Another Mad Review: MACHINE OF ALMOSTING

Another Mad Review:  MACHINE OF ALMOSTING
MACHINE OF ALMOSTING POETRY: 1993-2016 By Paul Sexton Poeticus Mundi Publishing Arlington, TX 2017 23 years represents one-third of a man’s lifespan here in the great state of Texas. One third of any life represents a lot of growth and change, peppered with bits of joy and pain. One third of a poet’s life, lived in space and on the[read more]

The Best of Mad Swirl : 11.18.17

The Best of Mad Swirl : 11.18.17
“Poetry proceeds from the totality of man, sense, imagination, intellect, love, desire, instinct, blood and spirit together.” Jacques Maritain Cray (above) by featured artist Mike Fiorito. To see more of Mike’s colorfully crazy collages, as well as our other featured artists, visit our Mad Gallery! ••• The Poetry Forum ••• This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we blinked at[read more]

The Best of Mad Swirl : 11.11.17

The Best of Mad Swirl : 11.11.17
“The artist must create a spark before he can make a fire and before art is born, the artist must be ready to be consumed by the fire of his own creation.” Auguste Rodin Stricken (above) by featured artist Mike Fiorito. To see more of Mike’s colorfully crazy collages, as well as our other featured artists, visit our Mad[read more]

White Meat

Give thanks enemies don’t throw the best feasts.
Green bean butter knives spread pre-prayer rolls passed from
our honored guest prophet priest president with a mouth for
cranberries oozing from tin cans like sick cow tongues
still wasting lives building memories uninvited to Thanksgiving.

He listens, our prophet priest president, with dichroic interest.
Vietnam Dad didn’t collect bodies, only stories repeating
from when wide open Austin carried tower bullets to forever,
but not to Vietnam where Dad was first called a racist.
“I’m Irish,
nothing but bad potatoes, finger splinters, nothing to look at
but when I do look into a mirror, at least I don’t see
a nigger.”

Our prophet priest president asks to give thanks.

Give thanks slow animals don’t think quickly.
Give thanks all time is a food pyramid.
Give thanks it’s not sugar but it’s sweet.
Give thanks stuffing crawls inside by design.
Give thanks our skeletons always fit in last season’s coat.
Give thanks! Change the world or change the channel!

Give thanks you’ll get a eulogy and hear even more.
Give thanks your shoes have a goddess’s name, your soul’s saved.
Give thanks you can spell CRUCIFIX but never need one.
Give thanks you don’t know the black hole of a gun barrel.
Give thanks you don’t know why the black hole on your heart

gives thanks.

Give thanks we’re not dead, we only slouch that way.
Give thanks we don’t hate, we only talk that way.

Winds ring trees Irish roughhewed into pews for natives
out of mountains, hungry for Irish daughters and their saving god,
potatoes that never see a damn thing, especially not disease,
prophet priest president
who all the whites know and love as much as whites can—
with respect.
Corncobs don’t hear whispered new words, new languages
as honey licked off broken fingers dirtied by church bombings
and suppertime phone screens cataloging absurd scriptures.
One’s eyes see all, warm bodies under bridges, cold corpses on asphalt,
anthologies of new wars for new decades in new billion-year-old light.
Loud prayers of suppers, silence in streets, entertainment for a prophet
priest
president.

Championed our best but bled of goodness from wrists dripping
to the ground where America was made, where spit dark clay made men
draw lines in backs kept from our front door while
behind locked windows and open mouths sits a country that doesn’t exist
but it’s been built by hand by generations by blessing
at the devil’s right hand, so grab your loved one to your left for grace.

Catch for us the foxes, the little foxes that ruin vineyards in bloom.
Feed for the wolves are starved and our mouths are empty.

We’re served
what animals become when they don’t run, we’re what happens when they sit
with an invited prophet priest president who loves that we don’t hold light,
the phantom touch of what we should be
never returns
as canned cranberries spill out in the shape they were contained.

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