ron androla

 

fake

i tell my son
19 now
how bart & i
were all drunk
on the phone one
night about twenty
years ago & he
suggested
he'd send out news of my
death
busting out laughing i
agree
& the rest is history
between a few
of us

i tell doug
his mother was
pissed
when money
for the widow
came in letters
from all these
weird poets

doug laughs
his big-grin
laugh

it wasn't
funny
sober, i explain

 

thank you ann

sweet black french-roast
freshly-ground coffee
double-size coffee-cup of it
hot & a perfect
thing
as cold wind blows
outside, windows rattle,
half-dry leaves swish in
autumn trees
a train-whistle burps
long echoes
a dog is barking
cars sound like a
version of the wind
up & down raspberry
street this morning
rain is coming
during daylight
we've kissed
a good number
of times so far
i bring you a cold glass
of brita water
cover you on the couch
when you must
be prone for a little
while
don't think i haven't
done google seaches
for moon-rocks

 

i'm ending this

it's been near 4 hours
i've been writing &
posting this morning
which is now noon-time
3 mugs of coffee
a thousand cigarettes
probably half a
dozen kisses with
ann who is typing
in the next room
at a frantic pace
sounds like twenty
fingers tho she just
uses two
uh-oh, silence,
a loud growling engine
she coughs twice
tapping again on
& on
i'm ending this
saturday morning
meditation in
poetry
land
i know ann will
grow too tired
of writing soon
too

we'll eat lunch
in the livingroom
watch tv

after that,
well,
we might

start
up
again

or
go
prone

 

Notify me when I get a reply to my message:

above the subject box
in this bottom of the page
composing zone
default is dotted No
i never tried the Yes
most pressure press
board readers are
addicts
daily checking
posting
lurking
reading
writing
responding
i think it's ok
to scrap that option
bill
won't ya
marry me bill
bill of wine
surreal bill
collage
photographer
genius
santa clause
hair &
beard
& belly
buddha bill
serendipity
is a powerful
energy

 

singing into an internet microphone

i'd be a very strange man
if i was not a poet
if i wasn't always a poet
if volumes of poems haven't
accumulated over decades
& this was my first stab at verse
let yr tongue's eyes open
inside yr dark, wet mouth
of a mind
head to head
magic right
thru the
air
finger-bones
tap the bongo
of yr skull
strange smoke
mystifies the sky
kill the sun
swallow the moon

sweep stars into yr pockets
into yr mouth like mounds
of diamonds

or turds

i'm sitting up straight
i'm forgiving my trespasses

thousands of daily mis-
takes

i'm a poet
& i create power

exactly
like a madman

 

monsters

poets
mutate
wear spider-man masks
mumble in a toothless
lipless way
brimming with drugs
& drink
alone with a keyboard
poets
consecrate
paradox
deliver images
from thin air
piss
moan
big dinosaur
tail
out asshole
like a bride's
train
mud mucks
keyboards
fanged fingers
drip
thru
you

 

courtney love

shut the fuck up
courtney
call a dealer
shoot-up
in the cellar
& nod
away
i'll slap you
awake later
this afternoon
help you up
cellar-steps
shove yr rubbery
body out the back-door
lock it
let you bang a while
crying & cursing
us
then you'll
stumble & weave
thru rainy erie streets
totally lost
someone or something
will save you

 


chironspring2005
inside CHIRON REVIEW
publisher michael hathaway
basinski reviews
you know how it goes - by ron androla
art by filipski
order author direct
2407 raspberry st, erie, PA 43920

fingerprintpress - co-editor Rank Stranger Press
read basinski review


for more androla vsit:
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     ron androla lives in erie, pennsylvania. he works steady 3rd shift in a factory as a custom molding press operator. he's been writing for 30-some years. maybe he's an alien.

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