Poetry - Selections from The White Crow v1, i2

(More poetry from Gary Jurechka, John Sweet, Michael Estabrook, and and more available in the print version of The White Crow v.1, i.2, available for $3.00 ppd from Osric Publishing. Why $3.00? There aren't many left, and it has the really interesting graffiti-style spray-painted inner cover, that's why!)


slip silently into the green cushioned chair
and lean coolly on the table
as you light your cancer.

regard your slouched form indifferently
Knowing you can only dream
of viewing me in the same way.

Labyrinth of furnishings
Twisting, climbing, straining jungle
Plethora of yearning souls
I feel your hunger
despite it all

I set my trap
lure you in
with the sway of my hips
a stretch of my back
my arms lingering above my careless yawn
My chest heaves.
Your shudder is within.
Those three strands of hair
caught stubbornly to my drying lips
cause you to self-consciously wet your own.
You appear nonchalant
although cool sweat
is flooding your dark undershirt

All I need to do is throw a glance
A locking gaze is all we need
I know it
You know it
Will either of us admit their desire?
Or will one just turn their eyes
to frigid coffee
and say
THIS is enough for me?

You cannot resist
and consequently your emerald eyes
are mine to devour.
I curve my lips slyly.
You raise a dark eyebrow.
And I think perhaps I've found one,
One who will saunter over
to ask me for my cancer
then stay to ask for more

But I see your fingers trip slowly across the table
towards your frozen cup
and I drop my head
to blush behind shy locks
hiding the pain and disappointment.
No one drinks cold Java seductively.


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Insomnambulent's Ballad for a College Town

(Big big big apologies to Federico García Lorca)

I enter the café,
Half dead.
The philosophies have numbed my mind,
the sleepless nights torture my body,
my soul.

Oh City of Slack!
I crave cappuccino!
Caffeinate my corpuscles,
carry me to comfort,
oh City of Slack!

I empty my pockets,
Half empty.
Copies have stolen my coins,
Books have broken my bank,
my money.

Oh City of Slack!
I require coffee,
to think,
to live,
to breathe.
I require coffee,
oh City of Slack!

But the city does not hear.
I fall asleep on the floor.


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Waltz of the Straw Man

It is time to celebrate
the renaissance of corn and
falcons and rain;
sway like a scarecrow
dancing in September gales,
anchored only by summer thoughts
and seasons of sun and moon,
and when amnesia and wonder
fade the lines and edges, go
sailing into wet colours of the wind
and the freedom of lucid skies.


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us nowhere

tina threatens
to kill herself
every time i threaten
to leave
and i know she won't
and she knows i won't
and this leaves us
which is where we've
been all along


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Published 1994. Crowright 2000 Osric Publishing. Last updated 07.02.2000