Saturday, March 01, 2003

Mike Katzberg

McGuffey's Fogazaro

Clues were left
Hit-or-miss, seemingly in a random sporadic display
a verbiage unending in mindscarred careful disarray
the magascope astounds a perspecuity of conscious detail
Mare Island: one scene
Bryce Canyon National Park: another
All dress as garbed to a fancy ball
Parenticide avante garde mon derrier!
Clients perdu regained in San Juan
A tall bee tree
And we drink in the honey of each dripping syllabic.
He only wrote with conscious detail about the football field
The lives of his characters captured on the film
Of book bark encountered and tree trunks enfolded.
I wish I had that spaciousness inside myself sometimes.

Riding the Storm

sky of jet silver black as light
faded dreams fleeing along a forlorn song
violent clouds stirring quickly
brimming coffin
streaking the sky out of a perspiring sorrow

a .22 and still a child
held the bicycle up to my head
and hit the road
the sky bleeds red

saw it in the catalogue wanted it
just that colour, cherry cool
begged for it
had no money
begged for it again
wanted it more
got some pain
no money
got it one day

a sky that stirs
an anguish spiring
darkening ever like a fever river
never abating, breaking
a feminine shape slipping behind the masks of ether
stepping windswept lady through the gods' old war

to dream you wish for something other
to want is what the will considers reason
the thing which you desire
Icarus and the sun so cloaked in naked red
a youthful material-maternalistic virtue scrubs over
persistent pestilent in the naturalistic impasto

a bicycle:
some definitions pertaining to two circular rubber objects
some link these together by metal adornment
generally having a chain, a steering apparatus,
pictured with a seat, rider donning a parasol,
well here's the picture:

They call her the town bicycle --
because everyone in town rides her
and she's that way
two at a time you know,
always rolling
on to the next
take it down fast, pump and blow
onto the next wheel before the last is over
under the sky open with sin
bend her over rover
take it all in

The sky is riding from the stars
who cloak her bosom in tempestuous might
with their skinshade shady swarthes of taunting nothingness
deeper violences of shadow percolate still and heavy swarms
biting out chunks of a relentless gaseous aura
into the fleeing sun

She has the road
She has the vehicle of progression
She has no openings for you

Mike Katzberg, originally from Australia, lives and writes in Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada, with a roommate and a cat. He is in the process of writing a vampire novel, and deliberating over his first book of poetry, among other endeavours.

Coral Hull Spike Rotundo Sandy Jeffs Michael Furs Mike Katzberg Elizabeth Kelso Lori Williams Danny P. Barbare

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