Potluck

 

T H I S    W E E K

The Theorist by Bo Fisher

 

Four Poems

 

chant

sometime in ancient or two seconds ago someone said the second time is aglow go 'round midnight or so a second try artifact attracts trial by sect the sacrificial OM the transient OM the midwifery oh my gladness how the time does go round tracks of trilobiticle creatures create paths for the neurological OM the semitropical OM the oom-pah-pah popsuckle dome of the mad hatress harkens me back to the snarkafuckation of the transcendentalists Om the industrialists OM the moonshot shithouse harlequin quintuplets let her open letters for languid lovers on lower rungs ringing bell hops hovering and hoping for airdropped distortion a rational ex-spring nation to tantalize with autobiographical OM pseudo mechanical OM psychoanalytical OM hyperhygienically manifested Om to place around the little pink ears of the living

 

 

 

 

knife work

at company picnics
I would watch
my father stick

one slippery clam
after the other
shucking between sips

of his Genny pounder
he'd take one from ice,
pocket knife

slipped between shells
then a twist,
never once dropping one

or injuring a finger
or thumb
in doing this—
truth is

I can barely handle
something as unassuming
as a bagel

without nearly performing Yibitsume right there
at the morning

kitchen island,
always expecting to wrap
a stub protruding
from my hand

with a napkin
and masking tape
as would my old man,

if ever
the blade
makes its way
to a place
it ain't meant to

 

 

 

 

Listing - toward repetitive action

after all of these incarnations
          all of this wandering
seemingly
seamlessly
between planes
of existence
I weigh
thanking Möbius
against
         admonishing him
for
mapping
this
endless trek

 

 

 

 

slung

cold rain
flat beer
bologna bomber
and an endless
supply of
infinitesimal sorrows

I'm watching
a bird out there
on a cable
carrying on
like a drunken tenor

I notice neither
his aloneness
nor the downpour
seem to effect
his sense of melody
though, for all I know
he could be
bellyaching
about some such

me? I'm not much
for singing but
if you are looking
I can be found
on low slung days
sitting with my silence
nodding
in affirmation
as someone else
interprets the blues

 

Fred Whitehead is a Buffalo poet and host of the Dog Ears 4th Friday Poetry Series, held at Dog Ears Bookstore and Cafe. He has authored five collections of poetry, has produced a series of broadsides, and runs Destitute Press (mostly from his couch) putting out limited-run microbooks for promoting local poets. He has been published in The Buffalo News, Earth Daughters, The Allentowner and on various poetry groups on the net. He is admittedly Buffalo-centric at this time and has been a featured reader at many of the city's poetry series.