Defenestrationism.net

by Richie Shiers Jr

as read by Steve Garland

The Beast Around Here

I chased the dragon

I chased that beast home and back and eventually beat it

I chased the cynical thing up the curvature and jut

of its cheekbones that I hopped off

to parachute back down to happy

the only traces are bread crumbs that I’m sweeping now,

and the marks that my cold shoulder left

I stomp my feet when the beast comes back

apologizing and all the usual sorrows it feels

I put my arms in a sling and it leaves again

once, not again though,

I scaled the dragon’s scales

and felt it’s glistening ivory teeth

it snarled, hissed, and embraced me

I couldn’t push it

or leave

it would stay posted with it’s eyes open

for weeks on weeks

it hunkered down into dirt after, however

and escaped safely

tiptoeing, and stomping once the chase began

more from And Her Name Was Morphine

home

by

by

by Richie Shiers Jr

as read by Steve Garland

730 Days Ago

for 5+ years the sun shown itself on my street

it was days in summer when visiting friends

and passing the ice cream salesman on their bikes

park meetups reassure childhood mixing in the adulthood

and the cement walking makes me feel Bukowkskian

chirp

chirpitty

chirp

it’s phenomenal really, being warm as the stars

yet still satisfied with how the summers are

more from And Her Name Was Morphine

home

by

by

by Richie Shiers Jr.

as read by Steve Garland

Polyga-me

1. someone once whispered to me

that two is better than one

so I looked into the idea of polygamy

and that hit hard, suddenly:

3 (or more) pillowed beds

3 (or more) weddings rings

3 (or more) times the happiness

2. I pray that my girlfriend’s girlfriend

and my girlfriend

and myself

can all enjoy each other’s company

and kiss and frolic

in the shape of a triangle

with nothing but smiles

and equal angles at each point

3. if we don’t pay attention

then we won’t have to acknowledge

the world’s blistering shuns

we don’t need anyone to

capsize our everlasting love

so we’ll hold hands on the beach

and you can avert your attention somewhere else

because I love these girls to the bitter death

more from And Her Name Was Morphine

home

by

by

by Richie Schiers Jr.

as read by Steve Garland

Steve’s intro

[ed.’s Note: These poems are published unedited, as Ricki had them in his manuscript when he left us.  However, the order of the poems is rearranged, here, with a cohesive meta-narrative apparent in the sequencing of the second half.]

Sept 18th: “Polyga-me”

Sept: 25th: “730 Days Ago”

Oct 2nd: “the Beast Around Here”

Oct 9th: “the Tracks on God’s Arms”

Oct 16th: “the Lonelies”

Oct 23rd: “Ash is…”

Oct 30th: “Periodically”

Nov 6th: “Seasons of Heaven”

hear the first 11 poems of “And her Name was Morphine” by Richie Schiers Jr, as read by Steve Garland, including “In Certain Sunlight“.

!What’s New!

home

by

by

by Michael Lee Johnson

Iranian Poetry Lady (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson

The first time I saw your face, cosmetic images, dust, dirt, determination

fell across your exiled face.  Coal smoke lifted with your simple words and short poems.

Your meaning drawn across a black board of past, rainbows, future

fragment, still in the shadows.

Muhammad, Jesus twins, only one forms a hallo alone.

One screams love, drips candle wax, lights life, shakes, love.

I encrust your history in the Ginkgo tree, deliverance.

I wrap in the branches the whispers in your ears a new beginning.

I am the landscape of your future walk soft peddle on green grass.

I will take you there.  I am your poet, your lead, freedom clouds move over then on.

I review no spelling, grammar errors; I lick your envelope, finish, stamp place on.

Down with age I may go, but I offer this set of wings I purchased at a thrift store.

I release you in south wind, storms, and warm in spring, monarch butterflies.

Your name scribbles in gold script.

Night, mysteries, follow handle, your own.

more readings

home

by

by

by Michael Lee Johnson

One-Legged Goose

You see me in the parking lot hobbling, avoiding cars.

I am that one-legged Canadian goose guest of the wild.

You toss me a handful of mixed birdfeed.

I am your morning wing flapper picking up leftovers

by sparrows brown wing doves, yet grateful for charity.

I learn to survive dipped in red resister North then South

traveler, lifelong, mute to borders, I cross the line.

I thank you poet, bouquet, crossword flowers

gusty winds mix carnations.

Cheap, reasonable costs in depth, death, within religions,

tones of god Zeus, one space to Mary wept.

Those cheap carnations at the foot of the cross.

One-legged goose singled out.

more Readings

home

by

by

Life Is-Transition (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson

Transition, is song, passages.

291.5 pounds, age 67, 6’4′, gross as a pig waiting for

butcher’s cut.

Aging chews at my back, my knee joints, chisels, slivers

in dampness.

Legs are corn stalks burning; twist fibers, bending, late

October, Halloween night.

Good news, 67, lost 38.9 pounds this year, rocking gently

shifting my pain away.

I am no longer a beagle pup, an English cocker spaniel

chasing the bitches around,

no longer a champion bike rider, yo-yo champion, nor

Hula Hooper dancer or swinger.

Now I expand my morning stiffness with stretch rubber

bands, legs lifted high then down.

Wild mustard, wild black rice and the Mediterranean diet

have taken over my youthful dining experiences.

I no longer have nightmares about senior discounts, or

Meals on Wheels,

part-time bus driving jobs, or aerobics.

When spices are in season, I out live my postponements

to my grave.

Screech owl, I am an old buck, baby hoot on a comeback,

dancing my ass off.

Transition, shedding old loose snakeskin.

Still listening to those old hits, like Jesse Colter, Waylon Jennings,

“Storms Never Last.”

Transition is song passages.

!Keep surfing through, we announce our Complex Fairy Tales, tomorrow!

more Readings by Michael Lee Johnson

home

by

by

Clockmaker (V4)

By Michael Lee Johnson

Clockmaker (V4)

Solo, I am clockmaker

born September 22nd,

a Virgo/Libra mix insane,

look at my moving parts, apart yet together,

holes in air, artistic perfection,

mechanical misfits everywhere,

life is a brass lever, a wordsmith, an artist at his craft.

Clockmaker, poet tease, and squeeze tweezers.

I am a life looking through microscope,

screenshots, snapshot tools,

mainsprings, swing pendulum, endless hours,

then again, ears open tick then tock.

Over humor and the last brass bend,

when I hear a hair move its breath,

I know I am the clock waiter,

the clockmaker listens-

a tick, then tock.

more from poetrymanusa Michael Lee Johnson

home

by

by

Steve Garland reads the works of Ricki Shiers

Art of Belittling

Art of Belittling

it’s difficult to stay little
with all these hearts stomping around
looking and hoping
for someone to really follow
a silly fellow, misunderstood
can’t find a stagnant thing to enjoy
doesn’t want such complication
is unsure about…
this and that consequence
that and this pretense

more from And Her Name Was Morphine

more readings

home

by

by

Steve Garland reads the works of Ricki Shiers

10 A.M. and My Ribs Hurt
my ribs hurt again today and the air seems stagnant
but that’s fine, I can breathe vicariously through anyone
I’m like that leach on your skin, just try pulling me off
you taste fine and I need to fatten my ribcage
and hearts are caged in that ribcage,
only being able to reach through those bars
but not completely escaping and holding anyone
but his arms are starting to grow, and maybe,
just maybe, his fists are enough to break out
or maybe his fists are enough to break out
or maybe she has a key and it might fit
a lot of women have used keys but not one
has ever fit the square, lacquered lock properly
and it did,
all the tumblers finally clicked, and the heart,
as dark as he is, is finally breathing
and feeling something towards someone,
and after so long, he is very voracious

more from And Her Name Was Morphine

more readings

home

by

by