Poetry

Recreating the President’s Brain from Zapruder’s Home Movie by Philip Quinn

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Recreating the President’s Brain

from Zapruder’s Home Movie

 

by

 

Philip Quinn

 

jfk-zapruder-film-still-feat
 

from Love’s field,

                       all roads lead to complete synaptic breakdown
 
at Main and Houston, sharp 90 degree turn for the worse

             one block north along Houston to Elm Street

 

the cheering crowds
traces of love, traces of American actor fallout
Hiroshima, “Ask not…”
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Mary — a film by Yarre Stooker

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Mary

a film by

Yarre Stooker

 
 

 
 

“Eddie Woods writes poetry the way he lives life, intensely. Experience informs his art, and vice versa. Passion, raw edges, nothing left out. Sex, love, politics…coupled with an unrelenting drive towards awareness, the need to understand what universal reality is all about. His poem “Mary” enters the listener’s ears like a wordbomb, exploding inside the mind, and reverberates down the spine like electroshocks from the brain’s pleasure centre.”

— Mark McCawley (from Mary by Eddie Woods, Urban Graffiti, March 8, 2012)

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Four Poems by Hal Sirowitz

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Four Poems

 

by Hal Sirowitz

 

JFK

 

The day President John F. Kennedy was shot, I was at Junior High School, sitting behind the girl I had a crush on. We heard the tapping of the loudspeaker, a signal that there was going to be an announcement. Then, the principal informed us the President was being taken to the emergency room in a hospital in Dallas. A few minutes later, the principal returned to tell us that Kennedy was pronounced dead, and we now had a new President of our country. He told us school was being cancelled, and we should go home to watch further results on television. For the first time in my life I felt I was a part of history. The Cuban Missile Crisis didn’t really count, because school wasn’t terminated. Mother didn’t want to watch it on television, because she got squeamish seeing all the blood. She said the blood-stains would be hard to remove from Jacqueline Kennedy’s clothes. She called up my father to tell him the news. His secretary said he was at a meeting. Mother said she wanted to talk to him anyway. The secretary got my father on the phone. He was annoyed at being interrupted. My mother told him the news. He said he would try to get home earlier than usual. But he had to fight traffic. She said he was lucky, he didn’t have to fight death, like the President.
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Poem by Jose Padua

Posted on by josepadua Posted in Art, Daily, Jose Padua, Photography, Poetry, Writing | 2 Comments

Poem

 

by Jose Padua

 

RehobothKohrCone_UG

POEM

Although I support
my sisters all over
the world in their
struggle for equality
and quest for empow-
erment, I must confess
that from time to time
when I say the word
“titties” it is not one
of my Tourette’s tics
but simply me, thinking
about breasts the way
a six year old thinks
about ice cream. Sorry.

-Jose Padua
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In Homage to My Ancestors and Their Dirt by Jose Padua

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In Homage to My Ancestors and Their Dirt

 

by Jose Padua

 

Ancestors_30per

In Homage to My Ancestors and Their Dirt

Because everyone else writes like
the past was one long fucking fairy
tale let me say that my ancestors
passed a lot of gas. If we saw them
at our door today we would stand up
for their rights but we would not let
them in the front door. Sorry, but that
ever present fart smell precludes their
entry. I love them and I respect them,
but I have enough difficulty breathing
as it is. They also don’t know when to
look away from you. For some reason
continuous eye contact was the norm
for them: what we now find unnerving
was for them a sign of respect, a sign
that they realized the influence of the
past upon the present and future is like
a trail of dust that bends through wind
and sky to meet us around the corner by
the cupcake shop. And daylight back
then wasn’t always shrouded in fog
or mist, and we didn’t all live near
the water, and if they could talk the
way we talk now they would, and they
would ask, as they look at the world
and what we’ve done with it, “What
the hell is all this shit, motherfucker?”
And, “You realize that while you’re
busy staring at that little black box
I could easily bash your head in.
Then I could eat your brains, and
thus gain possession of your power,
your knowledge, and your soul. Not
to mention that ugly blue box you call
a mini-van.” Ah, but if they don’t kill us
how we will drink, how we will feast,
how we will honor the past together
with each swallow of roasted pig,
pave the road to the future as we wet
our lips with room temperature whiskey.
Ah, how the days will go by, and how
the clouds will fly like white birds, and
turn to rain and turn to snow to cover us.

-Jose Padua

 

José PaduaJosé Padua’s poetry and fiction have appeared in Bomb, Salon.com, Exquisite Corpse, Another Chicago Magazine, Unbearables, Crimes of the Beats, Up is Up, but So Is Down: New York’s Downtown Literary Scene, 1974-1992, and many other journals and anthologies. He has also written features and reviews for NYPress, Washington City Paper, the Brooklyn Rail and the New York Times. He has read his work at the Lollapalooza Festival, CBGBs, the Knitting Factory, the Black Cat Club, the Public Theater, the Washington Project for the Arts, and many other venues. José also blogs at Shenandoah Breakdown with his life partner, poet Heather Davis, and at the blog, Kings of the Road, and for Salon.com. José Padua’s most recent collection of poetry is a chapbook, The Complete Failure of Everything (2008: The Apathy Press Poets, Baltimore).

Photograph by Jose Padua. Jose Padua is co-author of the blog Shenandoah Breakdown.