Saturday, March 28, 2009

Radomir Luza


the drums sounded like an angry ostrich
like the difference between plastic and stone
like heather graham in another movie where she does not take her clothes off

like mick jagger saying we don't analyze them we just play them
and the lead singers have become the businessmen they always hated

the sun hit me like molton lava like a new band caressing their first hit

like rod stewart without the attitude

the crack cocaine ecstacy pcp and heroine
the closed doors and naked needles

the angry stares and unmolested glares
the bloody knees behind bath room stalls

the margarita filled night the alley cat pisses
and east river brawls

the life without clocks and teeth that have not ever rocked
the darkness on stage that keeps people away
the stillness on mars
the spoken for stars

on an island near the moon
hey you guys and girls talk too soon

too many behind bars

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Joanne Merriam


Saturday casts you like a lure into my bed;
our mouths open and close.

The parts of your body I deserve least
are your hands, which move like chenille feels.

At some point we stop touching.
Some point later than we should.

After, you say I'm worried about the wrong things,
a gift I can't stop myself opening.

The night still on your lips goodbye,
I half expect to find money at my bedside.
Jeffry Jensen


It was the skinny guitarist with an
eye-patch who got all the unattached
girls on Saturday night after the hour
set of sweaty songs and bent chords.
The drummer went home with his
horny wife who was ready and willing
to rub down his heavy shoulders.
The singer couldn’t get off the stage
fast enough to hit the town with a
belligerent entourage of aging bikers.
As the last minute fill-in bass player,
I was left behind to drink up my share
of the take until I was fortified enough
to sing backup with the crying moon.