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New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

3 poems by klipschutz

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klipschutz (pen name of Kurt Lipschutz) is the author of several books of poetry, including This Drawn & Quartered Moon (Anvil Press, 2013) and The Erection of Scaffolding for the Re-Painting of Heaven by the Lowest Bidder (1985, o.p.). A Visit to the Ranch & other poems, his collection of San Francisco and Pacific Northwest poems, was issued by Last Word Press in October 2015. He also co-edits the collectible quarterly Four by Two, and writes songs with recording artist Chuck Prophet.

 

 

 

 

 

DRINKING RED WINE IN BED IN THE DARK
My signature poem is anonymous.” – Anon.

 

The glow of the television
lights her form beneath the sheets,
until in one quick flash the screen goes blank.
Still the goblet finds my mouth.

I worry about line breaks,
the fussy ones, the arbitrary,
the ones the world is set right by.
Proceed with caution signs shadow me.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and like that,
chances are the alarm will sound
and the dollar will advance against the pound
and both my feet will leave the concrete ground

at different times. O sleeping form, this line’s for you.
I am not a ghost, Nixon said. Then he said, Boo!
And woke me with a start. Is this all a dream too?
Give me liberty or help me find my shoe.

 

 

 

TO A VANISHED COMPATRIOT

after Browning

 

Where art thou, solitary Michael Kerry?

Shanghaied on a binge,
  and washed up in Marin?
Or shipwrecked in the Sinai
  astride a dromedary—
(No one has a clue to where you’ve been)

 

Your name’s stopped coming up:
                                          no any word?
                                              no haven’t heard
                                                  no did he ever get
                                                        to Mexico?

 

Que pasa amigo? Is someone reading this you? And if so. . .

Does he habla like a native in fluent Español?
   breakfast at two on tea and a roll?
      comb the dark alleys and stumble and fall?

What’s the progresso on yer novella, Miguel?
Y donde es my 15 Washingtons?

Is your two-finger typer in hock?
Woman? Women? A lass or a lack?

Who’ll be trained on tonight your killer smile?
those impeccable manners? that guilt-wracked guile?

When your wary eyes unclose, what will they see?
(Anything but orderlies, I pray, in my way)

Tell it straight, O rolling stone—
Is himself in Anaheim, holed up at his mother’s?

WHERE IN DEATH’S MIDDLE NAME ARE YOU

 

 

 

FORREST MARS, SR.
                                       (1904–1999)                                                               

                                       “If it isn’t a Hershey, it’s one
                                   of his. M&M’s too, both kinds.”

 

A candy man’s
  candy man
     born into chocolate

Bought out his father
  was hell on
     his sons

His sweet nickel dreams
   sent us straight
      to the dentist

On the Forbes list
   of richest
     Americans

Cocoa beans
   carried him
      to the low thirties

Pulling in proceeds
  the bite-by
    bite way

He issued no shares
   snickered
     at Switzerland

We had no free will
    we were sheep
       we were clay

 

 

 

 

 

 

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