Sloughters Do It Better

and they do it from the Morrissey
concerts of Manhattan to the thoroughbred
sales of Ocala. Sloughters are an inspiration
in their decadence and their eloquence.

You who have explored the empty lots
of Asia. You whose birthday was attended
by Li'l Jon. You are the hard-chiseled soul
of our beloved Montechillo.

Come Back Brontosaurus

because I am as useless as a fire hydrant
in the backyard. Come over hand, and
meet this other hand. From the dirty
sands of memory and apathy, release
from your long necks and from your big mouths
a sound as big as a meteor and as bright
as a volcano. This is where our hearts began.

While An April Storm The Cat

While another April storm
rolls in, the cat is acting weird
again. He sits in the bathroom
staring at the wall like a depressed
teenager, but (like me)
he is approximately middle-aged.


I try to remind myself that his walnut brain
cannot stand up to my pathetic fallacies,
but still here I am on the bathroom floor
staring at the cat, trying to divine
my own ideas by imagining his.

finding fine things in dirty tides

Dear friends, freaks, and bigger fishes,

The brave among us will wade through a rare Wednesday reading when the abundantly talented and attractive Dora Malech and Kristin Jane Kelly will join us for a reading in the back room of the famous Face. This will be an unusually good reading, even by our high standards.

6:30 PM on April 6th at the fabulous Four-Faced Liar. Bios below.

See you there!

Shafey


*

Dora Malech grew up in Maryland, earned a BA in Fine Arts from Yale in 2003, and earned an MFA in Poetry from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in 2005. She is the author of Shore Ordered Ocean (Waywiser, 2010), and Say So (CSUPC). She has taught writing at the University of Iowa; Victoria University’s International Institute of Modern Letters in Wellington, New Zealand; Kirkwood Community College in Cedar Rapids, Iowa; Augustana College in Rock Island, Illinois; and Saint Mary’s College of California in Moraga, California. She lives in Iowa City, Iowa.

Kristin Kelly, a native Kansan, received a BA from University of Oregon and an MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop. She is the author of Cargo (Elixir Press), and currently lives in Northampton, MA, where she owns a women's boutique, ODE.

Shunts, Crampons, and Dongles

slipping on ice, snow, etc.
we passed a whole winter

a spiked iron plate worn
down with wear

a device for grasping and lifting
heavy loads, usually consisting
of a pair of hooks; opposable thumbs
and fingers menacing as claws

boots or shoes aid in climbing
or to prevent sores all over our feet

suspended from a chain or cable,
upward pull of our funny little jobs and needs:
tension for the hooks to grip the load

the act of shunting; shift

bridged across a circuit or a portion of a circuit,
establishing a current path auxiliary to the main circuit,
as a resistor placed across the terminals of (I am)
or increasing the range of the device

(a railroad switch.)

blood or other bodily fluid is diverted
from its normal path; my mind is buzzing
with my own medical misunderstanding

a hardware device is attached without which particulars
will not run: used to prevent us from staring for hours
at a single word; three words annihilate an entire morning

Is every Billy in history
a lovable, troublesome heartbreaker,
or does it just seem that way right now?

Bryan the Punk Rock Butcher (Senior!)

a miniature Punk Rock Butcher
is delivered unto the Catskills today

let the snowy hills ring with a fuzzy G
chord, for the world now has another
really cool dad

happy birthday Miss Punk Rock
Butcher Junior,

& don't buy the expensive knives
they'll just wear out anyway

That comfortable feeling is upon me
of a single finger slipped into
an undergarment's elasticity.
Maybe it's the cold Gulf Coast
humidity; maybe it's uncertainty,
or maybe it's just stupidity.
It seems like anything is almost
possible, but when I'm here,
nothing is also fine with me.

Bitch...Just Joshing!

Just rode the L train with a gaggle of NY teenagers, all of whom seemed cooler and more fully-realized than I've ever felt in my life. One of them asked what "joshing" means. Another said "that's what you say when you're kidding; like, "bitch... just joshing!"" Then two of the guys demonstrated it. One said "bitch...just joshing," and then the two of them hugged.

A NIGHT ON THE TOWN

Times Square burned daylight down
onto the avenue long after
the sunset's leftovers disappeared.

I moved from tavern to tavern
talking about girls and commas,
commas and girls.

My companion for the evening
was a tough guy from Cleveland,
and when a particular bouncer
decided he'd have enough of us,
my friend showed me the truth
behind his short stories.

We were the terrors of the Square
until his honey called, and the night
was over.

Back home, I am trying to tell
my story to a word processor,
but I picked up some faint scent
of yours in my hair, and now
my tired brain thinks only of you.

AN IMAGINARY TRIP AROUND THE WORLD WITH LORI BURKE

The Tarmac sighed at JFK, relieved of the weight
of another jet plane, and we were off: the air so deep blue
I was sure we were astronauts in space.

We splashed down in the wet streets of London;
the fog found us in a fine embrace, and the damp air masked
the sweat of my hands. The world was quickly getting older.

In Paris I blinked and you were gone; it was a mystery.
Unfortunately, so was my French. But I found you
at the Louvre, and I helped pitch your tent
so you could stay as long as you liked. And you did.

Horus and Anubis awaited us in Egypt,
but an Anatolian tide drifted us East across the Mediterranean,
where we got sidetracked while swimming with the Cypriots.

We sheepishly snuck through the Suez,
and the crocodiles of the Nile clapped their jaws together
in recognition of your beauty.

Up through the former Republics we pushed,
from Copts to gypsies and Cossacks to Jews,
then you donned a burkha (and I did too!)
and we were anonymous sisters
as we snuck through the cradle of civilization.

We bumped toward the Orient on elephant-back in India,
shedding clothing as the subcontinent became increasingly tropical.

Then Angkor Wat, where our eyes widened,
and our tongues forked,
and you said "we're Western no more"
in a language we'd never heard,
but that we both somehow understood.

Hong Kong was all catamarans and baccarat
with my brother's fiancée's family.
Also: the sun reflected off the waters of the Pearl River Delta
and onto your naked feet.

South America was a blur unequalled;
suffice to say that Bogota will never be the same.

We smuggled ourselves across the border
in the back of a snowbird's motor home;
we both had changed beyond the recognition
of our US Customs Dept.

Our ancestral homeland the Gulf Coast would not forget us,
from mom and dad to the snakes and possums and pelicans,
but no one was as happy and as proud to see us
as our own private Brooklyn apartments.
Let's meet again next Tuesday to hatch our plan
to do it all over once more.

RESPECT CYRIL

The Eastern Long Island
Pipes and Drums Corps
will tell you: Respect Cyril.

On Highway 27 in August,
we could almost hear Cyril
(or was it the wind?) saying
"respect the sarrronnng."

But while we disrespected ourselves
with some BBCs that afternoon
it occurred to me:

the flotsam of summer life
out from the City
could only disrespect Cyril
in the way that the tide
disrespects the shoreline
or the waves
disrespect the sea:

sooner or later summer's done
and Cyril says "see ya later"
to the respectful
and the disrespectful alike.

And, after four point
six five BBCs,
when we were sure
no one else could see,
the magic eight ball
atop his cane
winked knowingly.

Our friend Matt Longabucco is rocking his way through this awesome project where he writes poems about movies. Every movie showing at the Pavilion this year. It's fun to read about the movies I've seen. It's fun to read about the movies I haven't seen.

for GP-F

THE SHEIK OF AMAGANSETT & HIS FIRST MATE SVEN AT REST

When the piracy is done,
we find ourselves at rest,
and none of the low moral condition
of our profession applies to our play.

Oh my Sheik, your orders are my command,
and when our ransacking is done,
the end of this island is our deck,
and a longneck is my sword.

Unlike the Shafer Hall you know and love, the other Shafer Hall stays within himself. Where I so rarely can be found.

Poem #3 to Accompany Stills from the Film Semi-Tough

WHAT THE TEQUILA TOLD US

First it reminded us: with it we shall not reckon.

Then it made us think everything would be OK.

Then it made us feel impossibly awesome.

Then we were 100% sure that what turned out to be the floor of our taxi was the roof.

Then the great hordes found a way to jive, if only for a few seconds.

We thought for a moment about a herd of moose in response to a cavalry.

Then it told us good night.

Poem #2 to Accompany Stills from the Film Semi-Tough

WHERE WE FOUND IT

Just when we had nearly forgotten
what we were looking for of course
was when we found it; we found it
in the pits of our knees and elbows;
it was in the misshapen snarl of our noses
as we sniffed for it.

Now that we have it, we can begin
to wonder what we will do with it;
like youth we will probably waste it;
like instinct or passion or fear
we may feel we have not used it
but have been used by it.

In our high & low search for it
came the most tangible benefits of it:
the stretching of our bones;
the tug of gravity on our bellies.

Poem #1 to Accompany Stills from the Film Semi-Tough

SMILE

What to do when
the marquis is full
of names you have forgotten
or never even remembered?

When the sunlight
of celebrity has you squinting,
thank your dentist --
he has taught you
so many things.

But is there a gift
or a retort finer
than a smile?

YOUTH BECAME

Confident uncertainty
so slowly became confusion;
I don't think we noticed
even while we lengthily
and even eloquently mentioned
it in our poems and songs.

Now our pride is all we have
to keep us going, our finely-tuned
interests in ourselves and each other.

The starlight shines most brightly
inside the club; out underneath
the bridge, the night keeps getting darker.

On 77 South, my brother-in-law
and I navigated from town to town
through the Rio Grande Valley.
The girls in the back with the baby
sang along from Willie Nelson song
to Willie Nelson song, and I wondered
why at night we never stay up
thinking about the things we do right.

But when the sun went down
the back seat went to sleep,
and the front seat did the singing.
By the time we hit Highway 100,
I was thinking about a redhead
from Hereford who I once knew
and wondering what we'd be today.

Tomorrow we'll go fishing;
I'll make invisible homes till sunrise.