Underground Poets, I don't remember when I became a member, but recently I have been enjoying reading blogs, including the poetry here. I wanted to let you all know about Guerrilla Poetics Project, http://mjp.us/, and if anyone here would be interested in spreading the word. Be well, Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal.

THE RAIN,
THE WIND ON THE RIVER
& PISSING AIN'T NO FUN
NO MORE

Last night it rained
like the Gods had a toothache.

The little river
beside the awkward house
floods, as high and fast
as a pissing contest.

Millions of gallons
of weak chocolate water
surge due West
.
Enough good dirt
goes suspended by
in an hour
to make a 100 year
garden on a lava cap.

Seen through the long barrel
of a rifle, the world is small.
It grows in a telescopic sight,
the cross hairs angling for muscle,
searching for blood.

The rear view mirror is empty.
The driver goes blind
and the cross hairs settle in
under the sound of rushing water.

A man sits on a stump
and dreams that he is a tree.
Just then a President
steps out of the fog,
tells him he is on fire
and pisses on him.

While he attempts
to dry his clothes
in the soft heat of summer
an angel appears and quietly cuts his throat.

There is the soft breath of wind on the river,
the dead dog
& Pissing just ain't no fun no more.

--Ben L. Hiatt
Writ during a wet winter in River Pines
In another Century
http://benhiatt.com/

SPRING:
in a Century we are just beginning to learn.

The Bearded Lady
weeps

and each of us
stares back
from
the wrinkled depths
of her simian eyes

She would love us
if we could allow it

A small dog
extends a hot red tongue
licks the smile
from her face

In the distance we hear
the first of the bombs

& reach for our guns
one more time
as the last of our youth
walks away.

--Ben L. Hiatt

granny


granny's kitchen always
smelled of tea cakes
the little flat golden
sugar cookies she made
like no one else

my cousin wendell was
six months older than i
and we'd have eating contests
at one family reunion i
drank 29 sodas and ate
two pecan pies but wendell
always beat me by a pie
and several sodas

we could eat pounds of
those golden cakes
topped off with a
platter of homemade fudge
and a gallon of ice cream
after coming in from
hoppy and roy at
the park theater

but old granny just
kept rolling the dough
and restocking the cokes
and making the fudge
and smiling like she always did
old faded blue eyes twinkling
like stylized pictures of santa

granny has been gone
20 years now but I still miss her
every day

when passing her house
on paris avenue i almost expect
to see her waving from the swing
on her front porch

her eyes sparkling like
old blue stones
polished by the
river of years

sitting here tonight
minding my
own business
there's a crashing
at the front door

it's crazy doobie
with pictures
of ghosts
he says
handing
them to me
"put them in
the newspaper!"

he's all excited
I knew he'd
been here
hunting me
earlier
today while
i was gone

had the
pictures of ghosts
with him then too

after he left
i looked
at them
under light

a couple of
simple pictures
with a light
leak on
the film
at the same
end of
both frames
same basic
shape

no ghosts these
just a
fucked camera

and it
dawned on me
that if doobie
became parvenu
he would
rush out
buy a
hasselblad
break it
within 2 days
and be making
ghost pictures
with it

that is if
the ufo's that
swarm
his house
didn't get him
first

ROOTING FOR THE ROOSTER

4 A.M. and
Somebody woke
The neighbor's rooster up
I stepped outside just now
To feed my death
And listened while he
Tried to conjure up
A bright
December sun

No word
From the coyote
Down the ridge

This time of day
He's curled up warm
Or
Running loose and easy
As he tracks
His breakfast down

It's that middle part
Of the nightmare
Where the broken edges
Go grinding off
Between the disappearing
Darkness
And a day too new for naming

The clocks have stopped and
Almost everyone's afraid
But they'll get up
To cheer that rooster on
And listen for better song.

Ben L. Hiatt
Mt Aukum
(seemed like it was time to move those "gratings" on around the bend)

Seasoned Gratings

and a

Harpy New Year