Mike Zone is the Editor in Chief of Dumpster Fire Press, the author of Shedding Dark Places (almost), One Hell of a Muse, A Farewell to Big Ideas and Void Beneath the Skin, as well as coauthor of The Grind. frequent contributor to Alien Buddha Press and Mad Swirl. His work has been featured in: Horror Sleaze Trash, Better Than Starbucks, Piker Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Synchronized Chaos, Outlaw Poetry and Cult Culture magazine.
The long hot summer careens by through a furious breeze whipping up the sands of time reflections and ravages crash test dummy drivers and passengers slamming into walls falling off cliffs into stagnant infernos five years it takes to fully accept the death of the woman who bore you let’s trade that acceptance for the death of pending offspring and forsaken love oh, wait my best friend just bludgeoned a five-year-old girl to death with a hairbrush it’s not Hitchcock but it’s real years before he stopped me from putting a noose around my neck laughed as I showed him the nail and showcased a stretched-out rope what? did I just switch this narrative? past tense? present tense? future tense? first person? second person? how about just tense? my mind is a bullet train speeding through the force of it all letting discarded realms of time’s past burn that sand is ash it blows away into the negation of wasteland blues I’ve learned to move in a desolate harmonious eternity that maybe more copper than gold at moment
Homebound: (After Dylan…maybe)
There’s a serpent in the garden a shaman in the grass here’s a lizard on a rusted hood drying out in the sun I’m soaked in the rain nothing biblical in my shoes- flood cleansing nor sea parting but there’s bitter salt in psychic wounds with a psychedelic trip to be had and if you’re in the valley of the never there’s a place of forgotten ways where cheesecake molds and black dahlia after-effects no longer make up the atoms of love and grit so what did the joker say to the thief? No one really knows… there’s just a slew of guys calling themselves the messiah trying to get land back that never belonged to anyone in the first place land is land and Bob well, Dylan ain’t no second ‘cause no one ever really came first
Maybe, I’ll slip razorblades underneath my skin dig them out after a bit of healing with a webcam on beforehand live broadcast is this poetry? I’ll ask is it?