Skip to main content

Mark Borczon

Hunting Dinosaurs With A Needle In My Arm

I smoke roses to get high
And I get drunk on sun tea in the morning
I fix my arm tattoos with sharpie markers
And I collect artwork depicting bull fights
My joints ache as a side effect from
Medication for hypertension
My muscles ache as a side effect from
Back breaking, physical toil
I am fifty one years old
And I make twenty seven thousand
Dollars a year

I don’t believe in heaven
I do believe in vodka
I did quite well in college
But I struggle in life
I never, ever confuse
One with the other
I know that youth is privileged
And forgiving
I know that middle age
Is not

I no longer sleep on my mother’s couch
If you do I kindly invite you
To go fuck yourself
Time and endurance earn the right
To judge and so
I judge

If life is pass/ fail
Then everything leans on
Who reads the work
The bankers and the preachers
Grade the test
One way
The poets and the dreamers
Grade the test
Another way

I hunt dinosaurs with a needle
In my arm
And I sit with holocaust survivors
On the city bus
I drink rain water from a wooden
Barrel that held the body
Of a four year old girl
Killed by the Klan

Someday I’m gonna burn my work boots


Mark S. Borczon is a poet and caregiver from Erie, Pa. He will publish his first book of poetry in over twenty years through Nixes Mate press later this year or early next. He is the father of three awesome daughters who teach him love on a daily basis. In his free time he is a talented banjo player and a guitar player who knows how to find all the notes. He is terrified of the internet so this biography is written by his identical twin who loves him and admires his work as only a brother can.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Amy Holman

My mother made herself the deer with a broken leg  We saw a deer through the pane into someone else’s yard. The leg moved like a tube sock pinned to the hip  and half filled with sticks. I did not like to see it suffer, either. She was upset —my mother —that no one helped  the doe. Was it a mother, too? As if we were the first to observe the scene. We weren’t. All had been told to let her be. My mother had suffered a destruction  of the self, a divorce, and no one cared. That wasn’t true.  We were grown, on our own. I agree it was hard. Yet  in those moments of a cold November day, we watched  a doe, disabled and enduring, walk across a yard and eat  a hedge. I wish she could have seen it like that. Amy Holman is the author of the collection, Wrens Fly Through This Opened Window (Somondoco Press, 2010) and four chapbooks, including the prizewinning Wait for Me, I’m Gone (Dream Horse Press, 2005). Recent poems have been in or accepted by Blueline,

Beneath the Chickenshit Mormon Sun by Bruce Embree

I've posted this before, on a depressing day probably just like this one. This poem makes me feel better. That's all I have to say on that. It turned out worse than I thought The champion defended his title then Eldridge Cleaver came on to talk about his reasons for becoming a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints Grandma and I damn near fell out of our chairs Went to town and got crazy drunk Came back home, called you long-distance after cruising and drooling Mainstreet again This is my last wish and love poem It is as follows Want to hold the wake at noon with plenty of acid and rum No friends and relatives Ghost music by Hendrix and the Byrds drowning all sound as you fuck me to dust beneath the chickenshit Mormon sun. Links:  http://www.limberlostpress.com/authors/161embree1.html

Bree

No Mote black swans i almost didnt see but for their glowy beaks red as sumac- they didnt match the dark tones of lake, stuck out like your lust for me while i read to the children all cloistered- who could hear me even from the colonnade, all hickory and hops-vine, where i saw you watch me from inside a white willow tree. mergansers with their heads trailing swam among dead stakes of lotus. that belted kingfisher bode us a good day, and returned the children to their cages below bald cypress knees so naked i had to look away. you willowed no longer, i took leaf to mean wing, and feather to mean ivy. i took a shaded path back to the armory. it got hot and thick and i could breathe more heavily, rapt on high, no mote of hope. Bree is a poet and visual artist living in Pleasureville, KY. Her Green Panda Press has put out hand-made chapbooks, anthologies and sundry of the very small art and poetry press since 2001. In 2015 she began Least Bittern Books out of Henry County, K