Other Poets
Michael Furs
Mike Katzberg
Michelle Cartland Michael Furs to avalanches as they rumble listen
to avalanches as they rumble
down adjacent faces. head towards
the canyons that they have
fallen into. stop as the day
sets. cook whatever is
left over flames.
eat vegetarian meals. consider
hemingway. make
snow angels during the wet season,
snow with breath, us
alchemists of the soul. eclipse
the ground we stand on. shimmering
life diamonds float
away before us. go on
from there. drink from glacier
fed
lagoons. we
manuel with cowboy hat
claudio with adidas cap
and me lacking tunic
stare at the sun.
Copyright ©2003 Michael Furs
Return to Top
yellow no. 5
triple cola pronounced treeplay lists artificial
colors as an ingredient. preservatives also. i
drank some in huaycachina
on a restaurant patio. on the street,
tourists from all over the world carouse
the lagoon.
locals, some longlegged
with real bright shirts, too. its summer
in paradise. a dog with ripped orange tee shirt,
ribs protruding, big cock hanging out, saunters by.
im pretty sure hes from the bronx.
down a sanddune behind
the oasis, a boy does cartwheel back handspring
back flip back flip back flip
down to the water and gets nothing
in return for the fact
that it happened. somewhere im sure
some chicken makes real
shiny with piss a red wheelbarrow.
Copyright ©2003 Michael Furs
Return to Top
sermon ostolaza
(a la noche)
the shadow of a donkey
comes to life from a painting
and chases beer
fast down
my throat.
everybody laughs.
the shadow
of a donkey
comes to life
from a painting
and chases
beer
fast down
my throat. everyone
laughs.
everyone laughs.
Copyright ©2003 Michael Furs
Return to Top
Bio:
My name is Michael furs. I have been diagnosed as suffering from anxiety disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder and schizophrenia. My illnesses have only disrupted my life in the most extreme of circumstances as I have worked as a rehabilitation counsellor for schizophrenics, and I also lived for eight months last year in Peru as a volunteer. I have, however, also been hospitalised as a result of my condition.
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.
Copyright ©2003 Mike Katzberg
Return to Top
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
begged
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 --
why?
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
Copyright ©2003 Mike Katzberg
Return to Top
Bio:
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.
Michelle Cartland
Tilt-A-Whirl
The man who sees himself in blue
with a cap atop and steel-toed boots
can't but even conceive himself
in a vest, tie, and button-down.
I am not likewise. Far from
the blessed certainty of
a calcified self-image,
I am one day a whirl
of red chiffon unfurling
to tango, the next
a prude pecking at a keyboard,
lips pruned.
Still yet, a manicured commuter
in first-lady west-wing attire, while
yesterday a tired ticket agent at an Arizona
Greyhound whistlestop.
If an orbit would attach itself
to my wandering ways,
I'd need not pray
to be pinned down,
pray for gravity to replace
the butterflies of tilt-a-whirl
rides everyday.
Copyright ©2003 Michelle Cartland
Return to Top
Chore
Sprinting against heavy wind,
a chore left undone.
You can't feel the recliner's
cushiony backing
or know the specialty diner's
French Roasted lip-smacking flavor fully
when the nagging
of a chore nips ever-there
like the brush that needs to be burned,
the dinner dishes, the dust fluffs
gathering.
Rowing up a downward tow,
the lawn unmowed.
Copyright ©2003 Michelle Cartland
Return to Top
| 
