a toast to the apocalypse
by John Lorence
a toast to sunlight’s smidgen
of disclosure.
to the magnificent bath of dark clouds
being drawn in the west end.
to the apocalypse hour,
when Longfellow’s statue
ponders his monsters
as they sit hunched on benches,
like sleeping pigeons.
to this rented moment for its scent
of something almost permanently kept,
as clandestine drinks are bent
across the street,
sinister barkeeps sent
pouring the ink of medicinal bitters.
the visitation
by John Lorence
hours ago, in what is not yesterday,
before arriving in his moment of rage,
before being too shy was underlined,
before ripping and throwing what was
today’s newspaper
at the poor white wall,
shreds snowing upon a wooden floor,
before two men sat together, one in his
chaos place
with side of vodka,
and the other in his opposing safe
with side of whiskey
before b sides on vinyl played
before skipping to one particular song
before he blacked out in a spare room
and left
his belongings when he left
The Spy Who Came In For His Appointment
by Mark Parsons
The difference between a perfectionist and a man obsessed,
the difference between us, doctor.
Each successive ring of diagnosis
your therapeutic largesse makes
draws out another unconscious, emotional malady, begging
from the first psychic wound
the ultimate utterance like a tree, the axe.
When I came home today, coming in out of rain,
and crossed the threshold into tongue and groove
wainscoting stained sunset red orange
that filled the entrance hall with warmth inside
cold forgotten stonework,
I wondered what has really changed since weather,
that original space we all shared,
was fenced off,
helping ease us into the first, false division,
the idea of a world
out there, conspiring against our desire for safety and
personal gratification until
we reconciled ourselves to fellow feeling
buttressed against the despair of primordial twilight —
Seeking the truth of this moment in minor details
I roll a word around my mouth
like the squarish bitter cut end of a cheroot
Clint Eastwood bites down on
getting set to draw against the rojo gang,
angular bodies of men
intertwined along a split–rail fence
like figures on an armature.
Outgunned, outmanned
in number and experience, draw first.
What’s In A Name, From A Height
by Mark Parsons
In the town square below
community service ex–convicts with plumb hatchets, chisels and mallets
chip and whittle, carving features on a length of tree
stripped to blond and unseasoned meat.
Up the sides of buildings
lines of code get hopelessly mixed.
A fountain gushing in the middle of the square,
over granite rims
chlorinated water drizzles
into lower tiers.
The rippling surface of the water jerks and tugs at aqua blue
painted concrete
bottom upholstered with pennies that look black
and silver coins that wink in sunlight.
Like a man on parole, afraid of doing time,
I avoid saying the name of a woman, whose name
fits my mouth
like these earbuds
fit my ears,
fits like I don’t ever want to
remove the name by saying it and stop
the soundtrack to my solitude.
After Meditations, after Sun Ship
Coltrane played tenor sax
so well in his mind his listeners forgot
tenor saxophone is an instrument,
not an idea.
Amber,
if you see me some night through the kitchen window,
floating, twisting
wraithlike across the lawn, shriveled,
pale in motion activated lights you had installed after I left — don’t call the cops.
Remember the beauty
of the one conversation we had, that we had
over and over: the single exchange — and its clumsy translation to French — is the only thing that keeps me going.