Ken Taylor

Web site: www.heyclown.com

Artist Statement: I write because poetry is the only way to express fully my experience with the world, so in that sense, I have to. It is something I have always remembered doing.

Publications: MiPOesias, Whale Sound, Eclectica Magazine, The New Guard, Red River Review.

Poem:

blackberries


slack day, but promise
of new want coming
like the pressure of
proximate weather.
she haunts blackberries –
tumescent, heady
with juice and ready
to drop with her touch.
robbing fingers, red
flesh and slippery
in this hidden place
mobbed by cloying thorns.
the wind starts to toss
gathering loose leaves.
gulls cry, joy lessens –
clouds taking the sky.
now is this strange dull
loss and lonesomeness,
gray rushing above.
weary from her toil,
she sighs and wonders:
can love find me here
in a blackberry
ditch with stains of red
juice on my tan boots?
the reply is rain.

we work for the pope
(cento made from Charlie Sheen quotes)

we’re vatican assassins.
everybody has a black
belt and carries a gun.
i can use a blender. i can
use a vacuum cleaner.
the last time i used? what
do you mean? i used my
toaster this morning.

shut up. stop. move
forward. i have a different
constitution. that was the
america i was raised in.
if you are part of my family
i will love you violently.
when i’m fighting a war,
there’s no room for
sensitivity. that’s the code
and we all live by it. my
success rate is 100 percent.
do the math.

dying is for fools. amateurs.
i’ve been a veteran of
the unspeakable. if people
could just read behind
the hieroglyphic. you’ve
been given magic. you’ve
been given gold. look
at these sad trolls. it’s
funny how sheep rhymes
with sheep.

there are parts of me
that are dennis hopper.
(clearly he didn’t bring
gum for everyone.) i am
battle-tested bayonets.
i don’t have burnout in
my gear box. i am special
and i will never be one
of you. where there were
four, there are now three.

i’m not recovering like
some pussy. i can’t make
up hernia. what was she
doing with a shrimp fork
in her purse? rock bottom?
that’s a fishing term. what’s
the cure, medicine? the first
one’s free, the next one goes
in your mouth. if you can
bring me a souvenir from
that moment your father
locked you in the closet,
bring it to me.

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