Poems from FAUCET by Alex Gregor

Moxie by Lori Sambol Brody
August 11, 2018
Two Poems by Sheena Carroll
August 13, 2018

 

Follow the will o’ the wisps

into the bog

where no man speaks,

but only signs.

You can find me

drinking wine

out of goblets

in the top of the jungle gym,

perched up like a guinea fowl

on a branch full of roses.

Without a stock pot in sight,

I got the switch

of the whippoorwill,

forked as foretold,

been searchin this dessert

for the good news

in all these marginal comets,

traded in the fatta tha land

for the crème de la crème

& the chicken pot pie,

been munchin on

these four leaf clovers

off a silver dollar platter,

my wooden spoon in hand,

i shoyu

i moo shoo

i cock a doodle doo,

and when the good word is spoken –

i stomp, stammer & spit.

 




Stop kicking that mackerel

and the hen that doesn’t lay,

Keep your ears to the ground:

There is no screen between

your self and the projection.

On the icy exoplanet,

the atomic clock ticks faster,

the tao minute hands skipping seconds,

A tractor engine hums:

If not now, then when

I was led down into the rabbit hole,

the birds and the bees

turned to vultures & hornets,

but I put together the puzzle,

one piece at a time.

Like being stranded on an island

and realizing it’s a whale,

been waving my saint stick

like a sodium flare,

and when I was given a gold sift

to drill deep for oil,

I coughed up a lung

and ground my teeth

down to tic-tacs.

Enough with the watermelon

and the roundabout tuna.

I just saw a chicken hawk

swoop down

and snag a wharf rat

in that there gutter,

This is not just the meat,

but the potatoes too.

 

On the tram that runs from

here to there,

the pot bellied pig

turns tricks

on a slab of limestone.

When

stalactite

meets

stalagmite,

All I have is this

abstract potato salad,

caught in between

two tongues.

Now that the going is easy,

I got baptized down in

an irrigation ditch.

Where the sidewalk ends,

You’ll find me

pushing out air

between

the stars

and

the dew,

Bird by Bird,

’til the Duck Feathers

become Goose Down

become Swan Plume.

After all,

You have to

break some eggs

to make

an omelet,

but these yokes are

bloody beef,

cold turkey,

city ham,

greasy chicken.

Cross the street into the city walls:

pull back your handlebars and

revel. If you traced Spam roots

back to their beginning,

You’d be a plate lunch,

Musubi.

 



How you gonna keep em

down on the farm

after they’ve seen

Palm frond

Palm frond

Palm frond,

The meat market,

The mussel man,

The black eyed pea

tapping the croissants

and tossing the potatoes

into the bread box.

Trim off the dead ends

to freeze time,

frozen.

When the calf is gone,

Electric field mouse

come out to say:

Sisyphus come

and Sisyphus go,

But I bite down on my tongue

and hiccup daisies.

I plateau on all this kudzu –

Gimme that pigfoot.

Struttin with some barbecue,

Pass me the catsup,

Crimp the tube and

push out the paste,

until its contents

are laid out

in front of you.




i may not have a hand right now,

but i wasn’t born this way,

i stick my head out in the rain

til it softens up,

whittle down the crust

and carve out the filling,

Rat’s a chicken pot pie,

said the one-winged pigeon,

Well slow down partner,

sang the traveling gum salesman,

How’s about another

round of applesauce

in this here empty courtyard,

where the silverware clanks

in every open window,

the sound is mostly monogamous,

you know it well.

At quittin time,

put the pasta in the pot

when the cows come home,

You like it like that?

Well, I am the beekeeper,

so I drink to the trees,

corn liquor,

white lightnin,

honeysuckle wine,

these grapes are ripe for pickin

but i gag a maggot

inside a rotten peach,

to be a super drupe –

a Nut

a Fruit

and a Seed,

at the same damn time,

a squeezebox

in the canopy nest,

a bellowing bandoneon

in the eye of the hurricane,

a particle of dust

bathing in a pool of photons.

 

 

 

When shit hits the fan,

Time folds over on itself

Like tennis shoes.

I’m a growin’ boy.

Know what I mean,

Butterbean?

I got the crapshooter’s blues.

No moon

No magic

No water

Means No Wells.

I flip my eyelids inside out

and Dumbo.

I put my mouth to the spigot

and Spray:

Djangly cheese.

Dear God,

Make me a bird,

So I can fly far,

Far Far Away From

the moonlight that passes through

this cloud of ice crystals.

There’s more than one way

to pluck a buzzard.

Like a cat that

drags in every dead thing that it finds,

I am the owner

with runs in my nose.

I primrose to never

spiffy long stockings.

That’ll peel back

the paint on your windpipe.

I always ends up playing a shepherd

or a fly on a camel’s back.

I tries to go with the flow

but alls I feels is the undertow,

and the everlasting crank of the eternal hurdy gurdy.

To soak up time,

Spongled.

To be suspended in it,

Stumped.

To keep track,

Taken,

I tip the scales

and the walls come tumbling down.


About the Author


 

Alex Gregor is a writer, editor & teacher currently living in Rome, Italy. He is one of the founding editors of OOMPH! Press and the curator of PERM PRESS. His chapbook, MARGINAL COMETS, was selected as a semifinalist for the Radioactive Cloud Chapbook Open Reading Period (2018); his chapbook, FAUCET, was selected as a finalist for The Atlas Review Chapbook Series (2015). His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Queen Mob’s Tea HouseNOÖDELUGEEntropyJacket 2Real PantsFanzineDeer Bear Wolf MagazineMuse /A JournalDream Pop PressGLITTER MOB MAG and elsewhere. He has a MA in English from Georgia State University. Follow him online at www.marginalcomets.com

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