Carcinogenic Poety : Top Ten No. 7


Thick, white breath-fumes
creep slowly over a cold table –
a thin arm stretching
into the steady suction of crisp air
nears a warm mouth,

displacement like a long argument
overheard between thin city walls –

and the tense adrenaline extensions
of an unknown anger,
accelerates and decelerates
along uneven spaces,

the syllabic blur of black faces
in the vacuum of imagination
around passionate bodies,

permeates like that old frozen breath,
dissolving into the widening pools of memory,
dissolving into the widening masquerade of words.

So Much Ash to be Blessed

Sick bodies in a long, orderly
line before a single closed door –

the declining dignity of faces
overcome by the elongating shadows,
the flow of sunlight into evening –

heads rocking to the intermittent
music of low moans and staccato coughs –

There in the silence of distance
too far for the steady hum
of weak voices in whispers,

it is clear their bodies are shrinking
in the decay of gravity and time,
and the heartbreak of charity
from a cold building that doesn’t open –

The line of bodies persistent and endless
ashes over layers of ashes –
the needed blessing,
and no words but my regret.


Bright sun-meadow sky,
the reversal of gravity in warm flows,

and a vertical body travelling the deceptive
horizontal passages of atmosphere,
held there between buildings, cupped
like breath over numb-frozen hands –

the unknown handshake of old memories,
when the historian’s today is discarded
and his obsession with the shallow
footprints of old paths renews –

like the author rewriting the same story new
and marveling at the coincidental, replicating
flow of life –

that retouched
blue sky of morning
and the long clouds of fading dust.

The Memory of a Hand

Flowing bodies line the thin parallels,

the gray-scarred sky shadow
is a cool gloom of imperfection

and the escape-fear of being witnessed
deflects our slow steps away from
this looming shade of failure –

this hue slightly reminiscent of memory
like its tepid wind that marks the cheek
slightly cooler than the memory of a hand,

the comforting cradle of a warm mother
leaving that last touch of darkness

as the reality of our eyes
ended in that swift, smiling fade
of eternal contentment.

Jeffrey Parker currently lives in the San Francisco Bay area. One of his poems will be published in the Fall 2011 issue of The Midwest Quarterly, and his first volume of poetry, Downturns, is currently in search of a publisher.

Carcinogenic Poetry: Top Ten crystallizes the journal between 2009 and 2015, sharing the most read posts to date. Presented from final poem to the top of the set, Jeffrey’s poems were published on Saturday, January 29, 2011, and was the fourth most read post at Carcinogenic Poetry.

Carcinogenic Poetry: Top Ten No. 6

The Slant Of Seasons

I. Strange Dandelions

While all of Rome burned
Caesar was heard to yearn–
“I’ve come to terms with my germs!”
Nice Jewish boy from The Bronx
grew up on top Masada, going
out with all the bad girls with
the Borderline Disorder, while
as a child acted-out and couldn’t
make sense, or deal with any
of the drama, nor take it on
himself to throw out his beloved
snake which he stashed in his room
for a year straight in the corner.
His mother and sister didn’t
seem to mind much either.
I guess they just got used
to this bizarre behavior, or
maybe they were all in denial
if that’s at all possible (One
might even say he had a whole
mess of guilt and anger, a hope-
less romantic, or symbolically
his soul had recoiled just
like this sad reptile) Things
really didn’t change much
when he got older, spending
his formative years in detention
hall, terrorizing his teachers
pushing the buttons of his
betrothed, begging to be
absolved (He would get
bar-mitzvahed and make
out well, get married,
make-out and have a kid,
have a briss out in Bing-
hamton with bagels and a
babka, have a mid-life crisis
and flirt with all the high school
girls in the Home and Garden
department, deny this and tell
his wife they were looking at
him first and she would snap–
“No they weren’t!” A self-made
something, who got into publishing
somewhere around The Flatiron Building
with the best sushi bars and souvlaki in
the city. Only once did he find the need
to improve his status and test out the free
market and moved from Simon & Shuster
to Backer & Spielvogal and shuffle like a
soldier, discarding the murder and rape
and sports section and scandal into the
rush-hour receptacle to recycle, then the ritual
of a highball of scotch & soda with all the other
wasted wheeler and dealers, passive-aggressively
snapping their papers, a self-absorbed
New York tradition, taking the train from
Grand Central to the suburbs to pay off
their mortgages. Later on, when he got
much older, becoming something of
a consultant, probably around his early-
seventies, he would only go in a couple
days a week, taking the 11:17 or 11:46
depending on how he was feeling, no
longer carrying a briefcase, but rather
a valise, as he could not break with
the daily ritual and routine and would
hobble in nobly in his mothball-reeking
houndstooth, bent over, bowlegged, silver-haired
into air-pressured doors to meet his destiny.
He still had the same old hobbies and loved
to make eyes at all the pretty young ladies
who he idealistically viewed as priceless
pearls in a deep dark sea, and couldn’t
see the harm at all in simply looking
as this he knew was as far as he
would ever stray, never cheated
or betrayed, nor was unfaithful and
would even stop to wonder if intrinsically
and empirically this really had anything
at all to do with ethics or morals, as this
was as surreal and natural as the streets
and trees and buildings and homes that
were casually and mutely passing right
in front of his window, taking catnaps
like a tired old dog, always awoken,
startled and stunned, by the muffled
catcall of the conductors, then all of
a sudden, stumbling onto the platform)
He would eventually write a heartfelt
letter to his behaviorist thanking him
for all the good work he had done, the
sacrifices and patience and humbly admit–
“I’ve come to terms with my germs”
Back to the origins of fatherhood
dog sleeps in the same old corner
blind with asthma and the aroma
of red wine and fried chicken
leftover in the kitchen…
(Hearts warmed by the scents
of red wine and fried chicken…
Who’s heart would not be warmed
by red wine & chicken?) soothed
by the sound of the dishwasher’s
silence slipping off into the distance
before the stripped child would
defiantly stand in his crib
naked like a proud colonel
with his hand on hip posing
after a brutal and bloody battle
Father regresses, baby’s mind takes over–
“I’ve come to terms with my germs”
Mommy reads an article on
what to do when you travel

II. Intermission: The Spirit

Music keeps you going
most especially
rock ‘n roll
Europe ’72
by The Grateful Dead
borrowed from my
sister’s boyfriend
in the Summer
and never returned.
Crumb did the cover
which is still a little
faded and coffee-
stained and smells
like wine and weed
and man when I hear
the wild wispy guitar
solo to “China
Cat Sunflower”
flowing out of
nowhere like
a river to
a rainbow
into “I Know
You Rider”
bopping and
skatting towards
some lovely delicate
freight train Nirvana
cross between
Country and
Blues and
Jazz and
the brilliant and
keen Kerouacian
influenced lyrics
and Jerry Garcia’s
sweet and somber
voice chiming in
gets me high
all over again
makes me want to
break down and cry
part from sadness
part from happiness
(Even if I shut
my eyes feels
like I can
get high
after meeting
that fine sweet
southern belle from
some Catholic School
getting nice off Hurricanes
in the warm dripping sweltering
courtyard at night at Pat O’briens
in The French Quarter of New Orleans
then in the moment suddenly deciding
to just take off and race under the stars
to Biloxi to skinny dip in The Gulf
of Mexico innocently kissing
making out then climbing
back in to head reflective
pensive through the warm
drowsy deep southern
wind with a bleary-eyed
sun rising over the dripping
skyline of the dew dappled
Big Easy) From what I
remember my sister and
boyfriend had a pretty
bad breakup and treated
him like he never even
existed and everything
all of it the relationship
and plans and promises
and record exactly how
he left it–Oy vey!
Gimme a break!
“The sun will shine
in my back door
some day…
Steal your face
right off your head”

III. The Old Garden
“Hey baby, what is that
radio station, I love it!”
“It’s easy listening”
O no, I’ve become
my father which
really’s not that
bad at all who
was like some
dentist with
Post Trau-
matic Stress
(which he
claimed most
of them were)
who used to
in the dark
of morning
like some
phantom or ghost
and always return
home to the groan
of garage doors
barking dog and
kiss my mother
then like some
coal miner blankly staring
off into the distance hum
all the muzak he had heard from
the day before drained and dazed
as though some nitrous-oxide
had secretly slipped from the tank
not even knowing what the song
was and us being the wise-ass
kids that we were trying to guess–
“Blue Bayou? You Light Up My Life?
Mona Lisa?” and then always with
the same ritual would go on to ask
her when he was done with dinner
the exact same question–”Honey
are my gowns ready for tomorrow?”
“Yes dear…” and then disappear back
up the stairs to stumble in the shower
as all you’d hear resonating through
the household was this weird and wild
cacophonous echo of him clearing
his throat and nose which sounded
like some out of control kid on kazoo
or stampede of some barreling team
of rhino from The Motherland that I
don’t think we ever quite got used to
and still got startled and learned to
accept (my mother always claimed
that she believed he had an extra large
oral cavity of which when we brought
this to his attention a little later
on he simply denied and
silently shook his head.
This seemed to me like
the perfect metaphor
for marriage) then
the insane vibrato of the water-
pic which shook the walls taking
care of more bills the ten o’clock
news back into the car in the dark
of dawn to his practice way out in
Whitestone to hear all about traffic
or as he put it bum-pa-da-bum-pa
The Hostage Crisis going into its 66th
67th trimester of blindfolded captives
endless gas lines garbage and grave-
diggers strike of America suffering
from a mild form of depression–”If
you give us 22 minutes we’ll
give you the world…”
and would listen to
this over and over
and over again
until he knew
more about
the world
than any-
one would
ever care
to know
3 times
over and
throw on his
sky-blue gown
or crime-fighting
uniform snap on his
goggles and head with
the drill towards Mrs. Diffazio

IV. Denouement

It came as no surprise
to us how much later on
in life he fell so madly in love
with the enduring transcendent
beauty of trees as they seemed
to provide in him a certain amount
of comfort and certainty while similarly
think we share so many of the same
beliefs for when it starts pouring
I too feel a similar sense
of respite and relief
dreaming of cherry
blossom blooming
up and down
my driveway.

Joseph Reich is a social worker from Massachusetts. He has a wife and handsome little son with a nice mop of dirty-blonde hair, and when they all get a bit older, he hopes to take them back to play, to pray, to contemplate in the parks and playgrounds of New York City.

Carcinogenic Poetry: Top Ten crystallizes the journal between 2009 and 2015, sharing the most read posts to date. Presented from final poem to the top of the set, Joseph’s poem was published on Monday, February 22, 2010, and was the fifth most read post at Carcinogenic Poetry.

Carcinogenic Poetry: Top Ten No. 5

Bone Armor


as a virtuous but mislead
philanthropist fallen angel
and victim of Lucifer’s
beguiling touch
I’ve become well
aware, in fact
wary indeed,
those words that present
my demise—
those foul flicks of the
tongue of dread
that seem to proliferate
death itself.
Yet this distinction—
of life and death
and the infinite
shape of cycling
the scent of time
and the feel
of partiality—
remains the one
original fallacy.
For shame
and the guilt of
remembering forgotten things
I spew my own
mistaken army
these legions of word
upon this page
as my final defense
my bone armor…
and forgetfulness in itself
the only true brother
of glory
all my own.
Still in the light of
beginningless dawn
my bone armor—
waxing molten flaw—
becomes the only suitable
No metaphors can forever
contain the Blacksmith
who set his crown upon
a king, forgot his anvil
he who does not pretend to lead
but never follows.
No asylum
self portrait
smeared in bile
and amniotic fluids
no inken masterpiece
can express this masterpiece
for something so essential
expressed in essenceless paint
or words becomes charcoal
but a twisted and drugged
memory of a chained
who beats each
wife with a
new decrepit fist
and withers
forever untraceable
half hearted flailing
sinking into its own
bottomless witches’ well.
Exactly the same as
the sleaze-hipped
slumping opium glaze
of a Chiang Mai
prostitute resigned
outside the palace gates.

One so beaten
with feverish nightmare
deserves the soft kiss
of gentle awakening
But one such as I
the original
drunken elephant
requires the swift
accomplishment of
the dagger
the bludgeoning
of crazy wisdom
and the selfless feast
at the banquet
where newly confident
slave lies upon a
blood soaked silver plate
offering to the guest
a host of demons
and the king of dread
himself—our own beloved
wearing a fang necklace
and a bone fashioned
breast plate

Born in Hawaii, but living at a Buddhist center in the Santa Cruz mountains, La’akea Smith enjoys meditating, surfing, reading, lounging and contemplating in the beautiful red woods.

Carcinogenic Poetry: Top Ten crystallizes the journal between 2009 and 2015, sharing the most read posts to date. Presented from final poem to the top of the set, La’akea’s poem was published on Thursday, December 31, 2009, and was the sixth most read post at Carcinogenic Poetry.