New Book! Presales end 9-27
Folks, I love being a part of this community! My book, “In The Throes Of Beauty” is available for preorder at the following link. I’d love it if you’d preorder a copy so I get credit for the sale. Only 17 days left on my preorders which end on 9-27. If any of my Prose family are interested, please preorder before the deadline. Books ship the week of 11-22.
https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/in-the-throes-of-beauty-by-kevin-d-lemaster/
Where Do We Go From Here
-after Alan Parson’s Project
death is a jogging track
a loop into nothingness
God in a track suit
setting pace, those that can’t
keep up aren’t fit
to enter the fabled gates
disposed like used gloves
hand sanitized and washed
with no regard to what comes
after
the genderless fog kisses my lips
like a mother, soft and giving
never leaning into the moment
but bidding us toward
whatever is beyond that slight veil
of a tomorrow we never
counted on or counted out,
it was just there
and we are bleating like sheep
to follow a slaughtered lamb
checking his Fitbit for steps
New Book! Presales end 9-27.
Folks, I love being a part of this community! My book, “In The Throes Of Beauty” is available for preorder at the following link. I’d love it if you’d preorder a copy so I get credit for the sale. Only 17 days left on my preorders which end on 9-27. If any of my Prose family are interested, please preorder before the deadline. Books ship the week of 11-22.
https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/in-the-throes-of-beauty-by-kevin-d-lemaster/
My Book
Folks, I love being a part of this community! My book, “In The Throes Of Beauty” is available for preorder at the following link. I’d love it if you’d preorder a copy so I get credit for the sale. Preorders end on 9-27. The link below will take you there. Thank you so much my Prose family!
https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/in-the-throes-of-beauty-by-kevin-d-lemaster/
The world around us is on fire and here I am just writing this poem
God is a flamethrower
I am his match
glistening with the sticky
leftovers of the melted
burn of all our liberties
out of control
the bright orange flame
of ignorance still burns
the same flame we as kids
warmed our hands to
banging the same drum
as everyone else until
that year when followers
drank the Koolaid because
sheep do what they‘re told
because sheep don’t move
when their necks are being
slit open
Past The Point Of REM Sleep, I Dream Of Sex
we finish in the cloudy
haze of dream, sometimes
i’m both the witness
and the participant.
left alone afterward like
an orphan in a movie,
dirty and naked left to my
own devices,
never finding clothes,
always in a busy
intersection, collecting
bodies as I move forward
through traffic.
strolling down white-lit paths
thinking the hereafter
would not approve,
however long
suffering those saints seem,
they would not let me in
without a robe to cover
what is, undoubtedly, my finest
feature.
What It Means When We’re No Longer Lovers
I asked if you made it safely
but I knew you wouldn’t
care if I were drowning
in death’s blue sea
crashing against sharp rock
wave after wave going
down on me like you
used to
making you jealous
though you wouldn’t
ever admit that you
missed me
spring gave way
to summer
and we were held
in the arms of our own
trepidation tight
releasing everything
breath allows
Man In The Window
his shoulders hold him
fast to that broken sill
four stories high
his tomorrows shadow
the shapes of men passed
before, their hands
gnarled by heavy hammers
nails that bind and pull
hard wood together
climbing atop scaffolding
like we would rope swing
into the cool lake
our backs to the world
only directing our eyes
ahead
now the leaves fall in piles
and the man knows
he can count the years
he has left on both hands
and his shoulders remain
the heaviest part of him
his dreams still light
as air
Colonoscopy
overaged men sit in waiting rooms
swapping stories about what
youth felt like.
cars with big engines and girls
with big hair become hood
ornaments, eye candy,
the woman in the corner says
her son was in a bad place
the day, at sixteen, when he pulled
an empty weapon on his father
and how the other son is a drug
addict but is working on it.
when we were young,
30 was old and we laughed
at people with bad backs and
swollen prostates dribbling their
way to the next doctor's appointment,
only to be told that things will fail
inevitably. the scope of middle age
crawls up your ass to take pictures
of everything
and you wonder if it will spy where your youth has gone, as you sit
in a hospital gown, gaped open
at the front.
Appalachian Flowers
when industry blossomed
the smoke billowed
from every smokestack.
Workers with black hands
carried their hearts in steel
pails; a half eaten bologna
sandwich cut thick, banana
peel for the compost
and an empty moon pie
wrapper graced the inside.
they come home to their wives
who yell at them to wipe
their boots at the door, kiss
them on the cheek and warn
against touching anything.
warm smells and piping coffee
await their non-discerning
palates as they pray
to God above to bless the meal,
just to wash up, eat, go to bed
early to do it again
the next day, until words are read
about the good man with lungs
full of soot
laid to rest with the stacks
of rubble that used to prosper
on the backs of men,
like the Kentucky homestead
at dusk when the wind rakes the leaves
with such fervency you’d swear
someone used to live here.