Poems from The Journey to Kailash X
Mike Allen / April 27th, 2011 / 1 Comment »
No One
I do not hear a tapping beside me at the window. I will not raise the shade. I will not see eyes there, silver with reflected moonlight, the same eyes that flashed outside the attic window as I peered up the dark stairwell three long nights ago. What face could have those eyes? It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. I did not see them. The scratching on the pane I hear is just a branch striking the glass. There is no tree next to my window, but listen how the wind breathes — it must have blown a branch down from elsewhere in the yard. The noise is relentless, but tonight I’ll leave it be, stay here in my pool of light, with my bookshelves and papers and the comforting sounds of my fingers on the keys. There is no need to indulge this growing impulse to reach out, tug the shade, unlatch the sash. There is no pale face waiting in the dark. No one is screaming. for Thomas Ligotti |
A note about “Disaster at the BrainBank™ ATM”
Mike Allen / April 26th, 2011 / No Comments »A real-life version of this poem actually happened to us, years ago. A teller at our bank mistyped our account number, causing a deposit to vanish into non-existent account limbo. And of course when we wrote checks based on the not-unreasonable assumption that our money had not just spontaneously disappeared into an alternate dimension, we were penalized with steep overdraft fees. As I recall, the bank branch manager argued that it was our responsibility to catch the screw-up … It probably won’t surprise you that we cancelled our accounts with said bank soon after. This poem basically riffs on that incident, with the details given a what-if spin and seasoned with a dash of (dark) humor.
Poems from The Journey to Kailash IX
Mike Allen / April 26th, 2011 / 1 Comment »
Disaster at the BrainBank™ ATM
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™.
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A note about “Giving Back to the Muse”
Mike Allen / 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.
A Mythic Delirium announcement and reminder
Mike Allen / 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
Mike Allen / April 25th, 2011 / 1 Comment »
Giving Back to the Muse
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?
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A note about “Petals”
Mike Allen / 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!
Poems from The Journey to Kailash VII
Mike Allen / April 24th, 2011 / 1 Comment »
Petals
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.
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A note about “Manifest Density”
Mike Allen / 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.
