NOT MAJOR HOOPLES BOARDING HOUSE:
I just returned from a long mostly silent journey.
To discover I just inherited a twelve-room house.
It feels vaguely like the last house.
But don’t ask me its location.
Exterior needs a little paint but don’t they all.
Remodeling seems to be a work in progress, just like so many of my paintings.
There are tenants occupying most of the rooms.
But even those that are currently empty one often hears the whispers of the past.
It’s rumored that Tiny Tim produced his best music in room number three.
The Venus room looks wonderful, but Saturn has done the decorating.
Surya shines bright and bold, but I find it too hot…Jim Morrison felt the same way.
A hell of a fight breaks out in room number six, Mars breaks a window or two.
The Moon is milky sweet but is afraid of Rahu’s shadow.
That snake scares me too.
Why oh why did they decide to be roommates!
Mercury is fast but sometimes outruns himself and forgets to lock the door.
Jupiter is gracious and our guiding light, watching over everyone like a sleepy owl.
In time they all will transit to other rooms.
Google maps says follow the neon sign shouting Color TV and Free Coffee!
Damage deposits and thirty days’ notice required.
Uncle Morty Schedules a Procedure
by Uncle Morty
Perhaps some of you have wondered where your dear old Uncle Morty has been and why I have been so lax about communicating with you lately...
Will of the City Project
Featuring Exchange by Poet Anya Banerjee
Saint Flashlight has been featured on our page before and we deeply love and admire their commitment to releasing poetry into public spaces from theater marquees to slips of paper with mysterious phone numbers where those in the know can score a poem. This time they're sending poetry into the wild with a little help from the world’s most famous playwright! The new project is called Will of the City and you can check it out by clicking on the link.
Saint Flashlight is partnering with Theatre for a New Audience to present poems inspired by William Shakespeare all during the fall. This partnership spotlights the work of over a dozen writers on the outdoor screens at Polonsky Shakespeare Center – Theatre for a New Audience’s home in Fort Greene - into an anthology of poems inspired by Shakespeare’s plays.
Sacred Chickens is happy to announce that we are able to share one of these poems – from a brilliant new writer, Anya Banerjee – with our readers
Author, Renwick Berchild
bob, the trees press, expand; press, expand as lungs.
speaker, who spake the first murmurings—whistler at the window.
that? Faces stack, knotholes of wisps in the darkness,
and wakeful just as I, truculent foreheads, lined lips, I’ve a wife
died, is she there? Another unholy moaner outside, watchful.
at the window: See
the spinning? Hear the hive? Let a demon
its language to you for a while. Let us in - let us in! I’ve a potion
my eye, an incantation beneath my fingernail. He lies - he lies!
are burning in the cold - let us in, let us in, let us in in in!
bake bread when you can steal it? Give us a bed to rest our lives.
winding round the globe, grey cloud a turret on the night’s mount
across the mirror black, little woman set, six arms weaving
the loom with superb finesse—but the hisser? Just a tail
as glass, sliding in its yowls, rabbit whining all through the twigs;
nimbus jugular ripe for tearing, a spilling
of rain; whistler sends regards.
by Paul Ilechko
Beaufort Measures Lost Love
Day zero Beaufort sees himself within the mirror his face as tight as skin his eyes as blue as
death as blue as smoke that spirals tight towards oblivion he grieves within his lonely silence
Day one he arches his spine amidst the drifting smoke failing once again to control the ripples
of anguish that penetrate his immobility
Day two his glassy stare absolves the trees of all their mystery as a metal arc is quietly traced
across the circus of the sky
Day three a branching motion corrupts the shape of flags he speaks in sign language to the
potential of a beloved waiting for the appearance of a silver stallion
Day four the horse-drawn present scrapes its flanks in greasy rivulets as time dissolves into a tincture of dust and oil
Day five a fluttering in his chest as swaying dancers grip the waist of future days and escalate the pace of change but wasted chances pronounce the death of fate
Day six wires are crossed with string machines of melody that fight to be included in the
symphony of motion that fight the chance of weather as clouds release their dreams
Day seven trees are marching down the avenues into the teeth of dentistry horses have abandoned even the smallest motion ceding the width of plain to an inconvenient memory of the loved one
Day eight structure abandons form as Beaufort sees revealed a distant shape that resolves itself into the “once upon a promise” of his cherished fantasy
Day nine a drumroll pounding of iron cavity as yet again he rolls between the spraying tides of anger fighting to overcome the inflammation that threatens his redemption
Day ten a patchwork quilt of unforgiving absorbs the shockwaves as Beaufort realizes that his journey has reached an end beneath the overhanging coils a hollow forms and there he huddles lost and empty inside the wave.
(Derived in part from the Beaufort wind force scale)
The Apology Box
Author, Naomi Ulsted
by Julie Carpenter
If you’ve ever worked with troubled teens, you will recognize Tessa, the protagonist of this story. A decision made in a flash has repercussions that disrupt and destroy the lives of many in her community, a small mountain town in the American Northwest. The young woman at the center of the maelstrom, already the victim of a struggling mother and remote father, must decide whether she has any chance at redemption. Her fragile trajectory as she stumbles towards atonement and maturity feels very real.
/5 concepts to dwell upon for the rest of the year/
New 'Old' Deal
'Revolutionary Bourgeoisie Somnambulism' (RBS) Syndrome
Tears in the Soil
The gardener has left
his tears in the soil. He
cannot make love grow.
He left his tool, a hoe,
in the soil with his sorrow,
by the slow moving snails.
It is too late for him. He
cannot feed his soul with
his pain and deep concern.
It hurts too much to work
or to breathe, when love
is a phantom dream. He
feels too low to go on. I
hear him weep until
the sun sets over yonder.
The gaping wound in his
soul makes death smile
as his life is up for grabs.
by Charlie Robert