Friday, September 8, 2017

Poems I Admire #41

Air Brakes
Michael Istvan

Soon he will climb the steps of the school bus
and be thinking nothing of me. So young,
and hooked to me as he is now, though, even
when my son is mad at me or just moody
that morning, he is sure to take a window seat
where I can see him in profile from the doorstep.
And from under his hiding hoodie his eyes,
barely perceptible through the tint, will cut
toward mine at the lunging hiss of the air brakes.


First appeared in THAT Literary Review

M. A. ISTVAN JR., PhD, whose life is to his poetry what Caravaggio’s life is to his painting, has been a university instructor for a decade. His susceptibility to complete abandon in the classroom, which enables him to confess even deep secrets to his students.

You can also contact the good doctor here...

Friday, September 1, 2017

On Depression and Mind-Altering Drugs


Man-made chemical reactions fire at neurons
like it’s target practice and carnie-calls before falling
into a dunk tank and being swept neatly out of Kansas

to somewhere north of Oz near a dark and Aliceless wonderland.
They climb into bed with you, warm you like bread crumbs leading
to a rusty gas pump where, for pennies on the paper dollar, they fix

the broken window in the hay loft and every chip in every china bowl.
You read books until dreams slip off and the sun goes down deep inside
the wet core of your red and white lace. The sleeping is as good

as sleeping ever gets, but the waking part is hard – it’s oven-roasted
tomatoes under a hard bed of garlic neglect that turns your ease
into rattlesnake fang. There’s a fuzzy buzzing humming in the center

of your whisky-flask brain, now emptied of inebriation and sass.
There’s a buzzing fuzz inside the coke bottle glasses of your bloodshot eyes.
There’s knowing there’s nothing, and there’s knowing no one else knows.


Included in my chapbook "The Allness of Everything" (Maverick Duck Press)
(To learn more about "The Allness of Everything," click here.)