Archive for the ‘Michael K. Gause’ Category

By Michael K. Gause

Fifty beautiful acres
and all you think about
are the taxes.

The land is fertile
and to the southeast and
there is no life and weeds
and clouds the color of incest,
just as you are sure that your
life would be more complete
without it.

And you have to laugh
when they say
it is you who are out of place.

You who never once asked
why your dreams
are a two-way street,
why a dotted line
down the middle
would make all the difference.

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Michael K Gause

Who knew when the French started being cool in the
post-modern age? Did their cache enjoy such health
that it naturally bled past the New Wave, riding it
without effort, into the electronic default?

I hear the beats now, soft, a breathy vox pulling
them like beads on her tongue. The seduction
capable of the stereo-type quadruples like an
errant gene come alive, squirming the whole
gender open in terrifying blossom.

The pouty kiss of that language sparked thanks
to electronic divas of that country and its neighbors.

Breathy moans were not invented by the French,
just perfected by them.

Struck by the cocktail: modern, sterile syncopation in a
vintage nubile base, as if Lady Day
decided to come back all carnal, just to give
her blessing to the future of fantasy.

Diphthongs rise and lilt in some breezy attempt.
A smile to lift the summer hem. A glimpse of sun
on knee, too conscious of itself.

Each beat is a finger on a nerve point
unknowingly erogenous.

Every note a Kegel flex
around my wide-opened heart.

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Lunch Crumbs

By Michael K. Gause

Pasty white men shot
Into suits
Sausages Bluetooth toward the future
Rightfully paved

Stumbling gentry
Have Eskimo Pie lunch dates
With oblivion

Tiny women keep
Company with chimps
Success promised more than
This pimping

Homeless promenade
Every can’s a hope
The leg up
Everyone else has been given

And now it’s the future
Armani spacemen
Bounding toward ennui

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Hard Colors

By Michael K. Gause

He slumped into the water a couple of inches and let his lids fall shut. He felt the heat of the water suffuse his legs and the water itself cool in response. He drew his hands up and onto his closed eyes and enjoyed the sensation of wet heat on his cheeks and checked vision. He pressed, and the day began to lose credibility. He pressed, and blues, reds, and yellows exploded like Dr. Seuss dandelions before a dark tan backdrop. It was small, but it was his. He pressed so the heat would crawl from the legs up to his head and into his brain, warming all thoughts moving forward. He pressed until he was sure he controlled the sound of colors all over the world, save for the shade of sorrow he knew to be but one room over.

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Letter to You

By Michael K. Gause


A new year and the jury’s still out on what will fire us in new directions, what axons will dwindle from disuse, and which comets will call us into the street.

“I open myself to the myriad and labyrinthine passages this city architects within me.”

a) Yes

b) No

I haven’t heard from you in a while, so I will assume you are doing wondrous things in the realm of art and love. Books, travels to urbane civilizations, invisible meetings with auspicious people. Huzzah. I have always respected a nose against the grindstone, even when my own actions seem to contradict.

“My path remains elusive, but I admit I miss you.”

a) Yes

b) Yes

c) Look, I…

As I write this letter, I am having a wonderful moment at the bar. Two older women (what this means at 42, one can surmise for herself), each a descendant of the other. One a 60’s activist the other a world traveler turned mail carrier. Their verbal leapfrog is enough to give perspective even to a myopic shite like myself, a perspective usually gleaned in more quiet, exquisite moments. But you don’t frequent the bars I do. Like I do. With good reason, I suspect. Quiet local legend speaks of your epic days, and you have to stop doing something for people to start revering it proper.

“Look, if you want to grab a drink sometime…”

a) Nice

b) Oh, now you come around

c) No

Have you seen the local literary projects around lately. Some are evolutionary steps from themselves, others are simply the reawakening after winter. They are wrapped in such beautiful colors. Like most presents, the packaging is the best thing about them. You get to the heart of it and you start feeling like you missed something still in the box. The idea seems to be that if you package something well enough, that becomes part of the present. I wish I bought that sometimes. So much seems to be just fluff with good PR. I know. That makes me elitist. That’s okay. I’m old enough to know

a) what to care about

b) what to leave the wind

c) time sorts it out

d) all of the above

e) my shoe size

I’ll end here, my friend. Drop me a line sometime, and tell your mother hello. Catch me up on things. You are still writing, aren’t you?

I guess I should have asked you that earlier.



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