Gossip [&] the Devil

Poet's Place Cover

The Poet’s Place: A Collection of Works is a collection of up-and-coming poets compiled by editor and teacher Justin R. Mcmanus. It is my first publication of the year, and a great way to kick off 2009. I spent the majority of last year writing, submitting, and publishing, and this is one of many rewards being reaped from that effort.

I was awake for two straight days submitting to this particular publication, hunched over my ever-slowing laptop tweaking each word until it fit as perfect as it could. I submitted ten poems, and of those, four were accepted: “Cupid,” “The Last Dance,” “This is Your Captain Speaking,” and “Mon Poèt Maudit, Mon Oiseau du Feu.”

You can purchase a copy from amazon.com for $13. It’s a nice way to support current and future artists, as well as pad any negative karma you may have incurred.

Click the cut for a teaser sample of the deliciousness $13 can bring you…

This Is Your Captain Speaking

I buy a ticket aboard your ship,
pay full price for admission,
though I should’ve been guest-listed,
given my tendency to fall face first into debt.
The weather is perfect for a week long cruise.
Halcyon waters, spotless skies,
the soft slap of hips for once-a-night trysts
to buoy me through a lonely evening.
Day one is glorious, hedonistic handfuls
of overpriced drinks and escargot,
then a dance under the stars
in a gown I haven’t worn since high school.
Day two, oh Romeo,
a souvenir left on my pillow,
some cheap, plastic thing
from a port he’s long pulled out of.
Day three the wind changes,
but it’s okay for the moment,
I have a handle on emergency exits,
warning signs, wi-fi to alert me
when to get off, should the need arise.
Day four the boat shifts,
glasses shatter to the floor,
desperate, I’m holding hand rails,
this sickness will pass,
take some pills, I’ll sleep tonight.
Day five the skies grow dim,
I stay locked in my room,
drift madly through dreams,
obstinate to my soggy bones,
I want my money’s worth.
Little vodka bottles like confetti around me,
I feel thunder through the floor but hear nothing.
Day six I want to go home
but we’re lost at sea, hallways full of ghosts,
cold, everyone is gone,
life boats launched while I slept.
I search for orange vests,
a promise ring, but, nothing.
The captain’s chair is empty
and I’m alone with the ship
spinning like a second hand,
tick, tick, tock counting out the shifts
spent lost in a hurricane,
but I refuse to leave,
I paid my price.
Day seven I’ll die at the helm of an unfamiliar ride.
A blue body at sea, I’ll drive this thing
into the wide-mouthed water,
where nothing will come looking for me.
Visibility zero, hope on empty,
stubbornly my white knuckles shatter
against this moribund tin can home,
I beg mercy and find none,
battle cries lost among an angry current.
Day eight, I’ll get for free,
lucky me, lucky me.

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