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
The Merida Review 