grind the Saginaw and feather the six

it’s a trip to the urologist
in your ‘69 Chevy Blazer
a wreck that needs a lot of money thrown at it
money you don’t have

the light turns green
you jiggle the three-on-the-tree into first
ease out on the clutch and pray it will catch

there was a time when this heap was new
there was a time when her paint glistened
there was a time you were proud to drive her

you grind that ten spline Saginaw into second
feather the worn out inline six 
until it smokes and squeals and smokes some more

at seventy they’re stripping your dignity away 
sticking fingers and probes up your ass
asking if you know what year it is
asking you if you get enough to eat

You fiddle the shifter into third
And check the speedometer even though it broke years ago
another half a mile to go on this two-lane
and then you merge onto the big road
where the heavy traffic moves fast
because everybody thinks 
they can catch up to some unassailable self-worth

lying 

on the beach towels  

sunburnt nudes

in a vintage

Playboy



Christina Chin / M. R. Defibaugh 



cresting waves

she tells him how

rough she likes it 

doing a cartwheel 

before the surf




M. R. Defibaugh / Christina Chin



he fans her with

the wine menu

after a swim 

and a cold shower

still feeling hot

 



M. R. Defibaugh / Christina Chin



pretty bobbies

in an updo hairstyle 

removing pins 

the night falls


down to her waist



Christina Chin / M. R. Defibaugh



picotee edge 

white amaryllis 

on her lacy lingerie 

untying the ribbons

with his teeth 




Christina Chin / M. R. Defibaugh

Love affair with cigarettes  

You've kissed my lips, 
but why didn't you feel me? 
You've touched my fingers, 
but why didn't you hold me? 
Am I not worth you, 
Can't you set me free? 

You lighten yourself among others, 
the ones whom I loved, 
the ones whom I've been loved by, 
But I've always been left behind, 
Will I ever call you mine? 

I stand helplessly, 
to see you tasting people
in front of my eyes, 
But I stand hopefully
someday I will not be dull
and you'll be my prize. 

Many say, you're a menace, 
yet I'm ready to kiss and caress, 
Never mind, 
I'll see you again soon, 
kissing my loved and dear ones, 
I'll be sadly happy to see you
healing their wounds and burns. 



Woken Walks

And the roads
seem alone in 
the naive night, 
do they despise
being lonely,  
or do they enjoy
this presence of 
them only, 

I've tried to know,
I walk down roads, 
but they don't sense
my presence, 
and I shout at them 
for my relevance, 
still, they hide under 
the pretence of ignorance, 

I guess I disrupt their peace
in the dreary dark, 
and somewhere they answer, 
they don't like getting marked, 
emptiness is what they crave
but why am I here, 
do I want the same? 


Sniffs

Smell, odour, aroma and fragrance
Always chase the good kinds, 
at any stance, at any chance, 
good or bad, who defines? 
 
Where are my boxers, 
in my house, I shout
Lie they under the table, 
worn out and torn out
 
I pick them up
put them under my nose
Call me gross 
But this is what I do alone
behind the doors closed. 
 
Why do I do this, 
I don't have any reason,
probably, the odour and aroma
makes me feel human. 
 
Is it bizarre or do you practice it too?
 
find those boxers in the cart, 
don't think much, just do
feel them, sniff them
wear them and dance, 
witness the smells transgress
into a fragrance.

Saturday

Saturdays are dreadful
I stay entirely in the cubicle, 
stare at the heap of clothes,
the heap so weak, 
that it couldn't stand
for a single week, 
I see dirt on the fabric and
the shirt hopefully stares at me, 
waiting to hold and to be held
but I won't, and scarcely
she will feel my scars
on my shoulders, belly
chest, back and arms, 
 
Today I am just naked
lying down on the floor, 
I talk, I sing, I scream, I cry, 
It's raining but I feel dry, 
and my throat is sore, 
I stroke and scratch my wall
and fit the paint in my nails, 
I fight my urges and deeply inhale, 
I'm glad I succeed or I'm sad
I succeed, I don't want to know, 

All I wish is this day to move, 
I'll put clothes on my body
and wear fancy shoes, 
I will run away astray
without feeling weary, 
I need a different day, 
Saturdays are dreary.



Self-portrait

Mirror's
a window,
inside we see,
trying to be
real and free
irresponsibly!

the violets snort without me

tele
comic

scram
bled




which shannon?

a wintry eye
& high beams

you’ve been
silent




skull popcorn

friends help

     wilma!




a ladder into the television

I miss the winchell’s
& a normal king’s dinner




wallet toe$

a numbered eye
a sporty nectarine

a serious mammal
a friend of the sun


J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poetry has appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Nelson’s poem, “to mask a little bird” was nominated for Best of the Net in 2021. Visit http://MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at http://JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Colorado, USA.

A Sad Affair For Celluloid

When they can't
see the obvious you
might want to tell them to
move to a new microscope
telescope or a crystal ball
without blemish or cracks.

A young bartender
friend who's cross stitched
her name to private
thoughts with enticing
gold thread talks to me
more than slightly upset.

I see her eyes red
as if she's escaped from
hell or found love
in a fire sale.
I find out the latter is true.

Her boyfriend and another
bartender are involved
in a film noir plot
with betrayal
the smoking gun
in their manicured hands
adding special effects.

Such as big tears
late night calls from hospitals
police stations and a wax
museum where alibis
melt under combined
duress and inspection.
And I hear Vincent Price
say-no one is winning here.

The boyfriend's cute as
a greeting card, living rent
free with her
steals cash too from her
purse while she sleeps
after coming home at
5 or 530 am.

He has no job
though he's been looking
for months-you gotta
admire tenacity.

Yet she doesn't
blame him, she blames the other
bartender saying
"She knew he was mine."
I would ask to see
papers of ownership but she’s
distraught as a dancer
whose music has been turned off.

I could tell her guys
like that don't belong
to anybody. They just take until
they move on to someone else
with more to take from.
I find it all too exhausting.

"How could she do
this to me," she asks.
Once again blaming
the wrong person.
"I thought she was
my friend." Tears
fall from eyes
azure but now dim
and dark as nightfall.

I tell her it all sounds like
a sad affair for celluloid
with actors chosen only
for scandals in their past.

My comment doesn't register
its footprints in water
as she excoriates her former
best girlfriend so fiercely
I can't hear anymore.

Dispassionate, I pay, head
outside to the stifling warmth
embracing me like a desperate
old lover who won't ask much.
Which drained is all I've got
wondering if in Hell
there's a fire sale
for my soul. or
others like it. 


Broken Camera Snapshots

I hang upside down
with my mouth
duck taped
it is our
first date.

Holding a gun
she dares me again
to steal her heart.

Tease of
the warmth of spring
between arguments.

Then love disappears
a butterfly venturing
to wider nets.

A final meeting
lacking even one
moment of grace.

A bouquet of roses
drowned in tears
floats in river.

 
False Fantasies 
 
I just want 
to ravage her madly 
he says. in ways 
far from Orthodox 
on a bed or in grass 
even sand, adding she 
is all he thinks of.
This young movie star 
I'm unaware of. 

I tell him to be real 
as if he could. 
To focus on the 
bartender, both 
cute, young and 
for months now 
giving him far more 
free drinks than me. 
Though I'm a lot more 
generous with tips. 
 
He details a dream 
that follows the 
screenplay of one 
of the starlet's films. 
Where she meets 
him in another 
country, they 
become lovers 
flying to Spain 
where he proves 
his love, killing a 
bull fighter who tries 
to assault her holding 
sword and cape. 
 
Or maybe I just 
made that last part 
up like a poem 
where any ending 
becomes a lie 
or close or… 
 
I go play pool 
returning to 
find him trying 
to convince the 
waitress she should 
go with him to Spain 
where he can kill 
a bull for her. Maybe 
a bull fighter. 
She looks at him 
like he's crazy.   
I do too as I sit 
down next to him 
and switch to whiskey.

Enchantment: After 422 Years A Drama That Evokes Shakespeare

By Federico Wardal

 After 402 Years, A Play Evoking Shakespeare

402 years on the wings of destiny until it reappeared: Enchantment, an esoteric drama written around the year 1620 about Shakespeare, four years after his death.

About the author, we only know that they were somehow connected with Denmark, since on May 4, 1709 the drama was donated in Vicenza by King Frederick IV of Denmark to Andrew Quintus, on the occasion of his proclamation as “Count of Wardal”.  Andrea Quinto loved the theater and as a Venetian loved The Merchant of Venice and Romeo and Juliet, both set by Shakespeare in the Veneto, and the co-star of Incantesimo is Hamlet, prince of Denmark.  This could explain the reason for the gift.  

The play, however, was given, not in Danish, but in English.  It is believed that the author was very close to Shakespeare, perhaps a disciple of him, since, in one scene, Shakespeare’s temperament is described as someone who often changes his mood.

Enchantment intrigues as it describes Shakespeare’s creative mechanisms relating to inventing Hamlet, Ophelia, Richard III, King Lear, Desdemona, Lady Macbeth and Juliet and Romeo.  But there is also an intense scene with the character of Death and some prophecies about today’s world.  Whoever wrote it is surely an esoteric who wrote the drama with the method of “automatic writing”, that is, through the connection with a spirit: that of William Shakespeare.

There is much to understand between the lines of the text, in which secret codes may be hidden that could be related to political secrets of northern European countries at the time of King Frederick IV of Denmark.  All this does not affect the extraordinary theatrical value of the text.  Its plot is totally unique.  An actor playing Hamlet, at the moment of the appearance of the ghost of his father, the king, murdered by his uncle, is captured by the spirit of Shakespeare, who, during a journey into the afterlife, makes him meet with his most famous characters.

It is interesting that if the automatic writing takes place under dictation by a spirit, by means of a special concentration or trance. Also the actor, co-star of the drama, is already in a state of special concentration or trance, for this reason he has the possibility of communication with the spirit of Shakespeare. The text clearly describes a fact known to few: the timescale of humans is different from that of ghosts. For this reason, the actor can take time off from his Hamlet play and travel with Shakespeare to the afterlife and then return to the scene, continuing the Hamlet play, without the audience noticing his absence in the least!

The richness of the text is impressive indeed. The author must have been a great scholar and soon it will be discovered who he or she is.  After 1709, the text again aroused interest and was translated, also in Vicenza, into Italian around the year 1800 by Countess Lucrezia Quinto, great-granddaughter of Andrea Quinto.

Then it was forgotten again, but now it is finally back in the light. Here it is in English and Italian.

You Just Can't Win

I did a
really,
stupid
thing,
this week,
well, last
week.
I ran out
of Prozac.

I've been
really ill,
all week.

Feeling
nausea,
unable to
eat properly.

It's been a
fucking rough
week.

I finally got
it together
to pick up my
tablets today.

I think it's the
first time that
I've ever read
the instructions
on how to take
them .

It was all there,
" Don't let your
pills run out.
The withdrawal
symptoms
include
nausea,
sickness,
low mood.

Lack of energy,
and motivation.
Etc. "

Basically,
all the shit
I've been
going through
in the last, horrible
week.

It's
my
own
fault.

I
know
that.

But,
I look at
the side
effects from
taking them.

They're
almost
exactly the
same.

You
just can't
win.