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ahhhhh,
there's nothing
like dunking
a fat chunk
of biscotti
into the steam
of a laundromat
vent,
I try to take it
straight up, I eschew
raw sugar or cremora
on account
of some bad teeth, I chew
mostly on the right side, lately or
for as long as my pride
holds out, then
i let the dentist make another hole
in my mouth,
but in the mean time,
watching the long johns tumble
with pink jocks and sudsy tube
socks in the slow-spinning
washer portal,
my mood turns
equatorial, and maritime,
though it's 13 degrees
outside, i stand
to make new
diaries
of a point guard named
Tide, today, my hero
must face a half-mile hill
with left atrial cardiac
arrythmia and no choice
but to climb, — a cold
pill of sun rides shotgun
at the apex; passing cars
make a schussing glide,
like weak side
help, like nitrous
oxide,
i turn
flush from my bank
of Kenmore, tides go
out with
the pastry
in my mouth, and the air, becoming
suddenly, sickly sweet and so visible
with peppermint-scented lint swirls,
like all you dandelion people,
you beautiful spores ...
choked up in a blast
of motes, i wish to take
down these diary notes
forever before
i am blown
away.
to be frank,
i had sand grit in my shoes,
i was kicking it
in the dunes
with an empty
hourglass
on clavicle lanyard, i heard
a familiar voice say, "hypno-
tizmotic sleep is worth few grains
in a pinch ..."
i was hunting for a vector
in the winter light, on those dunes
in late afternoon when prisms bloom
into anti matter flooding the floorboards
of a roller coaster with silica,
and yet hip
deep, swallowed
by the shifting swales, by incoming
dipper, to be frank, some rarefied fireflies
billa-bonged like umbilical electrons
in the cyclops head lamp
of an all terrain vehicle, slow roll
of limbo lug nut, your basic three
wheeler, and i answered back, "where the fuck
are you man you're seriously driving me
buggy ..."
Some cocaine, or
salt, spilled
from the snapped neck
of an hour glass one grain
at a time, a peg leg
of mine powered thru
quick lime, thru no fault
like an auger where all
my auguries should be.
If anyone has seen my brother
frank please instant
message me.
a gerard manley
hopkins shoe
horn, brimming
with gooey
au jus on the cusp
of Jello and mint
sprigs;
eighty two
blazing candles
on a four foot slab
of jaundiced
pound cake
in Burroughs'
barn;
a pair
of ghastly blue
dungarees hung
on a hat tree
with the watch cap
of a gandy dancer
stapled
to the crotch,
to the crotch ...
the shattered face
of Corso's last lost
watch;
a stack of mags in a
Bleecker street john
that Kerouac used
to use, to jack
with
heart-shaped soap dish,
sealed by a sloppy, bearded
k i s s,
some kind of burnt out
zoom shot, a cow skull
butt-up to
minora,
and something else
you don't ever want
to know.
Dennis Mahagin's poems and stories have appeared in Exquisite Corpse, 42opus, Frigg Magazine, Absinthe Literary Review, Stirring: A Literary Collection, Pequin, The Angler, Mannequin Envy, 3 A.M., Underground Voices, Thieves Jargon, Zygote In My Coffee, and Hiss Quarterly. A book of his poems, entitled Grand Mal, is forthcoming in 2009 from Three Roads Press, which is a new imprint of Cleveland-based Suspect Thoughts Press. Dennis also has a blog, which contains many colorful vignettes, You Tube music videos, and lurid paens to Levitra, Cialis, and L-Arginine. This blog is located at http://fourhourhardon.blogspot.com.