INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Paul B. Roth
Michael H. Brownstein
Engjell I. Berisha
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2015
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
note: in print 1967 - 1980. Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.
As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 47 years all together....
Silver Grey Fox
BUTTERSCOTCH FIRE DEPARTMENT BLUES
(After Otis Taylor)
Major notes twisted
(I downloaded my
to an internet
Santa Cruz tilts & spits—
beagle lurches, its nails
grinding the wooden bed
of a 1956 scratched,
gouged & dented Army
green Ford pick-up
to its waist in what
some call the tar pits
of modern society.
Still, some say we’re dreaming,
as Otis hammers three more
nails into the Crown.
Each parrot, iguana with mascara to die
for, hummingbird by nature, especially
as she releases the satin bow allowing
her robe to unfold its swallowtail wings,
baring her torso that torches asparagus
ferns meant for Blakian love but not so
much for the filthy skein left by politicians
on the tap water that fills our iced teas
with yellow wedges, plus coffee gurgling
at every Starbucks at every rest stop
on every turnpike in every state of our
god forsaken country.
Any minute now things will look up; any
minute now the Supreme Court, 2 quarts
low, will receive a moral overhaul.
Any minute now the bi-polar bird of paradise
will deliver a gold coin, the first doubloon
ever delivered by a bird of paradise & only
coin to elude explorers, hired assassins,
flotilla for the Spanish Crown; anyway,
a coin nudged beneath swirling sands
creating a revolution no one expected,
not even astrophysicists, telescopes vapor
locked, semi-locked, or not so locked on
chunks of rock some larger than imagination,
some smaller than previously thought &
some just about the size of planet earth.
(The more we tolerate, the better
--Wm. Shakespeare Jones
So says he. So says the one nurtured
by early moons when the sun was liquid;
so says my father & yours. Which poses a dialectic
question: I weep horses that one must taste,
touch & smell, so central to God.
So says the reverse of he, & so says the other.
In words that my father & yours never spoke,
imagine a horse, imagine a horse when the moon
was liquid—intelligent vibrations grinding
the nucleus of atoms—dare I say, a midsummer’s
dream, or just the way we like it.
Alan Britt, Reisterstown, Maryland