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

week of September 24-30, 2001

Richard Jordan
Richard Ellis

click here for submission guidelines

Richard Jordan

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
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
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

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
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


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!

Subscribe to our weekly Newsletter: