the poetry that matters

AE Baer

AE Baer recently returned from conducting freelance writing work in southeast Asia.  He has previously published works with Apollo's Lyre, Caper Literary Journal, The Fourth Dimension, and Connotation Press.  Baer is also co-editor of Toska Journal and in the process of co-writing an experimental 'Waking Life' graphic novel.

Run rabbit run

'run, rabbbit, run.'
spoken, but by whom?
these lips? the skinny wallet sketching zepplins of expression in the hall mirror?
hindenberg-- pop, bam- smoke...
(before you hear what i have to say, my words are already baked, breaded, and burned by time)
i excuse what i think is me and creep cross the aged cherry floorboards.
pitch fork thoughts: what other skunk soles have they courted? many...
fair, fair-- 'fuck no, not fair!!!'
(the cold, unfeeling permancence of an object out-dogging my vetted Anicca- again
and again
here i am. caught fanning in the exhaust pipe. again.
whatever. i'll just fix myself a weasel colombian coffee.
leave the lancelot-plated tin can on the counter.
she'll use it for her daily SOS mumbling something like- 'manicure, manicure, i need one, i do' while i, arthur (ex-king), cheese-grate confetti for my casket.
upon thy judgement day adonai shall come and raise the dead and--
eyes raise like a pirate flag.  schooner full balls ahead- where's the sour mash?
i carpet bag through the closet, the antique wash bin, the longaberger basket-
nothing. dry as a widow's vagina. she said it's for my own good.
'liver gonna look like gym socks in a gypsy's mouth!'
cough, cough-- the syllables hang like penguin ornaments on her kush exhale.
my liver... her lungs...
my own good?
would have been a bone bullet to the brain the day my cartoon self slipped down the pea chute.
just pour some more coffee and get over yourself why don't you.

Polar Film

Dervish era highlight- Ignorance is the enemy of love
POSHLOST::: Steady she comes, steady, she’ll go
She’ll red-tape you’re bleeding heart sonatas
(The same you wrote with a circus tent mind
In a factorial procedure of weaving sunlight with chalk)
                        O mind, you- the inexpressible
To the inside of used Colombian coffee cans
And hide them inside the oak cupboard
So all the strangers who pretend to know her
Won’t judge-
            Consumption, trial by peers-
Meanwhile, you’re outside salting the fields
Saying something like:
‘It’s alright, I’m only falling, long as I can’t see the ground, it’s not coming’
Love, ignorance in a dark room while the polar film burns.
(Encore, encore!!!)
I am on the lip of a rooftop
Cupping still water with clay hands
Grinning, cross, because the Nazarene had the balls
To look me in the eye while I partook
And dipped
And he said nothing.

Deus Ex Machina: ROAD

Home is the road where I’m just another face on a long crawl to somewhere.
            Like the stranger.
The stranger doesn’t need to know
            And he doesn’t ask why,
                                    For the stranger is kind as fresh bones.

I could go anywhere on this road.
            I could drag a traveler’s body into a concrete roost
                        And trade a whop dollar for lemongrass chicken,
            Steamed pilaf rice,
And hot chilies the color of a stripe on the Nazarene’s back.

Or I could slide a hotel pen behind a leather ear and act like I’m the stuff of cold script,
            The stuff of legend,
                        The compost of a New York City street dream;
Then, leave a trail of paper voices at every service station
            Before kicking back on the last curb
                         (Roast grey like the inside of a dirty pipe)
            To smoke out all the leftover worm-thoughts
And settle them on a yellowed page
                                                --May they catch a fever.

Or I could admit I’m a runner.
            Admit I’ve been running..
                        Admit I’ve always run

            So what? I confess it! I’ve been dumping bodies since my youth!

--But what will the road say?

No more than the echo in every prayer
            Or a shout in the street-
So let me be,
            Let me just keep sweet talking my road into whoring out all that nowhere
                                                                                                            it keeps in the  icebox!
You know we do well together,
            And we could stay strange together-
                        Like sundried lovers who never move on. 

                                                                                                                        Feb 28, 2011

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