"Sean Lyman Frasier writes and performs poetry in
recently appeared in the anthology West Memphis Witch Hunt and has
printed several collections with Fat Candiru Press. He was also the
first poet featured in The Horror Writer Magazine. Sean collects
pictures of proboscis monkeys and constantly daydreams of sloppy joes.
He was once a member of a vampire gang and pretends to this day that
he regrets it."
Check this out: vampires, monkeys, sloppy joes, and soaking, abyssal regret. This is a sweet flowery flower of poetry, readers! I apologize for the site delays; one must find a job by inserting their competitive proboscis into the nectary world. That sometimes means the free poetry blog doesn't get the time of day. But love triumphs:
The
Main Street
power lines, replace the asphalt with dust and that's pretty much it.
They built a new wing for the library, expanded it from one room to
two in 1971, but all the other buildings look the same.
Right there, in that patch of dry grass between the library and the
post office, is where Bruce MacDougal and Humphrey Clarke drew pistols
back in the summer of 1908. Only homicide in town history.
There's a clipping from the town bulletin in the library. Mr. Clarke's
obituary. There's also a picture of Mr. Clarke in the town hall at the
end of
strong-jawed, like he never spoke a word in his life. Has a thin nose,
long, like a shark fin. The photograph is so aged the paper where the
eyes once were has crumbled or worn away and all you can see is the
black wood of the frame behind it.
As for MacDougal, you don't get away with killing a mayor. Especially
right in the middle of town. He was hanged next to the woods behind
the Peterson silo. Left a wife behind who used to watch my best friend
when he was young. He said she always sang. Couldn't tell if the songs
were sad or not.
There's nothing in the town bulletin or free press regarding the
reason for the duel. All we know is that they took ten paces, turned,
and fired. Mr. Clarke took the shot in the chest and fell to the
ground and coughed a bit. MacDougal frowned and put the revolver in
his holster. That's all anyone knows.
Only homicide in town history. The actual story is just a whisper now
in that patch of dry grass. They both have graves over on Rice Hill.
Opposite sides of the cemetery. I guess that's the whole story now.
Two cold stones with the dust of old flowers scattered about. An old
photo crumbling on the wall.
Vacant Railroad Tracks in
As day breaks, a doe bends its neck and sniffs an aluminum can
flattened on the rail and gingerly crosses the tracks.
A bearded man stumbles over the rusted metal with a cloud of cheap rum
stink in close pursuit. Black plastic bag slung over his shoulder.
Looks wildly behind at unseen enemies, sees only his cavernous foot
prints.
Snow falls. One inch, then two on the preexisting foot. Train tracks
barely visible. A faint red-brown line of eroding metal hiding in the
snow.
Nothing moves for hours. Snow stops. Wind stops. Birds asleep or
silent. Factory hum from beyond the gray trees lining the tracks.
Camouflaged man with a bright orange thermal mask drags a fawn behind,
limp-necked, eyes moist and unblinking, a thin red trail melting the
snow.
A pale blue butterfly swings low and topples into the snow. Twitches.
Flutters forward and rests. Pushes back into the air and teeters away
on a strong gust.
Sun starts setting. Far off city lights join the darkness. The factory
hum at its unwavering pitch and volume. A constant murmur. The
countryside hangs on every word.
Night. An owl glides, digs its talons at the snow, comes up with nothing.
A light green Chevy pulls up to the tracks. Old model, mismatched
white door on the driver's side. Headlights sharp on the snow. The car
settles on the tracks. The headlights turn off.
A Premature Conclusion
We can talk all day
about who is bombing who
and what skeleton face
should be on the dollar bill
but the real question is
wh
