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Dr Mike OConnell May 2014
Brian Patrick

Insidious by its very nature
Yet soothing to those who indulge
It calls upon its broken cohort
Every two hours like a sentinel

It silently creeps along the mire
The Reaper within smiling and leering as he
Calls upon the Banshee McLemore
Searching for the wanton easy prey

Somehow the Poison drifts along the ebb
The shore becomes a winter haven
Solace among the rubble and waste
The storm as the background for a living hell

The innocents have no fight with the
Pinprick that brings their bodies delight
Off into the realm of self edification
The familiar warmth that overtakes

The warmth that turns into stark heat
Fluttering eyes look to the heavens
The beauty that is McLemore, lips waiting
Death in all its beauty awaits

To be stolen from the claws of McLemore
Cheated from the Reaper's blade
The spray that awakens the departed
Another snatched from the clutches of the Poison...
...has risen

© 2014 Brian Patrick
Mary McCray Apr 2017
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 6, 2017)

This is a man who literally counts his dogs.
This is a man who knows geometry and trigonometry,
      casually.
There exists in Alabama a hedge maze of this man’s brain.
This is someone concerned about time trails and sun dials.
This is someone concerned about IPCC reports and drought.
This is a man who would literally sacrifice his skin.
This is a Shirley Jackson story.
This is a Lemony Snicket story.
This is A Rose for Emily.
This story will one day be a movie, no doubt.
The half-glass proverb was not a metaphor to this man.
There is a man in every town who shouldn’t be made to want to leave it.
Who tells his story?
Napowrimo 2017: Multiple points of view/"Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" poem. Like everyone else this week, I am enraptured with the S-Town Serial podcast. And I’m only through episode #3! This is such a beautiful podcast about resignation and survival and economic despair and the more I compiled this list today, the more I came to draw out all the literary references in the story, I now see a layer of it as a parable for what makes storytelling both holy and necessary for our own survival.
Jonny Angel Mar 2015
I remember sitting
around the tracks
with my comrades.
We were in rolling fields of clover
back then.
The doves that flew above us
had no clue
about our firepower.
We had .50 cals
and we picked our teeth
with splintered bone fragments.
To think
we even had the time
to smoke and joke
about our ridiculous nicknames
brings a smile
to my weathered-fface.
Moose was toothless,
lost them
to some drunk civilians
in a bar fight.
Wagner, the skinny one,
always cracked me up.
I miss McMinn's toothy-grin
and the way French
always wanted out,
constantly feighning his gayness.
Radosavich loved his rock and roll
and Flint sparkled from his hole
carved into the hillside.
Moore had chicks galore
and McLemore got his
divorce papers by airmail.
He went eerily silent
while Top barked ******* for us to do.
The Man was clueless,
but we protected his ***
anyways.
We had bills to pay.
I really miss those *******.
They were the best friends that ever were.

— The End —