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UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
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JAMES H. DUNCAN ANOTHER OP GOES DOWN beyond the falls, it waits her body, riddled they’ll find the car first they’ll find the gun next they’ll 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’t 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 —little whispers ebb from graves —little 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’ll find him in late-night diners, local dive bars, and wandering train station platforms minding his own business. Twice nominated for the “Best 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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© 2004-2011 Underground Voices |
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