ANOTHER ORDINARY DAY by Subhankar Das

The 31th offering from Ten Pages Press is now available: Another Ordinary Day by Subhankar Das.

 

Flowerpots for Bukowski

I want to pee in the sink.
But you cannot do that.
Why not?
I will pee right now in your sink.
It is not possible for you,
why don’t you understand
it is a male thing.
I will launch a protest
Listen love, why don’t you do something
more creative, use the flowerpots instead.

EULOGIES by Craig Podmore

The 30th offering from Ten Pages Press is now available: Eulogies by Craig Podmore.

Undertow
I have no hero in me,
Just insatiable love-loss.

I feel the hole in my heart at 3am,
Divorced from thoughts of woe –

Keep away, my mindless undertow…

Lachrymatory bottle full,
Just mourning for the six foot under romance.

I’m always a pariah of amour,
Death-ballet-love-hate show,

Kill it, my yearning undertow…

Tried to keep it wrapped up but it always tears at the seams.
I wanted it to be paraded but it always just builds up inside.

I keep my heart up on a crane
Low enough like a flag at half-mast.

I think love’s kind of a fascist thing,
It takes over without your permission.

It’s criminal, this searing undertow.

THE LIVES OF ROCK STARS by Kyle Hemmings

The 29th offering from Ten Pages Press is now available: The Lives of Rock Stars by Kyle Hemmings.

Distortion and Reverb

Stu Mavis, former lead axman of The QuickCheck Convicts and My Dog’s Conversion. Supposedly played with such greats as Carlos Santana, Tony Williams, and John McLaughlin and the Mahavishnu Orchestra. Imprisoned seven years after wrongfully charged and arrested for the murder of his wife, Nikki Galante, a member of the Seattle slam poetry group: Suicide in Threes. Lived off dumpster diving for several years. Rediscovered and helped back to his feet by Black Flag’s Henry Rollins. Performs stand up comedy and acoustic blues guitar at the Hits-The-Spot club in Los Angeles. (B. Seattle, WA., 1947).

Toned down and three times his own age
at Woodstock, he tells the audience,
composed mostly of ex-gamblers and retired
hustlers, beer-bellied and stretch-marked,
how long ago a girl played him so dirty,
he became a useless guitar, his body,
a scale only playable with capo at the fifth
fret. One drunk whistled, yelled out,
“I used to be her pimp.” Another clapped.
The rest of us didn’t know what to make
of it. We sat there, edgy, our drinks
turning to ice and the ice turning
to stones.

He picked up a Gibson Les Paul and played
a dreamy melancholy piece titled, “Around
It Goes.” Somewhere around the second chorus,
he stopped. Again we were forced to listen
to the silence of stones, only this time,
at the bottom of our stomachs. Intimidating
with his blank face of heavy jowl and loose
flesh, he said, “I forgot the words.”
The same drunk who clapped before sang
the chorus. We all clapped for him
when it was over.

But I missed the old days when Stu and
his Convicts gave free concerts in Central
Park. I loved how he depended so much on chance,
those erotic loops of his harmonic feedback.
Sometimes, he would just fail. Sometimes,
his muse couldn’t hook up to the Marshall.
Or his distortion pedal would just send
the teeny boppers back to their hot cars,
to cuddle next to AM radio baritone-rich
D.J.s. But I preferred the old Stu.
He took chances. He wallowed on Echo.

THE MAN WHO KILLED HIMSELF IN MY BATHROOM by CL Bledsoe

The 28th offering from Ten Pages Press is now available: The Man Who Killed Himself In My Bathroom by CL Bledsoe.

3:16

Obese children talking to the air. A scattering
of buildings, mostly vacant or for sale or occupied
by the same handful of interchangeable stores;
cracked, graying asphalt dotted with road-kill,
rusted railroad tracks, with spires and signs
for land donated for future spires spiking
the air—don’t mistake description
for emotion, faith for conviction; I’m talking
about never instead of maybe because somebody
tricked me out of it.  Every Sunday, see the fat
women stuffed in their air-conditioned SUVs, trailing litter
like a bridal train. Fear and refusal
to think. This is Faith. Believe or _____.  The hours
can always be filled with watching high school
football, talking about high school football, thinking
about when we used to play high school
football, or complaining
about foreigners.  The days were _____
and will be _____ if the _______ can be stopped.