PURE FRANCIS

Gallantry

by Christopher Gallinari

Resuscitate that moribund brand.
If a sidewalk fills with businessmen,
each trudging to his desk
and a flask of small-batch bourbon,
turn around.
Carry the laughter of a woman
through the puddles on your shoulders.
Push a lost automobile from the mud.
Join the broad stripe of rugby,
one part gallantry, two parts broken nose.
Look dashing as you extend your hand.
Enter that hotel ballroom.
You will drink what your father drank.


Christopher Gallinari urges you to enjoy poetry responsibly.

Paul

by Tanya Angell Allen

Found poem: lines overheard from a man in his early sixties having a conversation with himself on an Amtrak train, Massachusetts to Vermont, October 15, 2006
 
They don't want Paul back in this state
Get out of here
Get get get get get
But I didn't do nothin'
Yeah, that's the problem
You don't do nothin'
You're just plain weird
 
You're a nut
Not an acorn or butternut

Or walnut you're another kind of nut
Strange thing a year: Same things
Happening this year as happened
This time last year
 
Send Paul to Springfield
People of Springfield won't be happy
They won't like it--
Keeps talking to himself
Weird son of a bitch
Send him to Bangor
 
Don't bother the squirrels
Leave their acorns alone
Go get your own acorns
Leave their acorns alone
 
Go to the third floor VA hospital
They'll strap you down
Do the throrazine stuff
 
I'll say the pledge of allegiance to the flag
And maybe they'll let me sneak out
I don't think so—didn't work that time
Won't work this time
 
They've got frogs and potatoes in Maine
What do you have
Frogs and potatoes in Maine
Yes they do


Tanya Angell Allen edits the poetry-news blog Choriamb.

Who Will Open the Door?

by Rosaleen Bertolino

      On warm afternoons, the storekeeper sits on a bench across the street from his shop with a newspaper and cigarettes, letting the sun soak into his thin frame.
      If someone goes into his shop (they rarely do, he sells art), he can easily walk across the narrow street. His shop is in the quieter end of town, and few tourists make it this far, headed mainly to the decorated grotto around the bend.
      He knows his stuff, but most people aren’t interested. They wander in, attracted by the cloudy, cluttered windows and the antique sign over the door, hoping for a bargain. He doesn’t deal in bargains. He sells only treasures, and prices them as such. Perhaps unsurprisingly, sales are rare.
      Dust has sifted down from the high tin ceiling and collected in thick, furry pockets between frames and in the corners. He does not vacuum, or dust, or sweep. Why bother. If someone is interested in a closer look, he keeps a rag at the cash register.
      Creaky stairs lead up to another level where the light is brighter due to small windows along one wall. Here, among a thousand other things, he has a collection of wooden masks, purchased at an estate auction. The masks were used in religious ceremonies, and confer special powers on those who wear them, among these: the ability to strike fear, the ability to enter dreams, the ability to inhabit mute objects, the power to sit and wait without restlessness or anxiety until prey is within striking distance. This last mask, in fact, has become part of his face, which is why he has no need to smile, no need to ingratiate. He simply sits, with his newspaper and cigarettes, in the sun, waiting for the next person to open the door.

Rosaleen Bertolino is in love with her eight chickens.

Seeing Red When I'm a Minor Threat

by Brett Stout

 

Brett Stout invites you to further warp your fragile minds.