Poems from The Journey to Kailash IX

/ April 26th, 2011 / 1 Comment »

Disaster at the BrainBank™ ATM

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We’re sorry, we’ve misfiled your personality,
and deposited your childhood memories
in someone else’s account. We warned you:
we’ve just upgraded, you must protect
your own persona till the bugs smooth out.
It seems you’ve far surpassed your limit
In altruistic reverie, we’ve deducted two
life-changing epiphanies for each infraction
(our standard fee) and provided you with
four new subconscious anxieties as insurance
against our own liability. Now here’s your requested
pleasure center stimulation. Have a Nice Daydream™.





“Disaster at the Brainbank™ ATM” first appeared in Talebones, Oct. 1998. Copyright © 1998 by Mike Allen. Reading by the author, © 2008. Art: Images courtesy of Wikipedia.

A note about “Giving Back to the Muse”

/ April 25th, 2011 / No Comments »

This poem means to be a reversal of the typical poet-muse relationship; I once called it an “anti-muse” poem and was corrected — by a YouTube commenter! — that it’s still a tribute, in its own way.

And for some reason, I slipped in a Marshall McLuhan reference. That’s what an advanced degree does for one.

(Read and hear the poem here.)

A Mythic Delirium announcement and reminder

/ April 25th, 2011 / No Comments »

Hey, folks, two things.

First, as you might have guessed by now, Mythic Delirium 24 isn’t going to make its target release date of April. These things happen in the realm of DIY small press projects … I’m waiting on cover artist Tim Mullins to finish his newest cover and also to complete an interior illustration. Once those things are done, we launch. (Everything else is ready.)

Second, this is the final week to submit poems to be considered for publication in Issue 25. The reading window will shut down at the end of May 1. (Guidelines are here if you need a refresher.)

Poems from The Journey to Kailash VIII

/ April 25th, 2011 / 1 Comment »

Giving Back to the Muse

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She wears a necklace of knives and eyes,
a sash sewn from flags and faces,
boots welded from bomb fragments,
a belt of hangman’s rope.
You fear she’ll see you watching
but you can’t look away,
not even once she notices your stare.
She is medium cool; she requires
all your senses to impart the vision,
stab your eyes, shred your feet,
strangle you in half and burn your face away.
Your sinuses crack like eggshells.
Your loins avalanche blood.
You put your tongue in her mouth,
let her chew and swallow. What use
were your words ever anyway?





“Giving Back to the Muse” and accompanying reading first appeared online in Goblin Fruit, Issue 7, Autumn 2007. Copyright © 2007 by Mike Allen. Art: Detail from “Orpheus” by Gustave Moreau, 1865.

A note about “Petals”

/ April 24th, 2011 / No Comments »

A small voice in the back of my brain tells me this poem was inspired by a dream, though if that’s true I have no memory of the dream itself — scattered by the winds, no doubt. What I can tell you for certain is that, surprise, surprise, there’s really nothing speculative going on here, despite the trappings. This piece is very autobiographical, a look back at the stages of my own life through the bleakest possible lens … though it’s not necessarily a truthful representation of how I view my own history. Tricksy, tricksy poetry.

On that note: Happy Easter, everyone!

(Read and hear the poem here.)

Poems from The Journey to Kailash VII

/ April 24th, 2011 / 1 Comment »

Petals

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field of memories
flickers, blooms brushed
by charnel winds;
desperate to preserve
what searing gusts
leave behind,
I crawl amid
the vein-dark stalks
that sting my
hands, my face;
I crawl amid
the nettled stalks
to find the flowers,
to eat:

petals from
my island childhood,
papaya thick,
at first breadfruit sweet
but bright yellow inside,
tinted with red ant fire,
full of wriggling legs
that struggle
in my throat;

petals from
my mountain boyhood,
tobacco tang,
coal bitter,
thorns hidden
in the creases,
blue as chill air,
blue as bruises
under skin of dust and mud;

petals from
the brink of manhood,
white as paper
and as dry;
the salt of lust,
phloem of love;
visions burst on the tongue,
blood-red hope,
blood-red despair,
flavor the same;

petals from
my middle age,
blackened before
I arrive:
brittle ash,
peeled paint,
crust that crumbles
as I pluck;
who could want
such tasteless dregs?

I blow a kiss,
scatter the petals,
share them with the wind
that sears my face.





“Petals” first appeared in Star*Line, Vol. 31, Issue 2, 2008. Copyright © 2008 by Mike Allen. Reading by the author, © 2008. Art: Detail from “The Triumph of Death” by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, 1562.

A note about “Manifest Density”

/ April 23rd, 2011 / No Comments »

All my poems stand on the words of others in some way, this particular one more explicitly than most. When my buddy Bud Webster became poetry editor at the controversial Helix: Speculative Fiction Quarterly he hit me up for some verse, but I was stumped at first. My longtime friend Vickie Holt started me off by suggesting what became the poem’s first line — and during a beta-read another longtime friend, Cathy Reniere, suggested the line about Slurpees and U-turns. Finally, it was Bud who came up with the poem’s title. So I owe all of them for the existence of this piece, which is a delight to perform live.

As to the topic: in our corner of the world, zoning law is an ungainly thing akin to water and sewer utilities — it’s something that affects our daily lives in all sorts of ways seen and unseen, but nothing about it fires the imagination. As a government reporter I tangled more than once with the unenviable task of attempting to present a zoning issue so it would be interesting to readers. In my quest to come up with something for Bud, I got to thinking that I’d never ever seen a skiffy poem that dealt with things like commercial and residential districts and comprehensive plans. So that’s what I wrote.

(Read and hear the poem here.)

Poems from The Journey to Kailash VI

/ April 23rd, 2011 / 1 Comment »

Manifest Density

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Let’s play a game of chicken with the Universe.
Let’s extend our suburbs to the quasar edge.
Let’s burrow condos into every moon,
open discount stores at each new sun,
carve two-way traffic tunnels throughout spacetime,
plan cul-de-sacs of gated nebulae.
Let’s evangelize all unearthly aborigines.
(They too need Slurpee cups and no U-turns.)
Let’s fill the empty saddle with ourselves.
And if we can’t kickstart the Big Crunch with our Masses,
let’s break bacchanal through all the thinning Cosmos
to keep each other warm as the stars die.





“Manifest Density” first appeared in Helix: A Speculative Fiction Quarterly, Issue 2, Oct. 2006. Copyright © 2006 by Mike Allen. Reading by the author, © 2008. Art: Images courtesy of Wikipedia.

A note about “Midnight Rendezvous, Boston”

/ April 22nd, 2011 / 1 Comment »

This poem is a lighthearted commemoration of the first and so far only time Anita and I attended Arisia in Boston, a sci-fi con that takes place in the dead of winter (rather inconvenient if you’re driving from Virginia.) That was in 2002, so maybe things play differently now, but when we were there I observed two local quirks of note. One, all Bostonians go out on the town wearing black from head to toe. Two, the way Bostonians handle things that are off-kilter — such as a man in a satyr costume (shirtless, with horns) lounging in a hotel lobby, or a woman (in the real life instance, my wife) having dinner in a posh restaurant in a full-blown nature spirit outfit complete with antlers and a mantle made of leaves — is to act as if they’re not there. How could I resist having fun with that?

(Read and hear the poem here.)

Poems from The Journey to Kailash V

/ April 22nd, 2011 / 1 Comment »

Midnight Rendezvous, Boston

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The satyr lounges on the hotel lobby sofa,
one hoof dangled over the carpet of endless
fleurs-de-lis. Men and women in long black coats
stumble past, in flight from the flash-freeze winds
hidden in Boston’s flurries; they crawl up the stairs,
weighed down by liquor and the doorman’s gaze.

The satyr’s eyes track a waitress’s slit skirt
as she hurries outside for a forbidden smoke.
He smiles, paws the carpet, runs an idle ebony hand
through his curls of beard. No one
meets his gaze or looks his way.

The revolving door squeaks; his horned head turns
to look at the haughty antlers crowning the beast
bearing down on him, with its mantle of leaves
hung on shoulders strong as trees,
its hide of soft fawn down stretched taught
across an iron-muscled chest. The Horned One twirls
his javelin, impatient, stares down his snout
as the satyr reaches out, traces playful fingers
down the groove of the avatar’s hard belly. No one
stops or asks them to stop — in Boston,
your kinks are not our business.

Later, the janitor pauses, appalled
at the animal noises from the restroom stall.
Someday they’ll take out all the doors in here, he thinks,
and goes on about his business.





“Midnight Rendevous, Boston” first appeared in EOTU Ezine, June 2003. Copyright © 2003 by Mike Allen. Reading by the author, © 2008. Art: Detail from “Idyll” by Arnold Böcklin, 1875.

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