Jetsam -- by Kim Ode

Tree trunks, white as marble.
Coffee mugs with curses in their wake.
Great bales of beaver pelts, once.
An anchor, and over there, another.
From the sand, the prow of a voyageur canoe
Breaks the lake bottom's liquid lines.
Occasionally there is a new thing
Binoculars
Sunglasses
A fishing rod
Each descends at a different speed
Sinking through the fathoms into darkness.
Irretrievable.
A fish once, with a flick of its tail, avoided
A collision with an empty pickle jar
On its way down.
It clinked against the anchor
Breaking into vinegary shards.
Given enough wind and waves
And time
It stands a good chance of ending up
As seaglass on some scrounger's shelf.
If only it can achieve a beach.

Someday I Will Complain of Heat -- by Kim Ode

I'm tired of stomping my shoes

Before I walk into a building,

Bound by the grim etiquette

Of dutifully shedding slush.

I'm tired of looking for my other glove

And embarrassed by how I cling

To the hope that I'll find it,

As if this winter should be any different.

I'm tired of mincing along sidewalks

In that stupid flat-footed waddle,

And hearing about your ice dam

And imagining panty hose on your roof.

I'm tired of looking out on a world

Sketched in pen-and-ink,

And dream of when Dorothy opened that door.

Mostly, I want that door.

I'm tired of knowing that Per Hansa's body

Wasn't found until the next May

Yet unthawed after seeking refuge

In a distant haystack.

I'm tired of coping with March,

Which isn't that different from coping with February.

I dream of the day that I grow tired

Of looking for my sunglasses.

They call them fault lines,
As if someone merits blame.
Oh, creationists.
                 
              -- Kim Ode

Fight of the Century - by Klecko

As the son of a drunkard - I had to be patient
Since intentions and whiskey don't mix

On Fridays in April - My father would call me
It was always late in the evening

He'd promise adventures - We'd go to the circus
Everything would be first class

But, the pinball machines - and slurring background
Made me wonder if it would turn out like last year

By the time I was 7 - I couldn't pick him out of a police line up
He left L.A. before I turned 2

He got bored rather easily - And married 5 times
Each wife bore him a daughter

I was the only son - from his first betrothed
We eventually relocated in the Midwest

Then on one day - The date was March 8th
He decided it was time to catch up

A lout in an Impala - Pulled into our driveway
The guy who got out looked like Jackie Gleason

Our homecoming was surreal - when he lifted up his fists
While asking "Boy do you like to scrap?"

I didn't answer the question - so he pulled out 2 tickets
We were going to the fight of the century

My mother was tentitive - But, eventually released her grip
You could see the nail marks on my bicep

Somehow her distrust - would find a reprieve
Ali was attempting to reclaim the crown

I kissed her goodbye - And, went off with this stranger
Who was advised to give me no soda

The bout was in New York - At Madison Square Garden
Remember this predates HBO

So we went to the Met - To watch the closed circut broadcast
It was our cities only satellite venue

Tickets were sparse - Admission was coveted
I ran to be the first in a line

We marched straight to consessions - My father grinned large
"Sir, wouls you please give my son a Coke?"

Then we entered the auditorium - There were 1 million men
And, I was the only boy

The guys with gray hair - The type who wore pin stripes
Greeted me like neighbors from the cabin

"Who do you like kid?" - I answered Muhammad Ali"
To the applause of row 117

But, even in Nirvana - theres always one flaw
Ours sported a plaid coat and sat in the row just behind

He bragged that Joe Fraizer - was 26 and 0
And, 23 of these came via the knockout

The imcumbant from Philly - Wasn't a draft dodger
Like my dads hero who was barred durring his prime

When the man in the plaid coat - harped on this fact
My old man told him to shut the fuck up

For the briefest of moments - I waited for conflict
But, the oafs were both told to pipe down

I sat there in silence - Kinda digging the tension
The show was about to start

The screen was gigantic - Bigger than in the movies
Then along came another Coke

When the lights faded down - The cheers rang out loud
While I nesteled into a cloud of blue cigar smoke

Don Dumphy did commentary - He was the play by play announcer
And, was joined by boxing champion Archie Moore

Burt Lancaster did color - He had never tried announcing
I loved the Birdman from Alcatraz

Leroy Neiman painted the moment - Woody Allen was himself
While Sinatra took photos for LIFE magizine

But, thats how it worked - You did what was needed
If you wanted to witness history first hand

The fight exceeded expectations - It went the full distance
But, Muhammad got knocked down in the final round

The world went silent - And, I wanted to cry
For a hero I didn't know earlier that day

He popped up real quick though - to offer us hope
But, his jaw was swollen grotesquely

After the bell rang - Smoking Joes glove was raised
Ali had suffered his first loss

Besides a small fraction - the crowd seemed so sullen
But, my old man refused to abandon his smile

While everyone filed out - We stayed in our seats
For unknown reasons he didn't want to leave

And, before he stood up - He shared a confession
As if we both possesed identical understanding

"Listen to me kid - One day you're gonna get older
And, I'm guessing you might be upset

You'll probably figure out - I'm a pretty shitty father
But, if it's any consolation...................

I only had 2 tickets to the fight of the century - And, I wanted to take you."

Ink -- by Kim Ode

When Johnny Cash died

They published memorials,

Ragged columns of ink

Reprising his life.

Kids still pick at his songs

Caressing frets with their fingers

While squinting at chords –

Ball-point dots of his strife.

Ink flows from pens.

Ink flows from needles.

Ink asks if we’re certain

Then winks when we nod.

Monks labored in abbeys

Illuminating the Word.

Shakespeare’s quill dipped and scratched

Soliliquies for the crowd.

Treaties and grocery lists,

Lyrics and lies.

Ink’s fluid nature

Both confirms and denies.

Tattoos are stories

Absorbed by our pores.

Injections of chapters

On biceps and calves.

Epiphanies, tributes,

Drunken stabs at eternity –

Ink walks the line

Lending all a blue beauty.

Silently, surely

The hand-drawn script letters

Deliver a message

As honest as dogs.

Ink flows from pens.

Ink flows from needles.

Ink asks if we’re certain

Then winks when we nod.

Polish Mystic Saint of Bread and Dogs by Tracie Morrell

Polish Mystic Saint of Bread and Dogs

Her last taste of broken

bread was in the Pradnik Sanatorium

Chapel.  That day was long

before they called her Saint. As Sister Mary Faustina

of the Blessed Sacrament coughed, the bread

speckled red with traces of consumption.

The day of her arrival was when the dogs

began to congregate.  In the chapel, kitchen

hands laid the bread of Christ, this time made

with gouda and stout, on a make-shift alter made of saw

horses and a broken mahogany door covered

with woven gold threads.  First, there was

an Owczarek Podhalanski, it was a very dirty

animal, but it could translate prayers.  Shortly, more

came, sometimes, by the dozens, and all different

breeds.  The Hounds of Hell came much later,

after there were already hundreds

there to hear a dying nun’s visions.

It was the arrival of beasts that told the men,

who owned the word, that she had been

touched.  Those men did not know that truth

never has the same meaning, especially when told

with lies.  But the day of speckled

bread, the dogs knelt before a Nun

carried to alter by Christ himself, as all the men

watched in horror.

 

i

 

3 Kings - Klecko

I hate when priests think that they're cool
Making reference of the Biblical Magi
They are the 3 Kings
As if you needed to be told
But, I guess sometimes perfections not enough

If you are a young boy
There is no image greater
To emulate through the holiday season

Before there were action figures
I'd extract the 3 kings from my mothers Nativity
And, we'd search for baby Jesus in distant kitchen cupboards

I didn't have any gold
Frankincense or myrrh
Our expedition outsourced wintergreen Lifesavers

And, if you explored the terrain deep into a closet
And, hit those mints with a hammer
The sparks looked like angels flying back to their father

My sister would get pissed
When I recruited Uncle Drosselmeyer
Who was carved into a Nutcracker form

He was an employee of King Herod
Hired to reenact The Massacre of the Innocents
In which her Barbie's starred as Bethlehem's slain

My sister would point out
That I was retarded
Since historically the victims had been boys

But, artistic license
Or a directors prerogative
Should always receive extended latitude when you are 6