Forbes and Fifth

Shaking Champagne

Meanderings of a Lonely Kind

Foolhardy man,
I am a pigeon looking and bounding;
Rat of the sky, I’d fly
Past Patrons of food stands,
Milk Fat Bats:
I will devour you.

In my wake
Of concrete caked post gumbo tunes
Sure in their ways
I pray.

Holy Father, lend me your feathers
Fettered by folding chairs, oak floors
Broad shoulder doorways and brief
Commercial interruptions.

I want that
To fuel a constant
Of porous names meaning squat diddly,
Beerfree Freedmen eating pigeon stakes on
Pigeon lands

Thine Hands, take hold of me.

Burn Baby Burn,
Piecemeal hobbies.
Oh, Totem! I feel your rhythm
Dumpling chasm, plastic boar
Poor man’s handle of alcoholic pennies
Copper coin, bitten by the bastard
Who trust no man but his foolish god.

Dirty Scoundrel!
Takes advantage of newborn with horns
Do you have the root beer shot?
Apple Pie, American Dream
Dreaming of smashing your cousin’s face in

Face the facts:
Her lovely bones care for friends,
Mutant acquaintances and bar stool family

Handle thin emotions, young grasshopper
Pop the top of a cork off that newborn noggin
And proceed to touch her gently
Gentility, for once, I welcome you!
With the Man Who Stole Home

To my home, my family, neighbors and those I do not know:

Who can stop wrought iron from flaking,
While casks of tin soldiers nod off to sleep
On this sloping hill, which houses me.
And my muscles aren’t what they used to be,
So the layman and shaded nun can’t make me out,
As she combs my sunken eyes for remnants of
A childhood.

Sleep, bearded clam and portly companion.
You have not seen light in this place for a lifetime,
And I am left holding onto discontent during my brief visitations.
For whatever reason, this sort of undulation only corrodes,
As the frothy white caps stake claims of gentility on the doorstep of this town.
And I mourn.

Am I jade elephant? Am I rogue wave?

Gospel Hymns could be heard from the window.
Telephone rings wring out sweat stained pews,
And stand in for preacher, pulpit and parish.
And now I see the light, and now I am saved.

A blue cadence has painted its name on our sidewalks,
I, an outsider, seek its murky pride hidden in steak sauce, booze and sleek pontoons.
I want to destroy it, dismantle it, engage its suction cups that suckle wholly on my people.
You will not take more from us, then sell it black as gold.

But I will move on,
Lead astray by my own ambitions and left holding a light leather bag,
Which houses that discontent, a chocolate bar and just enough will power.
I truly do bid you good luck, my heart goes out to your children.

7 Bands are Playing Tonight:

This bridge is flashing its teeth at me

or perhaps half moon eyes

Sunken eyes wehre guys
and gals rally primate moves in rusted grooves
to paint a name

Eyes lined, eyeliner lies

push upward

"Where have you been, while I waited
with blessings arms, open wide"

And maybe this atlas will bear the weight
of landscapes traipsing around town

Full of mini skirted broads,

birds of prey at play

Across a bridges eybrows

So look down

up a skirt to find
iron britches

Love strained by those names
that hide gaundy smiles

the surface has yet to relieve.

"My trestles, my rib bone trestles,
are at play with you tonight, and I'll welcome
you back the next time you need me"


In my post box
I find a voucher for Dairyland products;

Hooves pry on milk white scalps
It exclaims

And I picture the young calves whose
Cries of life stir my empty glass

Turning, cup in hand and robe untied

You haven't seen my brittle bones, Dairyland,
My insides don't know you too well

I've heard they build on Indian burial grounds,
Where slaughtered blank faces
Glistened like moonlight

And those in India do in fact hold sacred the Cow

So bearing those fruits in mind,
I grip the voucher, look inside my home
And find my confidence there.

Post toast, coffee shower dry and dress:

Faint Idling Increments of my day are made clearer,

like the
never ceasing

Idea of Death.


Amaze me, sweet

Those spots on your back help me say,

I live alone without a calf to call my own, whose eyes
like indigo
Push past all that bullshit,
that incessant blue.

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Editor's Edition, 2014