"There’ll Be Heartache" - Tony Morris

"There’ll Be Heartache" - Tony Morris

He pulled onto the shoulder,
air breaks huffing, stopped and rolled
the window down—outside the air was dry
but cold, early-autumn evening closing in,

and I was eighty miles outside El Paso
with a pack across my back
heading west, because a friend
had died and nothing seemed to fit,
the days and nights too long, or short,
or just too damned complete—

and as the trucker sniffed the wind
as if the smell were new to him,
and flicked a Camel to the ground
and waved me in, I thought I saw a flicker
of a smile beneath the shadow of his cap,

and so I climbed into the cab, slung
the pack into the sleeper in the back
then settled in while on the radio
a tune by Johnny Cash was blasting,
“just around the corner there’ll be heartache.”

And as he pulled the rig back on the highway
he turned to me and said, “Where you headed, son?”
just like that, as if it were a script,
but it wasn’t, and I knew he meant it
as he asked again, “Where’re you headed? You okay?”

and so I told him that my friend had been the smartest
gal I knew, and how there wasn’t anything
you could do to make her angry
or act rude, and how it didn’t seem so right
that someone good like her could die so young
when other’s meanness seemed to keep them going
right on through—

and then we drove along in silence
for another mile or two before Chuck Berry’s
famous tune chugged its steady rhythm on the radio:
Long distance information give me Memphis Tennessee
help me find the party that tried to get in touch with me,

and the trucker asked if I liked the song,
which I did, then he said, “It’s the ending
makes it great”—and sure enough,
it’s true: I catch the strange twist
of misdirection, the snappy, upbeat popping rhythm;

the speaker begging, pleading
for just a bit of mercy: Help me information
get in touch with my Marie, she’s the only one
who’d call me here from Memphis, Tennessee;

the seductive, needy intonation that points us, wrongly,
to lost sweethearts and lovers—only makes the truth
more real, and sad: that sweet Marie’s his little
girl from whom he’s been pulled apart,
because her Mom did not agree
And tore apart our happy home in Memphis, Tennessee—

and yet I couldn’t help but smile and tap
my toe to the upbeat rhythm of six-year-old Marie
with hurry home drops on her cheek
wavin’ him goodbye, just like the last time
that I’d seen my friend as I was backing down the drive
and headed South, and how that weekend

we had talked and written down the little
we knew then, and later, back at home, she’d sent
the poems for me to read and I had saved
them all till I got the call and had pulled
them all together, laid them side by side by side,

and knew I’d seen the better part of life
with her there on that night. Then the driver tapped
another Camel from the pack, smiled, leaned back
and shifted as we trucked on down
the highway, miles ticking by outside.

Tony Morris, from Savannah, will be a co-featured reader with Danelle Lejeune at the next Word of Mouth, Wednesday January 2nd at the Globe.

"Women's Work" - Danèlle Lejeune

"Women's Work" - Danèlle Lejeune

The tractor and hay baler are stuck and broken, leaving me with blade and hot afternoon sun, swinging
the scythe back and forth through air
and tall grass, clearing a path for the electric fence.
That same fence shorts out, and I chase
and round up pigs from the road, the hen house, the neighbor's orchard, haul them home
in the trailer with the bad tire and rusting floor.
Soon enough robots will do a million other things
we can't even conceive of, I think, and set the blade down, sip the warm water and listen for my children playing
near the house. Check for blisters on my hands.
I swing the blade again, bruised shoulder aching.
One misstep, a slice through flesh,
tendon, bone,­­ the backhand of a misspoken word.
A breeze rises from the north, my tie­back hair falling onto shoulders, undone. Shhhhh, and swish, and shhhhh,
and lift, step forward, repeat, again.
Soon enough robots will do a million other things.
The children are suddenly quiet, the sky shadows. A storm eclipse. The wind shifts, lifts the ragweed stalks
and cut prairie grass. Pollen stuck to flesh, eyelashes. Birds flying to the trees.
I set the blade­-end deep into ground, lean in
on the handle and watch the clouds turn, swirl.
In song and myth, sky and the earth are woman, mother. But this storm? No. This feels like his truck
driving too fast on the road home.

Danèlle will be reading at next month's open mic at the Globe on January 2, along with Tony Morris, both from Savannah

"Love Letters From Pompeii" - Elsa Russo

"Love Letters From Pompeii" - Elsa Russo

I lost you in Pompeii
When the air caught on fire
Your hand was ripped from mine
I thought I had caught it again
Imagine my fright when I turned and didn’t see you
But just some other frightened soul
I tried to turn back
I promise, I tried to turn back
But like a fish trying to swim against the current
I was battered and bruised and burned
Finally so weak that I had no choice

The next morning I went to look for you
I swear, I went to look for you
The bodies of those on the ground so mangled and burned
Any one of them could have been you
I traced our steps back to where your hand lost mine
It seems you only made it another two steps

I saw you again across the dinner table
Of a party I was at
You were a slave pouring the wine
And I was a Roman general
Someone tore your skirt
And I flew across the table in a rage
I didn’t mean to frighten you
On my honor, I didn’t mean to frighten you
But I did
My subordinates staring at me confused
As I took the jug and poured their wine so you could mend your clothes

I saw you as we rode away
Peering through the window
I thought I saw you recognize me
For a moment, I thought you recognized me
But you turned away
The moment gone
I rode out for Jerusalem

I thought I found you again
On the pilgrimage roads to Lhasa
We walked three days together
We ate and drank and prayed together
You laughed at my singing
And you held my hand like you used to
I thought I had found you
By the stars above, I thought I had found you
Until I saw you
Walking out of the city
As I walked in

You saw me for a moment
You saw the hand in mine
You smiled
I think you smiled
And walked past me
And the one who would be my wife

I finally found you again
As my ship sailed the Red Sea
In pursuit of Mecca
To destroy it
I saw you at the helm of the Muslim ship
I saw you at the helm of the Muslim ship
And you saw me
And you saw me

I looked up from the executioner’s block
You had tears in your eyes
And I whispered to you not to cry
Please, don’t cry
I’ll find you again
Next time around

I started seeing you everywhere after that

You were the first to die of the plague in our village
As I leaned over you in a long-beaked mask
You collapsed on the ground in Strasbourg
As I sawed away at my violin
You grabbed my hand by accident
As London burned around us
Caught in the fire and smoke
We looked just as we once had
A millenia and a half ago now

You shot me in the head
When we tried to invade Russia
(I’ll forgive you that one because of the snow)
You shot me on the barbed wire
As I climbed out of my trench
(I won’t forgive you that one because we played soccer the day before)
You leaned over my cot
When you and your men liberated our camp
(This time I’m only sorry that all you found was a shell of what I once was)

I haven’t found you this time
36 years hasn’t been enough time to find you
And no, I haven’t searched every holy site
And no, I haven’t visited every battlefield
And no, I haven’t gone to whatever place it is that I need to go to find you
We have appeared in so many places now
I have no clue where you will be
Or where I should be

So this is an sos
A radio call
Tapped out across the airwaves
In some kind of mad desperation
Where the hell are you?
Where should I look for you?
Because I am dying to find you
By all the gods above, I am dying to find you
Because it is getting cold out here

And I don’t want you to find me too late

"Her Rage" - Aralee Strange

"Her Rage" - Aralee Strange

If anybody can save this world she’s a woman
and is she pissed
pre-fabricated domesticated deformed and suppressed
underdressed depressed obsessed with herself
seduced made ashamed and treacherous
made less.

She will raise her voice in hallelujah
she will raise her eyes and equal to
she will raise her fists if she needs to
she will know how.

And she will ask:

How if we waste the children who will lead us
shall we endure?
Why must they atone for the sins of the fathers
who sacrifice to their false gods all life
for the sake of pride and poor judgment
for who owns what
who own nothing
who know nothing
who would have us murder and destroy
them and how many of us
to save face
to prove whose god is great
who owns the night
whose mighty fist is biggest?

And she will say:

Let my will be done
for a change
my ways my means
my benevolence my praise
my rage
my rage.

"Poem for Bob" - Aralee Strange

"Poem for Bob" - Aralee Strange

If I said I saw you dressed in a long coat
mingling with other angels dressed similarly
on the mezzanine of the public library
who would believe me?

If I said it was proof you got your heavenly due
eternity among books
am I nuts or was it a dream
something I saw in a movie?

Is this what they mean by blind faith?

I have rattled your bones.
I know where your earthly remains lie
and whose hearts broke when you died
and took off flying straight to glory.

I tried to pray.
I tried to say goodbye.
I groped rock bottom and mortal
found no way to accept your disappearing.

I stare at the picture of you again
and our friend Arthur reading there
in the cold white light of Christmas past
the last page of a book poetry no doubt
but that was then and you are not and
what took you and why is not the point.

How can life comprehend oblivion?

But if I said that was you transfixed in ethereal
spirit free amongst flocking celestials
floating happily ever after for all time
pure cloud across a blue sky
I’d be right wouldn’t I?

While widely published in literary journals during her lifetime, The Road Itself marks the first overview of the late Aralee Strange’s poetic works. It is a tour de force that moves from the urban blight of 1980’s Cincinnati Main Street to the pastoral solitude of Adams County, OH to the Southern charms of Athens, GA while remaining forever rooted in the heart of America, exploring in equal measure the implied complexity of its inherent beauty and tragic flaws. Her unmistakable, even voice simultaneously pitched between Old Testament scripture and The Street, these tough, restless poems aspire to and attain a clarity of language and personal spirituality. Included inThe Road Itself is her seminal poem cycle, “dr. pain on main,” which captures the total fabric of city life, its complications and many textures, as well as the meditative poem-psalms that she composed on Peach Mountain in Adams County, Ohio that led Strange to write and direct her feature film, This TrainThe Road Itself also includes art by Jay Bolotin, Frederick C. Ellenberger,  Kathy Prescott, Michelle Red Elk, Art Rosenbaum, Mary Seguin  and Jim Wainscott, each piece inspired by Strange’s life and work. Edited and with an afterword by Mark Flanigan, and with a foreword by Pauletta Hansel, the poems in The Road Itself seek truth in all of its hiding places, much like its author.

Haiku and senryu - David Oates

outdoor concert
after everyone’s gone
calls of tree frogs

alone in the house, 
little dog startles, then listens
answering machine

as we drive
down the highway she says, 
“All of this is an illusion.”                    
I say, “Still, I’ll keep my hands 
on the wheel.”

at the red light
three waiting drivers, all dance 
in their seats

from a pickup window
graceful bare feet 
with dirty soles

in the doorway 
at tap-dancing class
mother tries a step

little daughter watches 
as he rubs Rogaine on his skull –
“It’s not working, Dad.”

finishes her candy bar –
even on her back, 

small town South
 “Ah men” congregation
with an “Ā men” preacher

Athens, Georgia--
outside pawnshop 
he opens the car’s trunk
gets his bass drum

Ritalin kicks in
I want to alphabetize
my spice rack

David Oates is tonight's featured reader at tonight's open  mic at the Globe. Sign-up for open mic is at 7 pm and readings begin upstairs at 8 pm

"There Is No Time" - Lou Reed

"There Is No Time" - Lou Reed

This is no time for celebration
this is no time for shaking hands
This is no time for backslapping
this is no time for marching bands
This is no time for optimism
this is no time for endless thought
This is no time for my country right or wrong
remember what that brought
There is no time
there is no time
There is no time
there is no time

This is no time for congratulations
this is no time to turn your back
This is no time for circumlocution
this is no time for learned speech
This is no time to count your blessings
this is no time for private gain
This is the time to put up or shut up
it won't come back this way again
There is no time
there is no time
There is no time
there is no time
This is no time to swallow anger
this is no time to ignore hate
This is no time to be acting frivolous
because the time is getting late
This is no time for private vendettas
this is no time to not know who you are
Self-knowledge is a dangerous thing
the freedom of who you are
This is no time to ignore warnings
this is no time to clear the plate
Let's not be sorry after the fact
and let the past become our fate
There is no time
there is no time
There is no time
there is no time
This is no time to turn away and drink
or smoke some vials of crack
This is a time to gather force
and take dead aim and attack
This is no time for celebration
this is no time for saluting flags
This is no time for inner searchings
the future is at hand
This is no time for phony rhetoric
this is no time for political speech
This is a time for action
because the future's within reach
This is the time
this is the time
This is the time
because there is no time
There is no time
there is no time
There is no time

There is no time