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Archive for the ‘Mark James Andrews’ Category

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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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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