Seventy-five years ago, on July 22, 1934, John Dillinger was shot to death outside the Biograph Theater in the fashionable Chicago neighborhood of Lincoln Park. If you look on the FBI website today, you’ll find an extensive article about this event, and, predictably, all credit is given to three federal agents: Charles B. Winstead, Clarence O. Hurt, and Herman E. Hollis. The article does mention, however, that none of these men would ever say which one of them actually killed Dillinger—the presumption being that they were all too modest. But the truth is, Charles, Clarence, and Herman knew damn well
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Listen to a podcast of Ryan Michael Commins’ “A Cigarette’s Worth.” Coming home from workI go to the cigarettes I stashed behind a flower-potI’ve been trying to quit Someone’s been taking from the packI light my cigarettePacing back and forth in front of the deliA man is walking towards meBut he turns and sits on a stoop to smoke his ownPacingPacing What are you doing?Did you fuck him? (repeat 6x)Did you kiss him? (repeat 9x)That one’s a yesI know that one’s a yesWhat am I going to do about this? (repeat 2x) Am I an adult yet?Or am I still » Continue reading A Cigarette’s Worth by Ryan Michael Commins… @death bury me, bury me not burn flesh from bone grind bone to dust fling dust to wind let the world carry me aloft better that than some strange, sterile lot bury me, bury me not weak seven days later, the scent of sin sunk under my skin, i sought the cleansing shore where i thought i saw you before the ebb and flow turned tidal and the crash and break gave way to your escape. now i’m quick to let wet sand swallow my feet ankle deep so that greedy sea can’t steal what remains of I Never Wear Dresses, But I’ll Do It For You J. said he’d pay us a quarter each if we’d kiss and let him watch. He wanted us on his lap together. We wore red dresses. It’s important in dreams for the women to match. We took the money and blindfolded him, and he chased us on his knees. We licked gin off his ice cubes,straws sticking the backs of our throats. Now our nails have grown too long to love each other,the parties too tired to be interested in our show. You fed me potpourri like your mother kept I would have slept through the entire transaction.But that was before,when I was merely mortal.Before I saw Sweet Vixen’s honeyed wings.Before I had ever seenthe Lodgepole Pines dancingin the muskeg. It can change a man-to watch the moon caress the earth.No lover’s touch ever gentler.He winked at me and I was smitten,Old Man Moon.Doomed to walk this earth and hear the angels whisper. Something has triggered our migraine again and he needs to hide in the gloom. A cloth over fragile eyes. I am not resting in the shadows because our two-year-old refuses to nap. He is wee, exempt from causing anything beyond a mere tumble of blocks. A weak plea from the bedroom – “The blocks, shush.” “Sweet Montana Sky,” I mutter, “we can’t even play quietly in our own house?” The migraine enters the living room. It hovers darkly without its host, black. Our son hides behind his easel. “Where is my husband?” I demand. With stilettos I step snow fevers saturday overnightlong white accumulationsoftening metropslater sunday morningweightless snow flurriesblurring past memoriesoccasional bard ‘res’ creakingancient timbers settlinggraybeard poetconsciousness risingwaking from deep slumberlike swimmingunder watermoving uptoward the surfacesilent dreamy flashbacks9/11 falling manbig apple smoking towersgoing to hell statementausterliz jewish prisonerdancing on electric wireconcentration camp perimeterwaldheim and glasswaffen “ss” guardsstiff gray uniformsdouble rune ornamentshomeless small childrensearching lost parentsnagaska hiroshima rubbleblack rain fallingswiss ex-pat wifeempty valium bottle bedsidepadlocked hospital roomhearing olga say“you son-of-a-bitch”leaving no doubtlove deadmarriage overlife never getting better springtime memories early morning dawnstaining eastern horizonluminescent shimmerlac la belle tidessolitary anglerworking weedy shallowsquietly stalkingtrophy tiger troutdistant sandhill cranessquawking misty shadowsguarding nestsspring Apathy Like Religion watch me practice apathy like a religionpray to nothing like a godjerk off jesus with my sore handsave the child, fuck the rod you found me. now keep me. you found me. now beat me. I am probably not much of anything under this expensive sweater. take it off. my fingers smell like vomit, and i don’t lubricate with tears. stay with her. blonder. made you babies. I’m counting cars in Columbus. Fucking tired. Of this. I’ll Be Drinking With Puma its harder to puke up my foodwith my fake nailsi have Listen to a podcast of Tova Gardner’s “What he said while kissing her.” What he said while kissing her I like you.Seeing you in water in a bikini,you’re good. Your butt is so nice,I want to grab it,peel you like a banana, your soft yellow skinjust ripe.This is fun,kissing,your mouth is warm.You are greenas spring grass,my feet the first to touchyou, since winterfroze and bended you.I’m thawing you,the last frost heldin your blades. Listen to a podcast of Tova Gardner’s “Psalm between towns.” Psalm between towns Find my spinetongue my ribs, I want you tofingertip my ridge. What does David Wiener wiener ’gainst the wallThrobbing peter playing PaulAll the sutras all the ZenSuited up to go and then Uncle Knuckle said to ThumbNeil and I will knock the drumNice bazookas Katie JennAll the sutras all the Zen Russian poet break the lawReading Headgear Ollan PawKaterina and IvanKissing coming going gone Robin’s egg and autumn skyWhat immortal hand or eyeAutumn sky and hatching sameWhat the hammer what the chain Gott in Himmel Lieder singtImprecise and indistinctIndecisively distressedFlashy orange microdress And now I lay me down to weepI flip the bird my soul to keepPass the psalter Walter MuckWhat’s the matter what |
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