the sieve and the sand

Leaving the wheat with the chaff. This is not your mother’s poetry.
October 14, 2009

qvc

by David X. Hugo

DO YOU REMEMBER THE RIDE TO CRAIGS CRUISERS
DSC00542
WHEN IT WAS REALLY SUNNY
AND WE WERE PLAYING THE RADIO LOUD
AND WE HAD ALL OF THOSE TRAMADOL
THAT YOUR GRANDMOTHER LEFT YOUR MOTHER?
WASN’T THE SUN LIKE GOD AND
THE CLOUDS LIKE ANGELS AND
THE BLUE SKY LIKE HEAVEN?
bluesky
REMEMBER GETTING HIGH RIGHT BEFORE
WALKING INTO YOUR PARENT’S HOUSE?
BECAUSE SOMETIMES BAD IDEAS CAN
BE GOOD ONES, TOO.
DO YOU KNOW THAT YOU HAUNT
ME?
OR I HAUNT ME?
OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT?
YOU KNOW, IN REGARDS TO THESE THINGS
BEING MEMORIES?
THE PAST FUCKING HAUNTS ME,
I GUESS.
AND SONGS LIKE “SHOULD HAVE TAKEN
ACID WITH YOU” BY NEON INDIAN
MAKE ME WANT TO JUMP OFF OF
MY SECOND STORY BALCONY TO MAKE
A POINT TO MYSELF,
OR TO BE HONEST TO MYSELF.
BECAUSE THINKING OF YOU MAKES
ME
DO
THINGS
LIKETHAT.

5 comments
October 14, 2009

haiku

by rcribay

in this darkened room
behind your silhouette
leaves fall yellow and heavy.

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October 14, 2009

Composition

by beighartman

Where’s the music to these lyrics?
Where’s the rhythm to the drumming of my hands on the desk?
Where’s the beat in the neck-breaking of my head-banging?
Where’s the chord to the strumming of my air guitar?
Where’s the tune whistling from my lips?
Where’s the snap between my fingers?
Where’s the melody to this song?
Where’s the tapping to my feet?
Where’s the music to these lyrics?
They’re all in my head.
It’s all in my head.

1 comment
October 14, 2009

yingying (china garden)

by David X. Hugo

if confucius
was alive to-day
i bet he’d know
he’d be a hack
in the now,
mary. yet you
mis-quote his ancient
and relative
words/concepts
on your little
reminders,
taped to the
wall just like
your employees,
mary. and though
ritual propriety
is nice,
and so were the
things that kongzi
said, i doubt,
very firmly,
that he’d have
much to say
of the modern world.
even less of your
chinese restaurant
and the misdeeds
you’ve done to his
words and concepts,
mary.

2 comments
October 14, 2009

Just a piece about Charlie.

by saxsquatch

Bird is dead.
The sordid utterances harping on
the statement written fifteen feet high
on a school building’s brick facade
don’t change anything

Bird is dead.
The countless articulations scattered
through Main Street America, or
just the parts that give a damn,
can’t bring anyone back to life.

Bird is dead.
Body buried, coroner clocked out,
and countless tributes and tears
mark the facts as true ones.

But when that record spins
and that needle hits
and that baseline kicks
and that sax starts to blow,
Bird Lives,
And there’s nothing you can do about it.

3 comments
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