Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Featured Poet: Gene Wagendorf III

"Gene Wagendorf III is student and grifter from Chicago. He loves the beach, but hates water. On a good day his work smells like bowling alleys and sounds like old typewriters. When he's not writing he spends his time complaining about the city-wide smoking ban, working with Write For A Change, and trying to find poker games full of flounders. His work has appeared in issues of Kill Poet, Word Riot, Vowel Movements, Robot Communism and Verve." Technically, we're all dead "Technically we are all dead this is my own thought! a hail of hell! Saint Dionysius reminds us of flight to unknowable Knowledge the doctrine of initiates completes the meditation!" - Phil Lamantia Born under the liberal western sun A 1927 son of magic and myths Spawned under Pan's gleaming eye Let loose on a world aroused enough To inspire you with a View of Dali And allow a laminated playground for creation A supermarket Adonis toting cucumbers and pears Sneaking snaps of onion in the backrooms Of Blue Collar cathedrals Scribbling looping words on thin trees Mapping out phosphorus kisses Winking feedback soaked sockets Conjuring up surreal whipped portraits Of existence and the nuts and bolts of the world You boarded the most challenging platforms in search Of a new perspective for thought Another angle at which to consider the business Of human life Muddled by the tension between earth’s aches and The simple and elegant beauty of private moments Your words soared across sand-speckled pomegranate skies And creaking saline floors where ancient secrets Manifested into hallucinogenic dreams of children As of yet unbaptized by the terrors of absurdity Never a spoken word caught in its own meat saying nothing You both pulverized and delicately wielded The velvet lips of time And rubbed the innocent belly of the universe With the affection of a mother wondering where her child will go in the world And the universe wondered back And your travels have been crimson dyed in the burning gas giants of heaven And you've left us with a silent legacy of inspection And an unmasking of societal insanity And the overwhelming joy of floating in no current What I hope you find now is a cloud to sit on Some honorable place in the afterlife with a telescope to watch When five years from now a kid discovers you Creeping in some narcotic night Sneaking glances from behind melting monuments of lust And separation Finds himself glued to the pages you dropped along your path Eating every peyote syllable Digesting and sizzling from every pore of his body Without the background required to miss you When the kid yammers about meeting you And reads your poems to his friends in a forest at midnight Burning the tips of his fingers with matches to see Every spot of ink on the page Hissing and crackling like holy fireworks Splashing bliss before the open curtains Of his eyes Another voluntary synesthesia The head shaking youth bubbling glow Of the eternal life of language pouring out of someone new And how you've captured them And how you project through every questioning body To pick up a copy of Sphinxes In this I think you'll beat what was meant a compliment The day they hailed you as "a voice that rises once in a hundred years" Because every time a kid doesn't know you don't exist But you do And the slippery English thaws into his brain Or tumbles out of his clumsy mouth Your voice volcanoes up And bridges the gap Between the dual personalities of the world you struggled to paste together And the generations lost inside it ... anything is not right so layitonme i'm elliptical moonshine light glowing before you stop what? yr doing b r e a t h e cancel remarks, abstain- bad sex bad sex bad sex sexsexsex boom... tinker with machines long enough and they'll blow quack and cover puritan bombs exploding bemoaning belittling bewitching just bitching the fire is going out and with it the (inner)light i cannot wield this pen(is) without comparison to dead language dead men dead laws dead ideology putting a hand over my mouth and a bleep in my speach my dotdotdots lay stagnant as i watch a zombie christ parade down michigan avenue and nobody says anything (worth saying) i've given up rather be in bed late nights planning out later breakfasts a she and a mattress making a sandwich of me all ham&cheese and saving some for the poor youknowthere'
schildrenstarvinginchina? in hell (just down the street) ink can't scratch out spoken word and i've no podium if ignorance is bliss than instant gratification is patriotism so just jot me down for another dotdotdot and don't tell me twice because i've heard it all before Dorothy yr grim face in mosaics like a stalking tiger watching me teeth gnarled and anxious yr eyes sizzling discontent wincing in pain, brows furrowed cringing at being as if there's no place like home noplacelikehome noplacelikehome noplacelikehome