Cover art: Anton Tarasiuk “Drooping dove of liberty” 2022, courtesy of Ukrainian painters’ exhibit in Padua
Storm Churches.. House of Fleeing Winds
I am the crippled saint rapping at the door
of forgiveness, creaky oiless springs
a house of fleeing winds
thoughts darting across a sea of wanton olive skin night
I am the storm rattling iron door handles
stone churches dangling over faded waters, orphaned rains
dark seaport nights
young wives of the sailorhood praying for good to come
no widow’s hand to touch
the merry band shoves out to Brittany wine darkness
I am the star of storms
whipping brewed mists
and mandolin ash bone trysts
sunrise-blue groans
I am the nail in my hop-along cassidy coffin
pining lust busted caverns
in a torrent of rain on dream street
born backwards my dice tumbling rocky roads
eternally awkward in the hall of cracked-eye perfection
zen-headed dottard riding a youth dew vapor throne
in a dime dance parade
oopa oopa cops with maiden-bated breath
hangovers hanging on a thread of orderly
In a nightmare I saw a
warrior of yore darning obedience stockings
Redyard Rudyard cries
‘An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it’.
St Vitus does the jerk over red hot coals
as the earth hums a dirge in the key of catastrophe
the kids chanting Runaway
I saw God
he looked me in the eye from a soft orange cloud
whizzing over rumble town
I am the star of storms escorting you through
red-light servitudes
scorned devil moons, brooding mama’s
lady peppermint fondling the jade egg of Napoleon’s daydream
the messianic bus driver honking with his tin-horn hat
better climb aboard. or run for your life
fast
amsterdam 3/23
the oldish new grey train like texas ribs
sizzles out of gare du nord
past crackerbox shores
to the opening…
riding rail joys graffiti garden windmills
feel the smooth steel rising, tickling my travel loins
of greenfield days
who wouldn’t know where to go, what to write
on a train
even unvaxed vixens heeding heathens call
who circle the earth blindly
in looking glass jars eyes of a blind blonde man
from a candlelit pipe organ aesthetic dear
i woke to ‘loosen the grip’
whispered from the harangued lips of cryin’ foghorn freeload
standin on a street corner beneath pink morning clouds
as we blow by in a blackbird wind
sad eye dove can’t win
its got her runnin the grand ol reaper man
carrying his last stand dragon stick
ghosts running in the sand and
she’s hangin on to forever melodies
kid eye blind
what house guarantees immortal-ese
racing trains hither and hather
just a suit that fits
for a housewarming party in the sky baby
you’ll all be together again sad eyes
no fret let the music begin
before these days peel away your love
like riptorn cheap fishnet stockings
things are bound to turnaround
this run of bad luck
that croupier’s hung up his what’s-up-his sleeve cleats
and the sad, zero-eye angels of the reformation
pasted to marble
ascending the walls of galilee nowhere’s in a heavenly squall
where dixieland swing-blowing trumpets yield to brother Joshua
and outside the foxhole crumpets adorn the green green rocky
road the grass of morning grows
She Said I Had a Phobia of Meds
Dr said I had a phobia of meds
Could be
After burying my family side by side
Chemo graveyard highway
Vendors hawking cool yellow ice
And it was there sweet Dr F
Best bedside manner this side of hell
Peddling wigs to bald sheep
Baying at rainbow moons
Painted on lagoon walls
Of the Dansport hospital lobby
While healers peeled south of
Bordertown
Hosting the last straw crowd
Tumbling in sniffing holy winds
After the pros
stole their hopes and crowns
Corretta King, Steve McQueen,
Stars, dreams
Now Dr she wants my dear sweet boy
To suck on this chokehold
Broken cigar walkway
And I in moments, too
Tired to fight
Fight back tears
This shriveled reject from a
Tim Burton casting call
Then I read the words of Jyl
She woke me like thunder
spinning blue ball blues
gimme a sequin suit, i’ll be ready
if all the om’s om-ing around the world
halt the unleashing of massive missles
i’ve nursed hangovers at lemon buttermilk camp
the mother of all kumbayas stirred cafe morns
trying to awaken i was soon asleep at the wheel trying to find the himalayas renamed
the themalayas
and there in the broken tombs of orphan’s lanterns
a rapping trappist monk asks
what innocuous pulp page ever mowed down a child-eye dream
on flowering schoolyards?
morality beat cops east west
salivate over stockade maids with broken wing breasts
dwarf wharf minds whispering nancy drew rhymes
forgotten soulless nights
atticus in the attic spits southern-fried dust
bradbury’s fire still burns in
sunshine rosy campfires
dead-end police stamp tickets
in luscious shades of tom joad grapes
lord of the flies smashed by lord of the fly by nights
cradled hungry button-up cats finger stab their drab
with frost swigs of mint julep in wild weather springs
what kid would read that carnivorous mole Dr Seuss these days
busy snorting call of duty booties
sipping pat boone smoothies
weeping sir barleycorn
pour me a stiff one and let’s..
om, man
mata hari swirling hare krishnas in
geisha night square pools
my rust broken eyes glued
to any resurrection
sunset flesh inflections
red jazz night
archbishop resets his mind over
st emilion wine
cars rush by
saintly patience
where are you tonight
Poet and musician, Michael D. Amitin travelled the roads of the American West from California- east through the smoky burgs and train depot diners of Western Colorado, where he lived before moving to Paris, France. Recently named International Beat Poet Laureate 2020-2021, Amitin’s poems have been published in California Quarterly, Poetry Pacific, North of Oxford, PoetryontheLake, Love Love Magazine, Litterateur, and others. A current collaboration with Parisian photographer Julie Peiffer has given rise to the “Riverlights” project. and can be found at Riverlights.art
