Thursday, January 26, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Sarah Anne by Jason Baldinger
Sarah Anne, your eyes are a bend in the creek
from which we can see all the way to Charleston.
Sarah Anne, for you I want nothing more than to buy a parcel of land
settle into a quiet life riding tractors in circles.
Sarah Anne, the years are nothing more than your grandma's plastic trinkets
my father's cuff links and wedding rings.
Sarah Anne, on Saturday nights we'll build a church
just to burn it down.
Sarah Anne, on Sunday morning we can worship
in the corner bar of our choice.
Sarah Anne, when the supermarket folds
we can live on fish our children catch in their teeth.
Sarah Anne, the post office is a trailer park
our mail is pony express.
Sarah Anne will you sign my disability checks
dotting yr i's with little suns, hearts and flowers.
Sarah Anne, in the light of tipples
we'll see their blinking, a shield to keep planes away.
Sarah Anne, with the sun nested in your hair, your wrist brace
and your can of Diet Coke you will be forever nineteen.
Sarah Anne, on summer nights we can move the T.V. to the front porch
and watch till well after dark.
Sarah Anne, the dog is dead
we buried him at the side of the road.
Sarah Anne, God is dead.
We move like locust through here.
- Jason Baldinger
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Jason Baldinger has been writing for over 20 years, but only recently got around to performing it. His work has been published in The New Yinzer and Shattered Wig Press. He is author of two books of poetry "The Whiskey Rebellion" (with Jerome Crooks) published in 2011 by Six Gallery Press and the forthcoming "The Lady Pittsburgh" out in the spring on Speed and Briscoe Press. You can catch him touring the country starting in April.
from which we can see all the way to Charleston.
Sarah Anne, for you I want nothing more than to buy a parcel of land
settle into a quiet life riding tractors in circles.
Sarah Anne, the years are nothing more than your grandma's plastic trinkets
my father's cuff links and wedding rings.
Sarah Anne, on Saturday nights we'll build a church
just to burn it down.
Sarah Anne, on Sunday morning we can worship
in the corner bar of our choice.
Sarah Anne, when the supermarket folds
we can live on fish our children catch in their teeth.
Sarah Anne, the post office is a trailer park
our mail is pony express.
Sarah Anne will you sign my disability checks
dotting yr i's with little suns, hearts and flowers.
Sarah Anne, in the light of tipples
we'll see their blinking, a shield to keep planes away.
Sarah Anne, with the sun nested in your hair, your wrist brace
and your can of Diet Coke you will be forever nineteen.
Sarah Anne, on summer nights we can move the T.V. to the front porch
and watch till well after dark.
Sarah Anne, the dog is dead
we buried him at the side of the road.
Sarah Anne, God is dead.
We move like locust through here.
- Jason Baldinger
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jason Baldinger has been writing for over 20 years, but only recently got around to performing it. His work has been published in The New Yinzer and Shattered Wig Press. He is author of two books of poetry "The Whiskey Rebellion" (with Jerome Crooks) published in 2011 by Six Gallery Press and the forthcoming "The Lady Pittsburgh" out in the spring on Speed and Briscoe Press. You can catch him touring the country starting in April.
Out of Memory At Line 21 (for David Franks) by Chris Toll
Out of Memory at Line 21
for David Franks
by Chris Toll
A Nazi flying saucer
is stored in Hangar 18.
An ex-cop ex-con
pilots the flying saucer
to a planet
on the other side of the galaxy.
He extracts poison
from an imprisoned equation.
Satan is an agnostic,
I build my mansion
in the valley of the shadow of death,
and nothing is impossible at 3 a.m.
An ex-circus strongwoman
picks the lock of a door.
An ex-MI5 operative
hands a syringe
to an ex-Homeland Security special agent.
She bends over a bed.
The Word is my leopard
and your shoes are constellations.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Chris Toll and his wife live in a castle in the Black Forest. They are invisible. They practice benevolent magic, and they are striving to uncreate certain horrors of the 20th Century.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
We have lost some giants the last few years. One of the biggest locally was the poet and prankster David Franks, who is also suspected to have been the Poe Toaster. Since his death it was the first year that no one showed at Poe's gravesite.
for David Franks
by Chris Toll
A Nazi flying saucer
is stored in Hangar 18.
An ex-cop ex-con
pilots the flying saucer
to a planet
on the other side of the galaxy.
He extracts poison
from an imprisoned equation.
Satan is an agnostic,
I build my mansion
in the valley of the shadow of death,
and nothing is impossible at 3 a.m.
An ex-circus strongwoman
picks the lock of a door.
An ex-MI5 operative
hands a syringe
to an ex-Homeland Security special agent.
She bends over a bed.
The Word is my leopard
and your shoes are constellations.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Chris Toll and his wife live in a castle in the Black Forest. They are invisible. They practice benevolent magic, and they are striving to uncreate certain horrors of the 20th Century.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
We have lost some giants the last few years. One of the biggest locally was the poet and prankster David Franks, who is also suspected to have been the Poe Toaster. Since his death it was the first year that no one showed at Poe's gravesite.
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