Don't Cry for This Love of Blood by Doug Rice

I know how to pray.

I begin coming.

A word falls.

She tells me to hold still. Wait until I feel my fingers becoming red. Until my fingers are old red. Here with her. I hold my fingers in place inside her. In places my fingers move. Her body. Cunt down onto my bent wrist. I want my hand further in her but she is too small or too tight. Or it is an angle. I'm afraid. This may hurt. I'm afraid I will hurt you. I'll break your wrist. "Relax your muscles and collapse onto my hand." Let go. Two fingers two knuckles deep and twisted inside her. She stays perfectly still. I keep my fingers silent inside the inside of her cunt. Now, a third finger two knuckles deep. A fourth. She refuses movement but her eyes are frantic. I can see the flow of blood in her eyes. There can be no words in this much bleeding. My fingers becoming red. Her blood down my arm. For two days. For three nights. To not give in to fatigue. Her blood remains on my fingers. I pray I become her blood. She could no longer locate her bleeding through names. There is no place in here, she once told me, for making letters. Just a pause in her speech. To see blood without saying. This morning I am nothing but my birth. But I can't cover myself in skin again.

- originally appeared in Yellow Bat Review #1 (2001)

with gasoline by John Sweet

first boy
soaks the second
with gasoline

sets him on fire
beneath
a wide open sky

and which one would you
choose for your
own

which would
you use to define
the word love

what finally
matters is how
much pain you're
willing to
endure

- originally published in Yellow Bat Review #1 (2001)

Haiku by Craig Sernotti

what do the dead see
in this yellow water
frozen & insane

- originally appeared in Yellow Bat Review #1, 2001

White Heat by Todd Moore

White Heat is a chapbook by Todd Moore that first appeared in Yellow Bat Review #5. It is reprinted here with Todd's kind permission.

PLAYING PIANO IN THE WHOREHOUSE OF POETRY

What can I say about poems like these? They’re not like anything Robert Pinsky ever wrote. And, there’s no trace of John Ashbery here. Or, Billy Collins, the Language Poets, or any of the other usual suspects. There is no poetry poetry in these poems. None of the stuff that is usually associated with poetry, such as poet name dropping, hints of art or history or philosophy or literature. Especially literature. There is no literature in any of these poems, if that is what you are looking for. You may as well read the racing form, the menu at Annie’s Soup Kitchen, or your horoscope. As for literature, I think that has been pretty much cooked out of the bird. Actually, the carcass has been dynamited, washed, scoured, and flushed clean of any impure elements, and that last I heard it may be living under an assumed name in Argentina or Brazil. There might be a few of the old bones left, but they seem to have been sucked clean, very clean.

However, if you are looking for poems with real stories and people in them, you have finally come to the right place. In these poems you’ll more likely find tire irons, psychopaths, Hank Williams, cue balls, fish hooks, outlaws, car trash, whiskey, and shotguns. Hardly the stuff of poetry, but then these days what is the stuff of poetry, anyway? A rhetorical question and not worth bothering with, unless you are seriously working on an MFA. In that case, you may be in need of a good blood transfusion and proper medication. Or, at least, a very stiff drink.

The poems I wrote and have been writing for the last thirty years are products of having read too many well-written murder novels, catching one too many Bogart-Cagney-Raft black and whites, and living in a whorehouse hotel from the age eleven until I was twenty three. That, all by itself, may have colored my already lurid imagination. And, no, I never played piano in a whorehouse, but there were plenty of other games always available.

Funny thing about games and stories. I’ve always been a sucker for a good story but literary games I have precious little time for. I’m all Borges’d and Beckett’d out. I’m tired of the sophisticated soft shoe across a stage that doesn’t exist. I want more that just the Cheshire cat’s smile. Give me one good solid slice of dialogue out of The Killers or a paragraph with the sparks coming off from The Big Sleep. I love words that have real blood in them.

Wasn’t it T.S. Eliot who once said, “Poetry is a mug’s game”? After all these years I can at last honestly say, the son of a bitch was wrong. Today, poetry is a whorehouse and my Steinway is right over there.

#

colman had

saved a piece
of the rope
they’d used
to hang tom
horn claimed
old tom had
made the
rope him
self alls
i got was
3 feet col
man sd
waving it
above his
head like
a lasso
yippy yi
yay
somebody
else got
the noose
it’s just
a circle
w/death
inside
hell i
was just
lucky to
get this

#

every time

i see white
heat i think
abt kenny
& drinking
bootleg whis
key on the
back of his
pickup he
liked to say
no prisoners
& take that
shit straight
down two
three chugs
at the most
& you were
chickenshit
if you coughed
like the time
it went up
my nose &
he clicked a
pair of 38
slugs around
in his hand
sd kid if it
don’t burn
it ain’t fun

#

hanks williams


singing lost high
way on the car
radio while
i’m driving thru
the valley of
fire to el paso
heat waves
dancing off
volcanic rocks
shiver like
frightened
clouds of
wounded smoke
& i’m thinking
abt how hank
died in that
old cadillac
i’d like to be
lieve it
happened
while he was
in the middle
of getting a
song & when
he opened his
mouth to
sing out a
line he
tasted the
electric sur
prise of
death
deep in
the heart of
america

#

joey waited

til martinez
turned side
ways to
laugh be
fore scoo
ping the
cue ball
off the
pool table
martinez
caught the
action out
of the cor
ner of his
eye but
cdn’t turn
around
fast enough
when the
ball hit him
at the hair
line he
bounced
off the
table be
hind him
& nobody
sd shit
to joey’s
revolver

#

i thought

larry was going
for a tire iron
when he yanked
the sawed off
out of a pile
of trash in his
trunk see how
it feels before
you give me
the money he
sd handing it
over i let the
grip drop into
my hand any
kinda hisory
i need to know
history larry
sd nobody’s
talking it
likes double
ought buck
& works
good in the
dark

#

the fish hook

sank just
far enough
into dooley’s
right palm
to lock it in
sweat beads
were sho
wing on
his fore
head when
he whipped
out his
switch
blade &
sd fuckit
i worked
the point
under his
skin while
he drank
old crow
from the
pint he
stole from
his old
man’s coat
when the
hook came
out he
used my
shirt to
wipe the
blood off
& gave me
the finger

#

ryker stood

on the santa fe
switch track
singing marty
robbins’ el
paso to a
dead coyote
the lines he
didn’t know
he made up
when he
stopped to
drink some
ten high a
crow dropped
from a tele
phone pole
it stuck its
beak inside
the coyote’s
skull to
scoop the
last of the
meat

#

i watched

while keener took
a beating from
his old man the
belt slapping hard
across his bare
arms when the old
man got done he
shot me a glare
the veins in his
face looked like
welts painted over
more welts sd you
want some too i
didn’t blink then
he went away
later we sat over
beers in the weeds
down by the tracks
i sd how come you
just stood there
hell i don’t know
it felt like you get
w/the skin burned
off

#

you call that

poetry
rainey sd
leaning to
ward me
on his
barstool
he smelled
sour of
beer puke
& whiskey
when i saw
his hand
going into
a fist i
clicked the
switchblade
open &
shoved it
close to
his belly
fuck you
& yr opin
ions i sd
you wdn’t
know the
difference
between
poetry &
dog shit
talk to me
when you
start to
write w/
yr blood

#

frank was showing

me how to hold a
knife so the blade
wd snake halfway
up my sleeve when
the landlady came
out of the hotel
she was talking to
one of the girls
when she saw frank
& flashed a smile
that made the bones
& yellow skin go
funny in her face
she used an index
finger to wipe a
trace of white
powder away from
her upper lip &
nose then she
licked it candy
she sd moving
close sometimes
i eat little
boys like you

Nothing Left to Give by Craig Sernotti

You say you want something.

I tear off pieces
of my face, put them
into your waiting hands.

You say you need more.

I run away.
I have nothing
left to give.

- originally appeared in Yellow Bat Review #4

Duane Locke & YBR

The following Duane Locke poems all appeared in my old print mag Yellow Bat Review.

SANIBEL NOTES #2

Small drops of rain fall
On the white mud
That circles alligator's eye.
The drops fall, spread,
Form gray fuzzy flowers
Around the eye.
On this gray day,
The alligator's eye
Shines out of
A garden of gray flowers

- YBR #2

#

JANUARY POEMS, NO. 94

All things are gone,
All things if seen without illusions are ashes,
Their reality
Has been burned by the human mind.

The roach is not a roach, but an ash.
The bird is not a bird, but an ash.
The butterfly is not a butterfly, but an ash.

There are fires in the human brain,
Fires
Lit
By the words people speak,
Words that burn all reality.

All that people know is ashes.
All that people kiss is ashes.

- YBR #3

#

JANUARY POEMS, NO. 96

Summer waters thawed her mind of winter.
She drowned.
My sweater pulled off, spread over the grass of the bank.
It is warm,
But I have a mind of winter.

The spot where she jumped is smooth now.
I think
I see
Under the surface the gold twists that were her hair,
The eyes
Whose color could not be classified.
What color were these eyes?
I gazed towards her eyes again,
But now her eye lids are shut tight.
I only see minnows swim in front of her eyelids.

I have a mind of winter.

- YBR #3

#

JANUARY POEMS, NO. 97

I hold my hand out the car window to signal a turn.
A man gets up from the corner bench and steals my wristwatch.

I park the car, chase him.
He runs towards me, passes me, steals my car.

I go to a booth to phone the police.
As I dial, the man returns, pickpockets my wallet.

I see the man standing a few feet from me,
Counting how much money I had.

I recognize the man. It is my father.
I strip myself naked, hand him all my clothes.

I rename myself Francis, but my father
Refuses to call me "Francis," calls me "George, Jr."

I do not know what to think when hearing him call me,
"George, Jr." His name is Henry.

- YBR #4

Todd Moore & YBR

What follows are all the free-standing poems I published in Yellow Bat Review, which was around for six issues from 2002 to 2004. In the fifth issue I published his chapbook White Heat, a collection of 10 poems.

You can't have enough Todd Moore.

#


when you tell

a story
tanner sd
rubbing the
ball of
his right
thumb across
the moist
butt of his
cigaret
let it
come at its
own speed
every story
has a
secret
rhythm that
goes way
inside
& floats
in yr blood
also
don't try
to act it
out good
stories
don't need
to be per
formed
just
listed to

from YBR#2

#


frank's gramma

was so small
he used to
give her rides
in his radio
flyer which
made her
laugh & yell
giddyup horsie
frank wd get
red in the
face & say
i'm not yr
horse but she
wasn't listen
ing instead
she was talk
ing abt peaches
a little black
pony she rode as
a girl i never
knew what speed
was till i had
peaches riding
her was like
falling asleep
in the wind

from YBR#3

#

griff spread

the money out
across the
front seat
& smiled
i touched a
20 & sd
how hard
was it
griff pulled
a 38 special
out of his
jacket poc
ket & sd
the store
clerk pissed
his pants
you gonna
tell
no i sd
there was
a mole
growing
on the back
of his left
hand he
bit it off
ate it &
sd that's
good

from YBR#4

#

playing catch

in the gravel
& broken glass
behind benny's
red horse tap
& rick is yell
ing burn em in
when his old
man leans out
the back door
& sez jesus
christ lets
keep it down
i'm trying to
concentrate
on my drinking
game then he
shoots me a
look sez
hey sonny
next time
you see
yr old man
ask him
abt that
sore on the
head of
his dick

from YBR#4

#

eddie had a

cowboy hat in one
hand & a colt 32
in the other & was
pacing back & forth
behind the hotel
when he sd ok mona
now what the fuck're
we gonna do & all
she sd was gimme
yr lighter & she
emptied an arm
load of bloody
sheets & some
thing else that was
heavy on top of
a patch of scorched
paper & lit it &
stepped back as
tho that was all it
wd take to avoid
the smoke when
she saw me watch
ing she sd fuck
you kid then the
world smelled of
ashes & rags &
cigarets & paper
& garbage & blood

from YBR #6

defining reality at the cliffs of oblivion by Rob Cook

after the blood and bone flash of exploding mines
you find yourself back under your lover's camouflage
of satin sheets,
the sleeping-dragon stench of gunpowder
still fresh under your pillow,
the sound of your comrade taking
twenty bullets in the gut
still slashing thru your nightmares
like a serial killer who's been tracking you
since the beginning of the world.

choking on shrapnel, you fall from a precipice in hell
back to momma and her chain and blood doctrines,
nights buried in the basement
with skinless children carving their genitalia,
calling you "daddy" while grandmother
takes pictures from the cellar-stair cloister,
collecting time on little cards.

your mate turns to face you,
no head above her mouth,
tarantulas growing from wormholes in her tongue,
organic devils patrolling in your past-life wilderness:
your wife and children trudging
thru some brackish delta thick with your lover
and every one of her bone-marrow offspring,
momma & your siblings wearing camouflage
of insects and snipers,
demonesque in halos of detonating twilight.

you slog thru knee-deep rivers of arms, legs, heads, and torsos,
ribbons of entrails and plasma
tattoed on the vulture current
like arcane bindings, windows to other hells,
and you nail that tripwire again and again,
momma's whippings pushing you deeper into
sewers where corpses of boas decay and become reflex,
ragged salamander children calling out to you
from somewhere in the gutters of your sleep,
your wife and every one of your lovers singing like locusts,
leaving clawprints for assassins to stalk you
from the trenches just behind your eyes.

- from Yellow Bat Review #3 (2002)

End of the Line (From a Dream) by Albert Huffstickler

I was walking home.
I saw a restaurant right across the street
from the house where I lived.
It had not been there before.
I thought how nice it was to have
a coffee place right across the street.
I went in to check it out.
It was almost full.
Suddenly I didn't have any clothes on.
I walked over to a booth and sat down
to think this over.
A waitress came up.
"I guess I'd better go get some clothes on," I said.
"I guess you'd better," she sniffed.
I went out and crossed the street
to the house I shared with a couple.
They were eating and talking about
their plans to leave for Europe.
"When are you going?" I asked.
"At the end of the week," the woman said. "Friday."
"I guess this scene is ending," I said.
They agreed that it was ending.
"What will you do?" the woman asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I'll have to think about it."
Suddenly I was on a city bus with Louise.
I was feeling very much adrift, dislocated.
"Why don't you go back to school?" Louise suggested.
"I don't want to go back to school," I said.
"I hate school. You're the one who likes school."
"I don't particularly like school," Louise protested.
I didn't know what to do.
I knew the scene was ending here
and I didn't want to hang around.
My whole life was up for grabs again.
I was going to have to make another new start.
It was like everything I'd been had been cancelled
and I was going to have to decide
not only where I was going
but who I was all over again.


Editor's note: This poem originally appeared in the second issue of Yellow Bat Review, a small magazine I edited from 2002 to 2004. I posted it here without getting the poet's permission first because sadly Albert Huffstickler is dead. But something tells me he wouldn't have minded. To learn more about Albert Huffstickler, go here.