Poetry

It Rained on Lake Erie and other poems

by John Dorsey

 

it rained on lake erie

those summers when my father

would us pack into the car

transplanted into some

tiny wooden bungalow

just off the highway

 

a crumbing drive-in sign

advertised skin flicks overhead

as he fried potatoes

his fingers coated

in day old grease.

 

we listened to the water sing

through the mouths of seashells

bottling moonlight

with the whispers

of wayward fireflies.

 

our nights spent peacefully

sleeping

under blankets

of

stars

 

 

Rebirth of the Wild West
12-14-12


I think Cole Younger
might feel a bit out of touch.

The thing about tragedy now
is that our monsters are more real
than imagined.

Bullets don’t play favorites.

They don’t ask history
to do them any favors.

And the thing is
it’s never our kids.

It isn’t Nirvana bootlegs
and a little grass
or cowboys and Indians anymore.

The moon has become irrational
with blood lust
and its victims
just get younger
every day.

 

 

Indianapolis at 2:37am

a fish flops
a line turns inside out
there is no sun here
only here
i get it

 

*****************************************************************************

 

John Dorsey is the author of several collections of poetry, including Teaching the Dead to Sing: The Outlaw’s Prayer (Rose of Sharon Press, 2006), Sodomy is a City in New Jersey (American Mettle Books, 2010), and Leaves of Ass (Unadorned Press, 2011). His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com

 

Art by Sheila Lanham

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