PURE FRANCIS

Not an Outright Dick, Per Se

by Eric Lawson

He pushed my intrusive neighbor down the basement stairs
But to be fair, I told him nobody would miss the rotten bastard

He wrecked my car horribly twice, in the same spot on the same day
But to be fair, I’m the one who bought him beer and gave him the keys

He’s not an outright dick, per se
But he loses friends much faster than he can make them

He tried to molest a sexy mannequin via the storefront window
But to be fair, I did mention that she was painfully single

He stole my roommate’s iPod and assorted Blu-Ray movies
But to be fair, I did say what’s his is mine and also yours

He’s not an outright dick, per se
But he does have outstanding warrants in five states

He robbed several local banks in a rented hot dog costume
But to be fair, hot dogs do have a way of putting people at ease

He set fire to some homeless people to light his way home
But to be fair, it’s never safe to get lost downtown in the dark

He’s not an outright dick, per se
But he frightens children whenever he eats an entire deck of cards
            While mumbling “each one of these represents a soul”

Okay, you caught me. I lied. He’s really me
Does that make me an outright dick, per se?
Perhaps
Or maybe it means that I’m merely overly-modest when it comes to
           accepting praise for my brazen accomplishments

Uh, yeah. Let’s just call it transference, per se

Eric Lawson thinks life is never dull with a CircusHead.

The Steady Implosion of Absolute Truth

(Two readings of readings of Baudelaire)

by David Breeden

1.

We read Baudelaire together
With words such as “tresses”
“Carcasses” and “asunder”
We taste the French
We ponder the English
We see how it is for people

We read Baudelaire together
Seeing cascades and maggots
And blood.  We see how it is
For we humans where
Words break down and love
Loves us but cannot say

Where it is, how it is
We are to survive

2.

We read Baudelaire together
Savoring the choice parts—
“Cascade,” “amber,” “golden tresses”

Putrescence and carcasses
I stumble on the French

She helps me, we read
Of hypocrisy, lust, and ennui
The things people know so well

We’re hiding here, working
Hard to be alone together

Rev. Dr. David Breeden is a parish minister and writer; see more at www.drpoetry.com.

Dust Bowl

by Patty Russo

         She came straight from the dust bowl even though she's too young for it. From the time I was little, I thought she looked like a monkey, like one of those waxy faced beasts on Planet of the Apes, (the series, not the movie) which re-ran on cable every afternoon at four. That was before I knew about The Depression; about Lewis Hine and Dorothea Lange. Now all I can see is the dry misery, as if she herself had been made by the camera. As if young Dorothea had scraped her out of the mud and set her inside the lens. But misery, as a look, is not such a bad thing. Not entirely. There's purity in a barren face, a kind of reprieve in looking at a surface so worn. So much is new nowadays. Everybody wants to be new. Be new, and possess the old.
         That's why everybody wants to take my aunt's picture. She reminds them of things they believe are more real than what we are now. As if farm children with groaning bellies (or whatever else they heard when they looked at their photos) were more human than me, in my house, with hot water and hot cocoa. But weren't they? More human, that is. I've never wanted to be that little girl in the torn dress and dirty knees but I wouldn't mind being that old woman. That one, right there. The one that looks like a monkey.

 
Patty Russo has proof that everything, someday, will turn into something completely unrecognizable.

Myself as Goose

by Kathleen Kenny

My tastes changed. My fashion sense and cooking skills deserted
and the thought of sleeping indoors became more than I could bear;

that feather bed, the weight of it: my yellow face.
I had begun to drink, moved to the yard to save my liver.

It's cool and clean and I am discrete about my toilet.
I can't set foot in a house now without the urge to move my bladder.

The whole shameful episode of sleeping under eiderdowns.
The unpredictability of human nature. Loneliness.

I met him on the boating lake in Leazes Park. He said what he liked
about me best
were my bright carrot legs: the silver-tongued charmer.

I never thought twice when he asked me to the island. Dry land for
eggy-sex, he said.
I was as idiotic as a gosling. Gosling talk was all we did.

I was never really keen on kids, but now can't wait.
Our first egg is over there in the nest. Frankie is sitting on it
while I write this.

That's how good he is, dedicated to his task.
Building, nesting, making hay. Not like a man at all.

When Frank says he's never leaving, I believe him.
Security is a state of mind, and being taken from behind seems a small
     price.

And we do talk face to face and there is kissing of a sort.
And to be straight I don't miss all that tongue in mouth, funnelled throat.

I prefer to forget being human, except now and then an old female
friend cycles past.
Sometimes she stops to look at the swans and ducks but avoids me like
the plague.

I see her pretend to admire plants, spying on my egg, giving the eye to
     Frank.
I'm watching from our nest, snapping twigs big as planks. Feeling the
weight of myself.

Kathleen Kenny likes to remain optimistic even in the face of opposition from almost all of the British media.