Area Guardian, Wordwrights and the The Haight Ashbury Literary Review. In recent years he has been published in The World Poets Journal, (China), The California Quarterly, and several times in Over The Transom, (San Francisco). In June of 2011 he had two broadsides published by 48th Street Press, which was then operating out of Caracas Venezuela. He has been written about or interviewed by media outlets ranging from USA Today, The Los Angeles Times, Canadian Public Broadcasting and Geo (France). He has recently published an Amazon book called “Nothing Holy – Tales of Zen Buddhist Scoundrels.”

Visit Mel on the web here:

The following work is Copyright © 2012, and owned by Mel C. Thompson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

A Religious Poem

And is not your desire
for sexual union really
the desire for unspeakable
animal union with God Itself?

And is not your search
for the perfect lover really
the search for the unknowable
terrible love of life which
is no one but Space and Matter?

And does not that awesome,
uncompromising love cause you
to discard every lover and
wreak destruction on every affair
until all others are gone
but She who alone and only
remains your partner in death?

And is not your quest
for the hardest, the longest,
the most deeply plunging orgasm
really the search for the Source
of orgasm, the Source of bliss
and weeping and all manner
of glorious, selfless submission?

And are not your nights of
alcohol-drenched, pungent, mindless
fucking and sucking on bended knees
with tears and pleas to be spanked
really nights you’d feign spend with
The Creator of hard cocks, the
Creator of swollen vaginas, since
the beginning of wet pussy time
and eternal almighty cum squirting?

And would you not now,
but for proud fear of emasculation
and precious, bitchy vanity,
turn your ink-blot life over
to that creatureless, amorphous Zero?

I think you would. I would
too, if only I could stop running
from: the ominous desert sun and
the black forest with no one in it
and the boat which sails empty
upon the freezing rings of Neptune.

Yes, I would surrender to
the Sex Monster with no pubic hair,
the one who actually does
happily go and fuck Himself,
if only I had a white flag to wave
to all His armies of androgynous angels,
if only I had a white flag to wave
to the seed of war in my own testicles,
if only I could remember
the color white.