Black Spring Online

 Issue 1      December 2003      ©TheRepublicofCalifornia.com

 

 

 

About Current Issue: New writing from Stephen Ellis' Opulence; poems by kari edwards; poems by Jim McCrary; poems by Steve Tills; poems by Brent Bechtel; poems by Catherine Daly; poems by Chris Murray; poems by Layne Russell.
Upcoming Spring Issue: Poetry, Reviews, Essays, Writing for UPCOMING LAWRENCE Issue being accepted now.

Brent Bechtel


Blonde hair was useful to refill the logs.

Viewing a part of his parents
that was always dismayed
by the brightly lit fountain
and wanting to sort by size,
he produced a standing line
in accordance with Lambda.

Inside his second-hand parka
a simple command replaced
all three columns,
and with a standard input,
included a jumbo hot dog,
without requiring
him to resort to
a white-trash option.

I saw his eye drinking oolong tea
from an exposed white tube sock
on a blank password line.

I wasn't hungry yet.

I waited for more batter.

The gentle air draped the age
over the last few years
of the page, in a crease,
and he was still there,
smiling at my doppelganger.

At last,
he recorded 10 copper lines
with large plates of glamour,

and swore

the next time he met a waitress
tucked in bad English,
or another balding demon
guessed his age --
drinking from a trumpet --
he'd substitute a cipher,
and bring the nightlife
of the -f switch to an end.

 


Words are whole afternoons


I grumble, deep in a waitress
as she declares the late-night radio
to be full of magnolias and cocaine.

My hiking jacket droops
to touch the French border,
en route to a pier,
where we nod off and ignore
the fact that we drift here.

We will have one last walk with pleasure,
since my lips are sky -- feel the hours,
refuse of urbanity smudged on your sleeves.

I have been eyewitness to your name --
a flawless, brewing pot of coffee.

 


The first six hours


Policeman threw the author
into the hands of Siva at five o'clock,
and we were published far to the west

The scene before the doorway
darted around wounded and bandaged rocks,
where the righteous stood

Horned and glorified

Worshippers gathered under plague
and mourned the injured dictionary,
binding their own feet
in hopeless ritual,

Chanting in unison:

"Free love is like a barking dog,
and there is no human condition --

For I am the woman and the herd
in this world of common clay --

This land ploughed by the devil,
whose rod was driven into language,

Such that scholars fled into the groves,
and the marshes were consumed with fire."



 

 

              
     

 

 

 

 

 

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