"Swell," I heard Dorian say, "Why not her makeup mirror? Pulls double
duty as cell phone." Misty touch screen. Airbrush, Eyelash, and Ethers.
An archipelago, patented just so. To cauterize an augury from empathy:
In a world, but Of,—never. And only one way, Love, one way only, out.
When goosebumps break rusty red on a mogul: some smart giggle of a
Latina dungeon. Rope burns, staccato synonym. Geraldo, blowing Capone.
Point Spread, debt of a thousand cuts. Bitch, demigod Croatian field goal
kicker, with purple chum on the yacht rungs. Your karma's in his left foot.
Still the sexto-genarian, with cowlick, winter scarf and black lab on a leash.
Out of the very corner of my cornea. I keep on, seeing it (him)—will capisce.
What's a bad chauffeur to do? With paunch, man knockers?
Age 52? Famished heart ? OD on hummus, and Dramamine.
The punk elders, so adamant about what is or not aberrant. Like
CPR for a dying squirrel. ICU straw? Just hold the little guy's paw.
My fealty, my fealty fraudulent as fourteen filthy forks, stashed
within din of microwave. Never marry bungee cord with chainsaw.
And frankly petrified at your perturbation, having come this far!
—he spake, an authentic Blake in Kesey's sad forest. 19 day novel.
Last best sucky sestina, delivered by a wasted tweaker poet with
36 Pack Abs. Grinding teeth to paste, he polished, for 10 weeks.
Something about poor old Papa Wallenda, repeating. Swan dive
with the scream of a crow. No love, no oscillation. No Inter Webs.
Myspace, my space always. Pools of root beer Plexiglass, cooled
—apres blowtorch. My poem about Icarus, that could never fly.
Honey sludge, simply glugged up, plastic Buddha Bear. Aw, tell me
you never spun the Lazy Susan, till all jugs rightly toppled. For fun.
"Love is listening to you sing with that awful Walkman thing on,"
she told me, her mouth full of stony brownie. Long gone, by Spring.
"Rip and Tear! Rip and Tear!" cried a foreman named Winkle. All
into Caterpillar repair. He toted around the Bewitched lunchbox.
Last coming of the screw tap, cleverly booby-trapped by glue. Ha
ha funny. Intimidated by the bassist from Bad Company: I drank.
Dennis Mahagin's poems and stories have appeared in dozens of notable literary venues, including Exquisite Corpse, Stirring, 3 A.M., 42opus, Absinthe Literary Review, Catalonian Review, Night Train, Metazen, Ghazal Page, Smokelong Quarterly, and Storyglossia. Look for a chapbook of Dennis' poetry, Fare, set to be released in 2011 by Redneck Press. Details are available on the Fried Chicken and Coffee website. A full-length poetry collection, Grand Mal, is forthcoming from Rebel Satori Press. Visit Dennis on the Web at fourhourhardon.blogspot.com.