Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
The Streets of San Jose
The streets of San Jose are paved with broken concrete
that juts out at your toes until you learn to watch where you step.
The cobbled stone turns from gray to dirty brick red and back
as different materials come down from historic buildings
falling in disrepair or replaced by modern international giants;
McDonalds, Taco Bells, Pizza Huts, even Kentucky Fried Chickens.
The streets of San Jose are covered in greasy fried chickens
with a side of salisbury steak and heavily MSGed barbecue sauce.
More cheap than the bounty of vegetables growing in the countryside,
on every corner the fatty factory protein is available
for only $2.50, some self respect and a lifetime of high cholesterol.
You can watch the grease slide from mouth to exposed flabby skin.
The streets of San Jose are drowning in obese, flabby skin
rolling from the sides of densely packed pedestrians.
Plunging over tight waistlines and bursting out of single stitched seams.
Enormous spongy buttocks swallow small stools and two toothed women
are orbited by tiny tables with confusing lottery tickets, "29 Chances!"
or hawking backdated Chinese crap fresh from the warehouse.
The streets of San Jose are pock-marked with cheap Chinese crap
that must arrive at the dock to a line of barkers. Waiting
to fill their black plastic bags with the same shit they will sell
on every street, in every corner, at any price, to anyone with money.
Remote controls, power cords, textiled bags, plastic toys from dime store machines.
All laid out side to side on industrial garbage bags like well organized trash.
The streets of San Jose are littered with unorganized trash
that has already been picked through, shat on, slept with and discarded
by the numerous wandering vagrants that sleep in the most visible areas.
Preferably on sidewalks and under business awnings of major streets
where more tourists will disgustingly throw colones on the ground
to keep the clever hands from finding their way into clean pockets.
The streets of San Jose are filled with clever hands and bold thieves
who will kill you in broad daylight for just a few dollars.
Leaving you to bleed out on the gray concrete cobblestone,
staining it a dirty red just blocks from your hostel and the police
who will let your body lay uncovered in the sun while inspecting the scene
before bagging you and taking you off the unwashed streets of San Jose.
that juts out at your toes until you learn to watch where you step.
The cobbled stone turns from gray to dirty brick red and back
as different materials come down from historic buildings
falling in disrepair or replaced by modern international giants;
McDonalds, Taco Bells, Pizza Huts, even Kentucky Fried Chickens.
The streets of San Jose are covered in greasy fried chickens
with a side of salisbury steak and heavily MSGed barbecue sauce.
More cheap than the bounty of vegetables growing in the countryside,
on every corner the fatty factory protein is available
for only $2.50, some self respect and a lifetime of high cholesterol.
You can watch the grease slide from mouth to exposed flabby skin.
The streets of San Jose are drowning in obese, flabby skin
rolling from the sides of densely packed pedestrians.
Plunging over tight waistlines and bursting out of single stitched seams.
Enormous spongy buttocks swallow small stools and two toothed women
are orbited by tiny tables with confusing lottery tickets, "29 Chances!"
or hawking backdated Chinese crap fresh from the warehouse.
The streets of San Jose are pock-marked with cheap Chinese crap
that must arrive at the dock to a line of barkers. Waiting
to fill their black plastic bags with the same shit they will sell
on every street, in every corner, at any price, to anyone with money.
Remote controls, power cords, textiled bags, plastic toys from dime store machines.
All laid out side to side on industrial garbage bags like well organized trash.
The streets of San Jose are littered with unorganized trash
that has already been picked through, shat on, slept with and discarded
by the numerous wandering vagrants that sleep in the most visible areas.
Preferably on sidewalks and under business awnings of major streets
where more tourists will disgustingly throw colones on the ground
to keep the clever hands from finding their way into clean pockets.
The streets of San Jose are filled with clever hands and bold thieves
who will kill you in broad daylight for just a few dollars.
Leaving you to bleed out on the gray concrete cobblestone,
staining it a dirty red just blocks from your hostel and the police
who will let your body lay uncovered in the sun while inspecting the scene
before bagging you and taking you off the unwashed streets of San Jose.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Seven Sunflowers: a new poem by Jordan
The summer I planted seven sunflowers
I left them in a crooked row
In my backyard, like a fence overseeing
The differences between the sidewalk and dirt
It rained a great deal in June,
And three sunflowers were broken by the storms
Their thin shafts split apart before even
Reaching my knees
The sky opened again in July,
This time it wasn't a storm but a missile
Dropped from the pear tree above
That fell another helpless stalk
The August hail took the fifth,
And so the two flowers left in the dirt
Were left to reach skyward in contest
Side by side, two towers overseeing.
It wasn't until September,
When those two flowers extended overhead
That they started unfolding,
Their heads blinking for the first time
The first sunflower to bloom
Lived for one day before the neighborhood
Children smashed the stem and left
The head scattered on the sidewalk
One sunflower, the strongest
Who had made it since late May,
It stood alone, one tower overseeing
A killing field and a thoroughfare
The last sunflower died on the same day
The FBI raided the houses of war protesters
Searching for totems akin to terrorism
But their guns were drawn at the wrong neighbors
It was the third day of autumn,
And I stepped out in my backyard
Only to find the strongest of them all
Cut down at the knees, beheaded.
I left them in a crooked row
In my backyard, like a fence overseeing
The differences between the sidewalk and dirt
It rained a great deal in June,
And three sunflowers were broken by the storms
Their thin shafts split apart before even
Reaching my knees
The sky opened again in July,
This time it wasn't a storm but a missile
Dropped from the pear tree above
That fell another helpless stalk
The August hail took the fifth,
And so the two flowers left in the dirt
Were left to reach skyward in contest
Side by side, two towers overseeing.
It wasn't until September,
When those two flowers extended overhead
That they started unfolding,
Their heads blinking for the first time
The first sunflower to bloom
Lived for one day before the neighborhood
Children smashed the stem and left
The head scattered on the sidewalk
One sunflower, the strongest
Who had made it since late May,
It stood alone, one tower overseeing
A killing field and a thoroughfare
The last sunflower died on the same day
The FBI raided the houses of war protesters
Searching for totems akin to terrorism
But their guns were drawn at the wrong neighbors
It was the third day of autumn,
And I stepped out in my backyard
Only to find the strongest of them all
Cut down at the knees, beheaded.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Confrontations Released!
The release reading was a spectacular vernacular success. Please contact skullandpoems@gmail.com for your very own copy of Confrontations: a Skull and Poems Reader for approximately $10 and thank you to all who already own it... you'll be thanking yourselves later!
Friday, July 2, 2010
Cold Shoulder/Initial 8 Deal
Jon/The Cold Shoulder has 8 books to sell to the hardcore fans. In each of these initial eight, he will scrawl a different poem of his unincluded in the anthology--devaluing the publication significantly. First come, first serve.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Ibyang Muñeca
They called her “Ibyang Muñeca,”
“China Doll from the Midway"
and like a thousand other monikers
she’d answer to
drunk with friends that she adopted,
made a family out of strangers--
knew her core but like two of them knew her name.
Tough lover and a Turf Club regular,
slammed every door decisively--
some function of her nature--
and danced out loud to car alarms,
bathed in sweat or rain
twisted fluently, twisted fluency
when gawkers gawked--
“out-of-town-tourist-trash,” she’s sing.
Loved it when people asked her
“where you from?”
told them “like a million different places,
depending on the day--
wouldn’t recommend Wyoming
but you knew that already.”
Flew her independent nation flag
without it being stupid bangs,
esoteric ink, piercings, or pulled together poetry--
told me I was dumb to look for meaning in her laugh lines.
weekly post 1
Untitled
The humid minnesota summer days are nothing
compared to the fog in my mind from the nights
i stayed up late talking with you
the wet air pressing in on me tightens
the knots my thoughts have been tied up in
with thoughts tied and tongue loose
i have spoken a steady stream of mixed emotions
confusing to us both, lying to us
both without knowing until i sit down
to review our predawn episodes like a movie
it is then that i can see that the character i play
doesn't follow his script but improvises scenes
that have been loosely played out by others
for whatever audience will listen
and you, without any script, have all your lines ready
unfinished
Inflamed Appendix
The humid minnesota summer days are nothing
compared to the fog in my mind from the nights
i stayed up late talking with you
the wet air pressing in on me tightens
the knots my thoughts have been tied up in
with thoughts tied and tongue loose
i have spoken a steady stream of mixed emotions
confusing to us both, lying to us
both without knowing until i sit down
to review our predawn episodes like a movie
it is then that i can see that the character i play
doesn't follow his script but improvises scenes
that have been loosely played out by others
for whatever audience will listen
and you, without any script, have all your lines ready
unfinished
Inflamed Appendix
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Confrontations: A Release Reading
Join Skull and Poems Press at the Acadia Cafe on July 14th for the release of their first full group anthology--Confrontations. Featuring music from Kasey McKee and The Prizefighters, your toes will be tappin' all night and the readings from Skull and Poems Literary Society members will rock the socks right off those tappin' toes. Join us at 7:30 for drinks, poems and music. It's not to be missed.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
The Inflamed Appendix
Follow the poetry of Jesse Zager/The Inflamed Appendix at: http://inflamedappendix.blogspot.com/
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Monthly Reading at Groundswell
Everyone better clear their schedules for the 3rd Saturday of every month, because Skull and Poems Press has a monthly engagement at Groundswell for those nights. The first will be on March 20th and we should have a musical guest at each of these readings. Hope to see you there.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
No Chaser Available Now
Order your copy of Josh Hackett's flash memoir collection, No Chaser, today! Available here or, better still, tonight (2/13) at Groundswell Coffee.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
The Fiery Soul and Cold Shoulder
Skull and Poems members Josh Hackett and Jon Schill have their own sites up and running now. Follow Josh at http://thefierysoul.blogspot.com/ and Jon at http://coldshouldershow.blogspot.com/
Thursday, January 14, 2010
No Chaser Reading!
The release reading for Josh Hackett's collection of poetry and memoir "No Chaser" is scheduled for 7:00pm at Groundswell Coffee on Hamline and Thomas in St. Paul. This party will feature some fine, fine poetry from Jesse Zager, Caitlin Ray, Eric Whalen and of course, Josh Hackett. Don't miss out on what is sure to be a spectacular evening of poetry, followed by equally spectacular drinking at one of the neighborhood's many quality watering holes.
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