The Theology of Stones - Michael Wurster

Consider the theology of the stones,
how patiently they wait in some lost arroyo
for a further incarnation.

They like to stay up late
in the cool night air.

They ignore the obvious that
if they started rolling together
they could destroy us.


Michael WURSTER
First published in Pig Iron.
Collected in THE SNAKE CHARMER'S DAUGHTER, Elemenope Productions, 2000.

Stones at Night - Michael Wurster

The stones sit
in an all night diner,

tough guys,
caps,
cigars.

Their coffee
grows cold
before them,

they are oblivious
to the pinball.

When you go in
in the morning
before work,

they are not there.


Michael WURSTER
First published in Pig Iron.
Collected in THE SNAKE CHARMER'S DAUGHTER, Elemenope Productions, 2000.

Avoiding History - Jesse Weiner

avoiding history is a family tradition,
draft dodging, missing wars, as far
back as my fathers go, I find
no soldiers, no warriors and also
no lovers. we don't write
in my family, we withdraw
our stories on objection, stop
telling them. we keep secrets.

I keep my own secrets and rarely
tell them, keep my truth
from coming back to hurt me.
I learn slowly but I learn well,
to keep my secrets, avoid history.
I avoided history by protesting war
and by refusing to marry.
I learned late, but I learned well.
your eyes tell your history, your belly,
in its soft geography, hints at mine.
I don't enlist, I avoid being drafted,
my bridges burn behind me.

I read history in the slope of her breasts,
her silence uses me in my telling.
I have many ways to lie,
using a sharp knife to separate
flesh from nerve, bone from tendon.
how many times have I undressed you,
hearing you tell me that I don't care
about anything, until you turn
away from me, turn on me, turn
to stone. I turn you over, exploring
history in the cleft of your ass,
touching with my hands but never
touching you, feeling alone finally,
shedding uniforms and telling stories.

lies return in the secrets I keep, hints
I cover with long explanations.
you come to me, naked, asking questions
and feel betrayed, telling me finally
that I don't matter and never
was real to you. I tell you
I was a soldier, that I fought,
and you lie to me by undressing yourself,
nakedness concealing your aims.

I read history in the curve of your thighs,
my tongue seeking your skin, seeking
you in your skin, tasting
beneath your skin. I find
your secrets, I tell your history
and turn my back to you. in sleep,
you back away, waking,
you dismiss me and I write a secret
history, full of lies and silences.


Jesse WEINER
First published in Black Bear Review
Collected in OFF THE RECORD, an anthology of poetry by lawyers,
(Special Issue: Legal Studies Forum)

In Harm's Way - Jesse Weiner

"Surely all art is the result of having been in danger, of having gone
through an experience all the way to the end, to where no one can
go any further" -- Rilke

the reason we're together tonight
is that we're both aware of the fragile,
tissue-thin cords which connect
these words. we know how precarious
it is, what stories we listen to
and which ones we believe. some
will take voice and the rest, like flowers, will
tantalize us, tease us, dare us to choose
which among them are more than light
in the sky. the light speaks to us, too,
we know the stars by their light,
we know each other by gentle vibrations
of air, vibrations of other things, like
strings, glasses, throttled together
with the substance we hold on to,
that viscous fluid we share and
believe in. it is a flower, shining, it can
cause us to see past walls and fabric.
it is a gentle flower, casting
a thin light on the fluid of
our stories and the fragile tissue
of these words. this flower, this reason,
brings us together tonight,
and we go out walking,
picking among the stories and the lights.


Jesse WEINER
First published in Zang Spur Review
Collected in IN HARM'S WAY, Linear Arts

Constellation - Lamont Palmer

It wells up, strewn pieces of moon.
Outward, the parts split benignly,

sky, wind, flesh, debris, the skin of rocks
floating, in unison, with the asteroid belt.

Look up to see the image. Striking, in its sharpness,
known vistas tremble - there is a lone glow
reaching a thousand eyes in a thousand nights.


Lamont PALMER
First published at Strangeroad.com

Confederate Flag - Lamont Palmer

let them fly
their defeated
dead banner.
let them fly that
cloth with the
stars and bars that signifies
division, wasted blood, and a
president with a hole in
his head; that signifies
the 400 year old evil that
shackled nearly an entire
race; that
signifies uncle sam
was split like the red sea; when
uncle sam nearly perished.
don't stop them.
don't picket.
don't protest.
let them fly their
defeated, whipped,
beaten, and shamed
banner. and let them
sing praises to
jefferson davis and
john wilkes booth as they
do it. it's a beautiful
colorful reminder, this
confederate flag. my yankee chest
swells to enormous proportions
when I gaze upon its
stars and bars.
know why? because
we won the
war.
we won the war. we won
the war.


Lamont PALMER
First published by www.TimBookTu.com

Pier Pressure on The Eastern Shore - Lamont Palmer

Consign to the wind what you will, or might have;
if you stand on the pier, looking out, you have consigned
the essence of it; and the wind knows.

It is a trifecta: water, air, you.
Emitting from the three is my needfulness.
I gamble on mix, standing on the edge,
spotting trash strewn nearby, tossed by lazy ones.
But nothing is ruined by the debris.

I looked out over the calmness of the blue.
I used to think it was beautiful.
I still do but I am not assimilating as I did before.
One can be the same, yet different.
Small waves make an eventful, lapping sound.

The event is the notion of standing here,
the notion and the physicality,
the realization of being partly here,
of being partly everything, only a half.
I am as still as the boats docked here,
waiting discontentedly to be propelled.


Lamont PALMER,
First published at Strangeroad.com