UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY

JAMES H. DUNCAN

ANOTHER OP GOES DOWN

beyond the falls, it waits
her body, riddled

they値l find the car first
they値l find the gun next
they値l find me standing
at the pier, wondering how
it all went so wrong

no one said this would be easy
no one said it would be this hard

and my name on the door
won稚 be there come Sunday


A WALK TO THE RIVER AT NIGHT

the shins burn and the bottles bark
all along the alleyway like rabid
mutts as the wind howls through
glass-rimmed jaws, catatonic

a yellow caution light glowers from
the intersection, from every corner
now that the hours slip from late
to early, and the police are all home
in bed dreaming of murder and soup

nobody walks along the woods now
the trees have all grown up among
the headstones behind the church
and the woods are overtaking the
rectory, swallowing the dead whole;
no one will think to walk there now

in fact, no one thinks to stop either
様ittle whispers ebb from graves
様ittle ghosts live in moss, and
the gravel between the RR tracks
grumbles humble through the
thistledown spirit of the night

this much is known by the moon:
the infancy of defeat is gone
and death is a long march away
but a wine bottle with a note inside
might do just enough good to work


James H Duncan is a tramp, a gentleman, a poet, a dreamer, a lonely fellow, always hopeful of romance and adventure. The editor of Hobo Camp Review, James considers himself a student of the road, where you値l find him in late-night diners, local dive bars, and wandering train station platforms minding his own business. Twice nominated for the 釘est of the Net Anthology, his work has found homes in Apt, Red Fez, Reed Magazine, Slipstream, Poetry Salzburg Review, and The Battered Suitcase, among many others.

More at http://jameshduncan.blogspot.com







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