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UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
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MALO BASICH Words, Smoke, Wind Back porch, good cigar, glass of dark wine, a mild spring night. I’m filling another notebook page, still flattering myself that these words will matter to someone, someday, somewhere. But more than that, I’m swinging back and forth through the years, my reckless past, the future just a question mark, probably still time for something good, but no real prospects in sight. The jobs, the women, the mistakes I didn’t learn from, or learned too late, all the books I’ve read and then forgotten, the million other notebook pages scrawled upon, then lost or tossed away, Christ, every idiot thing that seemed like such a good idea at the time---- I close the notebook, drain the glass, blow a smoke ring at the darkness. It rises, hangs over my head, waiting for the wind to whisper through the trembling leaves. these days each day goes by like a whale on roller skates---- unbelievable, awkward, sometimes even dangerous, but always worth seeing again wash midnight, midweek, strip mall on the edge of town. an empty laundromat, an empty notebook page---- two hours of useful work, three hours to do it. I separate the whites and colors, remember to put detergent in every washer, even remember the dryer sheets. I wash and dry the spotless clothes, drink a 20-ounce Coke, and write this poem, not a minute wasted. why is it whenever I’m at my best, there’s never anyone around to notice it? Malo Basich, despite his name, is an All-American boy, a product and lifelong resident of the Midwest. He has been a factory worker, accounting clerk, lab technician, used-car salesman, truck driver and pizza guy. After years of reading poetry, from Chaucer to Bukowski, he started trying to write his own last year, and has just recently felt comfortable sending it out. |
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© 2004-2011 Underground Voices |
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