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 Oct 2014 JP Goss
Homer
XXIV. TO HESTIA (5 lines)

(ll. 1-5) Hestia, you who tend the holy house of the lord Apollo,
the Far-shooter at goodly Pytho, with soft oil dripping ever from
your locks, come now into this house, come, having one mind with
Zeus the all-wise -- draw near, and withal bestow grace upon my
song.
at high noon
at a small college near the beach
sober
the sweat running down my arms
a spot of sweat on the table
I flatten it with my finger
blood money blood money
my god they must think I love this like the others
but it's for bread and beer and rent
blood money
I'm tense lousy feel bad
poor people I'm failing I'm failing
a woman gets up
walks out
slams the door
a ***** poem
somebody told me not to read ***** poems
here
it's too late.
my eyes can't see some lines
I read it
out-
desperate trembling
lousy
they can't hear my voice
and I say,
I quit, that's it, I'm
finished.
and later in my room
there's scotch and beer:
the blood of a coward.
this then
will be my destiny:
scrabbling for pennies in tiny dark halls
reading poems I have long since beome tired
of.
and I used to think
that men who drove buses
or cleaned out latrines
or murdered men in alleys were
fools.
 Jun 2014 JP Goss
Sameer Denzi
Why do artists **** their arts?
Journalists obey corporate bosses.
Doctors peddle drugs for status.
Lawyers work for robber barons.
Bankers' havens for barons' taxes.
Kings start wars for hefty profits.

Charity's done for the sake of publicity.
Vanity today is a thriving industry.
Shopping's done with borrowed money.
Bankruptcy levels; not seen in history.
From hazardous things; profits aplenty.
Poisoned wells we leave our progeny.

These lunacies have a common cause,
To win 'the rat race'; at any **** rate,
Even earthly mother, we brutally ****!
How much is enough, to be content?
Pharaoh's wealth was greater than most,
But while he drowned, it saved him not.

Instead, strive for a righteous life,
Bonded to mother, free from desire.
For we're not islands, or rats in a race.
And when we stand on Judgement Day,
Our wealth that day will have no say,
Our deeds that day will lead the way.
they took my man off the street
the other day
he wore an L.A. Rams sweatshirt with
the sleeves cut
off
and under that
an army shirt
private first class
and he wore a green beret
walked very straight
he was black in brown walking shorts
hair dyed blonde
he never bothered anybody
he stole a few babies
and ran off cackling
but he always returned the infants
unharmed
he slept in the back of the
Love Parlor
the girls let him.
compassion is found in
strange places.

one day I didn't see him
then another.
I asked around.

my taxes are going to go up
again. the state's got to
house and feed
him. the cops took him
in. no
good.
 May 2014 JP Goss
ZL
Crush Soda
 May 2014 JP Goss
ZL
I have crushes
because I am unable
to commit.
I can pick up affairs
and when I'm tired,
I quit.

I have crushes
because I am an obessessive
romancer.
I am infected with lust
which always spread
like cancer.

I have crushes
because I have yet
to fall in love
yet lucky enough
to have my heart
broke into two.

I could never love you wholly
this is why I 'crush' on you.
 May 2014 JP Goss
wes parham
Raise, for your experiences, a city.
Build a warehouse, down the block,
Where you’ll keep the cosmos.
Build a bookshelf, within a brownstone,
Where some other things can go.
Like the time you grasped a flower,
Felt beneath, felt the spines that
Pricked your skin,
Made you cry.
But that shelf will be revisited many times,
In this fragile, crumbling zip code,
Forsaking more majestic memory palaces,
Because the vision reached your soul,
Through pain,
Of all that beauty, soft, red, enfolded into itself,
On such a slender stem.
Revel in the joy, but don't forget the pain. It is your god-given right and a valuable ally once accepted and befriended.    
One of the devices for memorizing inordinate amounts of data is to imagine a place and travel through it, mentally, placing items here and there along the way.  Recall is achieved by simply traveling through this imaginary space again, where the logic of placement becomes a natural mnemonic for recall.  Time and Memory are themes I find myself flying to again and again.   The flower was a person I felt wounded by, but learned that nothing is as it seems.
Hear it here, read by the author:
http://soundcloud.com/warmphase/the-memory-palace
 May 2014 JP Goss
James Jarrett
It was relegated to the old root cellar
Dropped in haste in  forgotten storage
Where dimmest beam of shafted light
Kept it 'live in yellowed life , weak and twisted
Root and vine, seeking sickly , striving life
But now it's out in planted field
Furrowed in and giving yield
Vine and bud quickly growing
Spreading out and surely choking
All the other crops of life
Air and water , precious light
Strangled , starved , beneath the blight
It feeds upon all below
In rapid spreading nourished growth
Soon to cover , spread to all
Like a **** , all fields will fall
So grows the tyranny imposed on men
Carefully planted and watered in
 Jan 2014 JP Goss
Chin-ok
They told me it was metal,
but I didn't believe a word.
But now I find it's iron
of the strongest, finest kind.
Ah! Here is my little bellows,
I think I'll melt it down.
Fighting demons
Bursting bubbles
He's in my head
Among the rubbles
Seeing that most things get done
He works at it from moon till sun
He tilts at windmills only he can see
Please meet.... Don Quixote

My affliction
or my soul
hearing voices
takes its toll
Fighting what may not be there
And if it's not, why should I care?
Before the windmills in my mind
Don Quixote....you will find

An empty veldt of muddled thoughts
On a crooked road to nowhere
A wasteland of x's and noughts
With no way to get there
A wilderness of abstract themes
And wishes that I need share
The guardian of what I write
Tilting windmills in my minds air

Hidden loves
Broken hearts
So much to do
just where to start
No Sancho Panza by his side
In my head he's stuck inside
Keeping madness at arms length
Don Quixote...my minds strength

Unfinished tales
Broken dreams
So little time
Or so it seems
A wayward soldier on his way
What windmills will he fight today?
The thoughts I write reveal what's me
Allowed outside by Quixote

An empty veldt of muddled thoughts
On a crooked road to nowhere
A wasteland of x's and noughts
With no way to get there
A wilderness of abstract themes
And wishes that I need share
The guardian of what I write
Tilting windmills in my minds air
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