Four new peoms by Jeff Bagato

This Drifting Into Air, Alive

There’s only so much a man can do,
holding off starvation with a weakened
hand, his gimp leg steaming
like pirates boiling in their midday
rum, hot from the battle of
Maracaibo, the city they sacked
for its gold—Governor Law just
up the coast to keep order intact—
Captain Morgan ducked under and around
the bay, waving the maypole,
“Catch you on the reverb”—
stepping forward with origins
of the mind obscurred—origins
of the beast virus risen from
the dead, calling through elections
for another bit—my my my,
the brain goes blank every time
I step into a thrift store like a kid
upon Christmas, my coat
undone, face twisted into a smile
of pain: “What have I done
to deserve this?” The clothes
beckoning with mothball limbs, like these
rubber pants with their yellow stains,
or that blue wool sweater
with the crust on the sleeves, falling
into the housewares where Alice,
upon her last dance at the tea party,
lies smiling up with crooked British
teeth and Doormouse eyes, “Go on
in Ben, see anything
you want? You can pick
something out,” falling
please

Winnemucca, Nevada, 9 a.m.

Played out ladies looking old,
everything gone, even their
cunts shriveled into dry sockets
waiting for a greased nickel
to yeild some kind of pay off,
and these women, bent and pinched
in obscene ways, how long before
they blow away?

Sweet seventeen mummifies
in hot desert sun and neon
hallelujah to the happy chirping
of two bit slots—grease my fingers
with my young cunt juice and
rub each quarter before play—
slit to slit love, and what I wouldn’t do

Guy with a plastic cup filmed with
nickels retreads the corner,
lost, hair graying as we pass

Feeding them with the liquid of the young—
money is the only yeild—
money, the sand of the desert—
raw scrub bushes die here slow—
the rock rises into mountains
as heavy as my love

Summer Movie

young lovers—
the empty room—
fallen eyes—
this river from the bay
on its own mind—
devours river,
plays, loses itself,
a canal bringing it too far

your life here, young lovers,
approaching two stones—
what wall
can hold you, that’s the question
they all hope you’ll
answer—
even sirens
are made for you, and
the policeman gives you tickets
because he knows it will
bring you closer

did the old ladies have sex
like us—just tell yourselves
they didn’t and you invented
it all forever, laying
down in the wild grass
to look at the stars with
your pants down

they propagated like popes
through speaking the word
and making people believe
they exist

young lovers—your empty room,
fallen eyes
falling—I’m too drunk to do this—
get it in—let me see
the grass, the stars—
stars

grave and blackened hellions
singing from a car, pass—
old popes dying in stacks
of teeth—liver trouble—
that’s my father—
he wanted me to die young

ignition—bicycle passing
with one light, behind it
only a skull—forever—
pedaling—love

Get Off the Stick and Rest

Let’s stop the action, Mr. America,
let’s slow the down home run—
get up in your windows
and at least survey your street;
try sitting, take a load off,
give those weary legs
a rest—you don’t miss
the trees because you don’t stop
to see them; you haven’t stopped
galloping high over the asphalt
hills for decades—still no
stopping smoking and gunning your engines

The way must be clean, you say;
the hustle, the bustle, in place;
the glass plated jails stacked
up to the sky, like a porno
queen always giving blow jobs
and feeding her children with inflated
rubber teats—I mean, she’s stacked
up to show the world how good
cornfed dames can be,
and how giving, yet she’s still in
silicon gaol, a bulging dungeon
of the towheaded mind—
oh not only towheaded, I know;
the disease transcends the breeds
of man

Do I feel the need to rest,
to drop without today earning money—
I am an outcast, and a switch
in my own mind must flip over
a surge to keep my feet moving

Chewing food
on the run—
not bad for you,
maybe, but
can’t we have a little
sit and watch
the world go by—
without jumping up
and touching everything
with a golden
hand?

You see, your habits
enervate the world—
and see where they’re
rushing us to keep up—
I guess you can’t help
it ‘cause you sit
all day at office desks
and the hemorrhoids have got
you cracked

Jeff Bagato A multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose as well as electronic music and glitch video. Some of his poetry and visuals have appeared in Chiron Review, Synchronized Chaos, Miscreant, Outlaw Poetry, and Midnight Lane Boutique. Some short fiction has appeared in Gobbet and Horror Sleaze Trash. He has published nineteen books, all available through the usual online markets, including Savage Magic (poetry) and The Toothpick Fairy (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found by clicking here… 

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