5/5/2018 0 Comments Poetry By Jeff BagatoTaking Home the Pictures We’re on the lam for you OJ, scraping the Mexican border to see Christian Slater stabbed on a hotel room television The mountains shrug up around El Paso like a whore in a wetsuit, those truck drivers trying to get by; apple juice in the morning, 3 in a 2 bed hotel room Passing into New Mexico on an empty stomach, praying for tumbleweed or the Spanish tongue I can’t think with car talk on the radio-- where are all the pigs? I want to be arrested; we’re psychotic: let me list our crimes and the thought crimes I would admit to: taking pictures of the dying and those waiting for the skeletal hand Ouija Gets Bent Running with scissors works for some people, while others lose an eye, but Ouija scrapes along one step at a time, putting together those answers and predictions to all your earthly woes, except for that one evening when she got into the Bacardi and the limes, trading shots for passages of gold like Ann Landers on a bender; then the words flew faster, jumping and hopping like Ouija was walking on hot coals-- these predictions aren’t following the future, they’re going to make tomorrow’s tomorrows beg for retribution, upending time, overloading the quantum field like goosing a samurai; then it all comes down like a sword splitting your skull at the hairline so there’s honeydew for breakfast-- Ouija got bent, the letters curved under her legs into hieroglyphics of human dementia, symbols that can’t help you remember because they’re too busy trying to forget Sorry No Obi Minor points of law aside, what’s it take to jump the walls along the highway, get down among the beasts and spray your freedom name on the pylons holding up those bridges leading off to nowhere more than another mall, another jail, another stage for acting out your final scene? You can collect compact discs all your life, but if you lost the hype obi on your favorite, what’s it all worth, and who would want it now, all ugly and deformed and hiding in the dark under a pile of other unwanted plastic; the planet’s dying, and we keep hoping somewhere this stuff can build us a dome against the lying vacuum of the stars, where you’re baked before you can buy another breath, or a last look at the light of imaginary day. Bio: A multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose as well as electronic music, and glitch video. Some of his poetry has appeared in Empty Mirror, Otoliths, Chiron Review, Ygdrasil, and Outlaw Poetry. Short fiction has appeared in Gobbet and Horror Sleaze Trash. His published books include Savage Magic (poetry), and The Toothpick Fairy (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at http://jeffbagato.wordpress.com.
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