September 24-30, 2001: Richard Jordan and Richard Ellis

Bio (auto)

Richard Jordan is a PhD Mathematician who also considers himself a poet He has recently moved from Worcester, MA to Woodbridge, VA His poems have appeared, or will appear soon, in Concrete Wolf, Free Verse Poetry Journal, The Guild, Reflections, Impetus, Snakeskin, 3rd Muse Poetry Journal, PoetryRepairShop, ZygZag, Ken*again, and 13th Warrior Review

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by Richard Jordan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

The Following Saturday What kind of times are they, when A talk about trees is almost a crime Because it implies silence about so many horrors?             –Berthold Brecht, “To Those Born Later” I step out of my apartment To hunt down the mockingbird Who has been taunting Me since before sunrise, And I am greeted By clear, crisp blue sky, And an anxious Bloodhound named Bob Nostrils twitching, he wants me To follow I obey, With hesitation, ever wary Of things that wag freely, And the secrets they conceal He leads me down An overgrown path To the edge of a pond, Where he flops down at my feet I sit down next to him, And together, we count Water lilies, and trace ripples Made by hungry bass Just like that, I am transformed Into a ten year old boy, Comforted by a gentle companion, On a lazy Saturday morning, After a week Of laborious lessons On history and geography Suddenly, A dozen geese  Rise out of the reeds, Honking Mesmerized, the boy Fixes his gaze on the receding flock, As it flows gracefully toward A warmer climate Remembering the lessons He has been taught, he flaps His arms vigorously, and prays: Please God, grant me wings Just this once. Early Morning Fallout I wake to find Slimy spheres Of fur on the cold pillow Next to mine Resting in the indentation Molded so nicely by Your oblong cheek as you lie Facing my face Shortly after midnight Glowing red lips parted sweetly Eyeballs concealed Wandering aimlessly in circles Silver specks dancing On long dark lashes Warm gentle currents flowing Through twitching nostrils Arousing fuzz On sunburned neck Suspended in that moment Of REM sleep where life and death Have no more meaning Than fruit loops and pogo sticks The only instant when nothing matters But moonlight and hidden shadows Not helicopter fuel or blackened fragments Of steel polluting streams Where unsuspecting trout once spawned freely Not coffee-colored children Bathing in napalm To chase away head lice Not even an Egyptian feline Gathering ammunition From the forbidden zone Just that fleeting sensual moment Right before you roll over And rumble Like a Sherman Tank. A Single Syllable I’ve said just one word all day, and it wasn’t really a word, but a movie title, which I was forced to annunciate, because the man at the ticket counter couldn’t read lips It wasn’t the film I had intended to see, but the title consisted of a single syllable Plus, the leading actress is hot Never mind that she is almost young enough to be my daughter I don’t have one It wasn’t much of a flick, either, unless you’re into death In which case, there was plenty: Five deaths Four murders Three men Two Women One suicide A single syllable No mercy. Algebra Should Not Be Taken Lightly I’m driving over a bridge when I see a woman, butt naked, getting ready to jump into the river below So I slam on the brakes and yell: Don’t do it! I love you! Don’t do But she does, and then so do I, except I leave my clothes on, because I don’t recognize her at first Under the water, I swim towards her But when I get close, I see that it’s my 9th grade math teacher, the one who gave me a C And she’s clutching a bloody penis and laughing hysterically I’m not sure where I’m going with this, but it’s been months since I had that dream, and even longer since I’ve taken algebra And I still can’t help but feel that I’m missing something. Playing By The Rules The man at the bar looks up the bartender’s skirt as she bends for a glass and a generous tip She plays by the rules and gives him a show Hot pink panties A shot of Old Crow.

Richard Ellis
wingnut@angelfire.com

Bio (auto)

Richard Ellis is not a poet He is a misplaced upheaved Wisconsinite living in L.A.  Over the past couple of years he has been and in many cases still is: a music journalist writing for Modern Fix magazine, a seminar coordinator, an extra, a bar back, a technical support operator, a pornographer and best of all, a husband

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by Richard Ellis and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Taste of Leaves “I’ll taste you yet, my dear,” she said She said like a wicked witch to a child who has strayed Strayed too far into her woods and become fatted in her home of pizzas, leaves and vines Magic was at work in her (where I knew) and as in legends of children-gobbling witches her hair was red, a cat was kept (or keeping me) I’d play with her cat feed her cat and the cat would attack drawing out my life with a movement too fast for someone so slow What a beast Starved for affection and brutal when given exactly that She was fierce, the queen of the cat, and could like her pussy draw blood if stroked wrongly or rightly I don’t know if it was the unreciprocated love or Hot Caustic Tongue why I couldn’t fill her mouth with cum and let her taste me yet,  my dear. If You Kill a Spider You’ll Make it Rain yes, yes there was a spider with a man’s face it dropped down on my baby’s thigh and crawled up on her hip from there it could think, resting i’ve never seen a woman like this woman nimbly it crawled through fine hairs shot through with sunlight, thinking i’ve never been on a woman like this woman never fed from a woman like this woman nor stung a woman like this one Her skin reflected light making her shine and in her heat the spider basked for a spell in that spell of time  he had never been so happy but a spider’s time is limited before he’s squashed and she is left holding the potted flowers safe from the rain in the doorway of the restaurant where she works I’m Only 1/8th Indian, If That we three, we three the portrait of we three staring upward, fearing (at least me) and it wasn’t the drugs and it wasn’t the beer and it wasn’t the abandonment (maybe) cracks sprouted across the ceiling  racing here and there like a mad cocaine god overseeing the motions of the earth’s crust as it drifts and breaks unmoving, we sweat at a 100 plus degrees BUM! BUM! BUM! the murphy bed would crash the floor above cracking our ceiling below and the invasion of pearl harbor would come down pounding the stairs “Cocksucking, motherfucking whore runners! Welfare cunts! Indian welfare junkies!” the god above hated us of all the people jailed in the Yucca Terrace we were god’s most disdained children drowning in dry burns dead foul forlorn farkas BUM! BUM! BUM! he’d bang the bed, farkas that’s not fair i’d think in a $300 efficiency drunk and unemployed on whisky heat sick with my friend, drunk and unemployed on whisky and besides the chick has a job washing dogs like you that makes only two bums UnDead Not one of my lovers has ever died Not one of my friends committed suicide Be thankful for this It means, rather than 1,000 awful poems there were only these four Rejoice!