Gracehoper

By Mark James Andrews

laptop writing & sending my shit
out in the wifi environment
on the 2nd floor of the little library
in the Thumb of the Michigan Mitten
then reading my email
an invitation from the Detroit Institute of Art
to attend a fundraising soiree
hors d’oeuvres at 6:30 PM
to restore the outdoor sculpture GRACEHOPER
& tranced back in time
to when I was jamming with a trio of maniacs
typing up our chap punkpomespleeze
at a kiosk of coin operated typewriters
(feeding quarters for 20 timed minutes tick, tick)
at the Detroit Main Library
then got fucked up at the campus bars
then heading back to our car parked on John R
stopping to see GRACEHOPER
big as life planted on the Woodward Ave front lawn
& pissed on it in unison
actually piss painting territorial abstract
a twisted riff on Jackson Pollock
beer urine on welded steel & black paint
a transformation in a new medium & message
chanting Fuck James Joyce
as the art piece was named after some crap
play-on-words insect jigging ajog
from Finnegan’ s Wake.

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Do Something Swampy

By Mark James Andrews

never call my breezeway a man cave

it opens up on a bed of Painted Daisies

Black Eyed Susans and Dusty Millers

floats and soars softly with the stereo

in shuffle mode on Erik Satie now

one of the Gymnopedies and before that

the Rondo Finale Allegro of Mahler’s 5th

as the newsfeed of a cable station

on the 42 inch flat screen

the sound turned off keeps flashing

an ethnic Middle Eastern killer from Flint

Michigan who slashes undersized

black men as I work at my laptop

on a make-shift card table and chair

set-up when the garage door flies

open to what sounds like the report

of a 12 gauge which fades to screams

my daughter and granddaughter

shooting hoop in the driveway

but it’s only the time and place

for the door spring to snap and rocket

launch into the bare wall particle board

no blood but its time for me to motor

to a poetry reading where I’m working

with a multi-instrumentalist who begins

on the electric keys with what to me

sounds like Woodstock the Joni

Mitchell version so I ask him to do

something swampy on guitar

he complies with Tom Waits

Chocolate Jesus and I do an old one

The Mongoloid Brother Popped In

from my chap deciding to save

Condoms on the Handlebars of a Rusted Bicycle

which is forthcoming in November

in an online lit mag called Word Riot.

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I hate the process

By Mark James Andrews

I hate the process
of sending shit
out to THEM
the stroke
of the pen gang
the hags
with hobbies
the precious ones
the hustling ones
especially the ones
with mouths like motors
with organizational skills
the fucking american league
and national fucking league
of reviews and journals
online lit mags
annuals and quarterlies
little and big
especially big.

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