given the family history
i always get an eerie feeling
when a family member dies
especially out of the blue
or way too young
given the family history
i have started counting
sunsets
smelling the flowers
embracing kindness
instead of despair
the end is coming up
over the horizon
borrowed time is about
ready to pay the bill
last call boys
make it memorable
----------------------------------------------------------
high school glory only goes so far
making art out of
an awkward moment
laughing in the rain
because they have
laws against killing
the innocent
remembering when
you were the toast
of the town
but high school glory
only goes so far
comforting the dead
knowing damn well
you'll be joining that
club before too long
--------------------------------------------------------------------
release the evil
the blood always
starts as a trickle
let it bleed
let it flow
release the evil
turn on some
music and make
it a ceremony
a sacrifice
although, that
is all life seems
to be anymore
revolutions come
and go like a thief
in the night
hope is a lost cause
happiness comes
with a price
love is something
someone invented
for greeting cards
----------------------------------------------------------------------
all the way out here
a deafening silence
all the happy trees
have been cut down
that little bob ross
cabin in the woods
would be where he
would take his victims
they can't hear the
screams all the way
out here
he leaves them all
in the basement
a poorly dug hole
just enough light
to see the horrors
the bones
a bucket to shit in
all the lost souls
of women they
stopped looking
for
----------------------------------------------------------------
a winter coat
halloween tonight
chance of snow
i still haven't seen
a superhero ever
wear a winter coat
we stopped giving
out candy years ago
i wanted to pass out
little bottles of jack
daniels but that is
frowned upon by
the authorities here
they apparently are
unaware of all the
dysfunctional families
that exist
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review, Carcinogenic Poetry and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
EVENING’S TIDE
The broad beach has disappeared
beneath the rising tide
Faint rose tints the scattering
clouds of this sunset
& as blackness settles
with the song of some
night bird, frogs & a gecko
the fiercer waves climb the steps
of the long-gone promenade
leaping, splashing
against that rubble
white rip currents pulling
into the high ocean
& the lights of distant villages
speckle the far horizon
LEAVING BEHIND
I leave behind
mothers bathing their
naked daughters
in a growing tidal pool
& follow a narrowing path
through mangrove brambles
escaping far from people
I sit on this deserted beach
the porpoise-colored sea
rolling its rising tide
against the black rock …
shaking off troubling thoughts
to be captured
by this surf,
washed far, far away
& my Spirit takes wing
like that piquero
soaring over the waters
swooping & diving …
to be like that sea
lion pup, playfully
plunging beneath, bobbing
with each roll of this sea
TOWARDS THE RIVER PLATE
(Montevideo)
Paper & leaves scuttle down cavernous Saturday streets,
few souls out in these depths.
A woman holds the reins of a horse-drawn cart,
her children staring into the closing morn.
Limp bags of cardboard & bottles hang off the sides.
Along Sarandi Street, artisan stalls of puppets,
stones & carved gourds, honey & fruit preserves
in the cool shade of worn buildings.
A silver-haired man plays violin,
his sightless eyes closed.
Case open at his feet, scattered with coins.
Suddenly the rhythm of drums echoes up this way
from the Plaza Constitución.
Three boys with blue & yellow tambores,
a friend with hat in hand,
followed by a policeman herding them away
from the antique sellers beneath trees,
away from the couples dancing folklore,
gaucho & tango in front of the cabildo,
away from the diners in sidewalk cafés.
Up the calle along the Central Market & Mundo Afro,
beats of a comparsa resonate resonate.
Dark hands caress the skins while the other
grips a stick rapping rapping,
painted stars bobbing on the red & black drums.
Beyond, the River Plate flows,
bands of muddy brown, dull green,
tarnished blue in the past-noon sun.
Down along the Rambla,
men sit sipping mate,
thermos tucked under arm.
Families swim along the sparse-sand beach,
bask upon wave-smooth rocks.
Up on the Cubo del Sur,
children pose upon a rusted cannon
for papá's photo.
A man slits the silvered belly of a fish.
Long black rod in hand,
white cap shading his eyes & balding head,
he baits his line.
& far on the horizon,
in the haze of sun & sea,
slow ships steam to other ports.
Lorraine Caputo is a wandering troubadour whose writings appear in over 400 journals on six continents, and 23 collections – including In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023) and Caribbean Interludes (Origami Poems Project, 2022). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and thrice nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her adventures at www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or http://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.
SO = Jan was lucky to have walked out into a late spring day. They had been pushing and pushing and + but + no, no. The steps had been taken, and. That was all over. There came time for lines in the sand et centratoonlia, but, the important things were there to be taken. The yard. The grass of the yard’s so green. And, the day. Dew glistened across right left up and over and. S telephone pole stretched there pointing from between the square yards pres’t the houses uck’dde neighboring, and/und, a line could be drawn down the pole cross the grass to the sidewalk clear out to the street, if one were so inclined to desire. “Can’t Stand This [gorilla]” and.
And.
And.
One step out. Grass. Look ‘round. Look over. Step {turn} grass. Neato-rupt’ out to the pole. Lean. Down. Lean. Down. Yes; there’s something about it, yes. It does smell. :what do we smell, snark: smells like just one’s another type II weedy-rotting log but upon second glance smells much more likewhich a utility Experimental Heemio pole-trilliac pole, in some circles which may or may not exist in past or future days (does it make a sound?) all’s which-so mee’ b’ known as a rott’d heeliog of’f a trilliac’d down Experimental, Mat’ema’tic’alle, ‘sso Wagner’s gas station of great big nose acne’d, raise the lift so we can see the bottom of this Ford, quite long t’phone pole—and stepping back-Jan. While was stepping/step’t back Jan. One instant of loneliness. Struck from un’ ‘nder someplace in the press to the grass o’er bottomsides that pole, Hishteennea, think ‘m ‘h ‘e ‘ressed it’ll :get: when those three are on it down the road but no no no do not want to be lonely ‘til the three will step up off and over to get the slope down ‘cross the fat Main street : of which Jan’ll no ono never’ll be positioned to merely know of it let alone to experience it, SO, turn to the left onto the grasse long armflick’d lift od a walk’d dog who not yet existed/exists yet, moreover, thwack-stain, thwack–stain, thwack-stain, thwack-stain, thwack-lillian’s astckly great bit dead “stain”, which rub can not get, nor Sunday to Saturday, oh so many times, as—Jan musedly walked toward a suddenly handy next thing to see, t’ ‘e <> lump in the lawn, but wide like a pile, some dirt’d been dump’d here, for some purpose or other, known only to one single person most likely, and Jan, you ought to have seen it; this mound-hill grassed-over nine-ten o’ yards ‘umferenenced roundy ‘bout why, oh why, oh, why have I never once wondered why this is here, yes why like the pole there whose being I’ve never questioned, why we’d never off’d Lucifer to know the damn thing, eh why is that there eh why do you need to know that Gimi, why d’ down’d dirt d’ya need to know that now, after all it’d been there all your limited allotted days Gimi, and it was never important to you ‘til now, when you are lonely and need somebody Gimi, why is is only when you’re lonely or need something all of a sudden what’s under this here moun’’s so equally important Gimi oh why o why Gimi, oh Gimi, why oh why, Gimi oh why and oh why and oh why Gimi Gimi stuck down on it’s platter it did become tiresome, where’s the switch there’s the switch they made it big and red to be easy to hit in the inevitable emergency life and/or limbed seven-legged emergency, which when pushed shines strong light in the room where the creature’s come [ so hot to the touch and to the touch only ] threatening, which said light make a dash n’ scurry ‘way gone of at least this problem but remember there will always be more many more yes lots more Gimi Gimi see here ha Gimi, there’s always been and always will be plenty more of me slithering in Gimi, so aw dump the scamper don’t pull that trick this time, we know you so well and sir turn-kneenevtable gas, frustration frustrationfrustrationfrustrationfrustrationfrustrationfrustration but {[ why on earth when they saw the need for an emergency stop button did they not simultaneously see that meant they felt the effort to perfect the machine was incomplete? Like, y’know, we fear it may be deadly we fear we fear we fear et-schrectoolia,? Why’d ‘ot go ditch the red button go just design better and harder out to perfection which is actually attainable but for their inherent [don’t go there can’t go there said not to and never because you just might find HORN HORN that phrase intentionally blanked down to nonexistence]]} ten hots for ten Hoovers lack of the simple everyday ability to see past the God-damned you-know-whats’ tip? Bland lo Schledney c r a n k we get frustrated we get frustrated we get lots and lots of frustrated oh hell of course its fine you can’t yet see. We are after all only 839 and a half pages in, and counting drag block tackle drag block and tackle drag block and tackle God damn let us in as you rig up your damned block and tackle need power to LIFT this why the hell’d they construct this so ASS to require block-tackle and more liniment o’er the burning part to bring this big question mark of a simple gragoon-simple instance of a COMMON race RAZOR to HEEL! ‘kay why’se guy why dontcha? Gimme gimme here gimmi gimmi gimmi-hech’ BUT Jan stepped toes-up to the mystery mound in the grass-lawn {back the usually most shady spot most of every hot summer} and toed a light kick into its base. Hard, they though. Now we ought-could have dug into this. To find out what’s inside, you know? But it was not important at the time. Like always these are; when the tools commonalities and the actual object of interest (ya ya what’s its history what’s it’s [we get lots and lots of letters] history) no more Art Linkletter ever again Gimi please promise me that Gimi please promise me o-o—o-o please promise me no more Art Linkletter ever again, Gimi are available, the interest in knowing what’s inside is not, “whereas”, when when the tools commonalities and the actual object of interest (yrotsih ]srettel fo stol dna stol teg ew[ s’ti s’tahw yrotsih sti s’tahw ay ay ya ya) jamais d’Art Linkletter Gimi, s’il te plaît, promets-moi que Gimi, s’il te plaît, promets-moi o-o—o-o s’il te plaît, promets-moi de ne plus jamais avoir d’Art Linkletter, Gimi are no longer available, the interest in knowing what’s inside is not, and ye yat brains as Jan stood there musing all this out, wow wow WOW a voice bark, said the startled dog
Hey. I’ve got this game here. Want to play it?
: turns :
What?
I said hey. I’ve got this game here. Want to play it?
Hook = Playing it alone vs. playing it with people colorforms piano for people unlike other people
