Tuesday, February 11, 2014


Gordon Hilgers
Gordon Hilgers tends to write unpublishable poetry that has not been approved by the Invisible Empire of the MFA.  He has been published via samizdat, little sheets of paper passed from hand to hand that do not necessarily resemble bar napkins with the telephone numbers of hot waitresses embossed with a black kiss from a Gothic bartender, but that would be just fine.  Published in Deathlist 5, Hilgers has not yet been caught by Lucy Liu but would enjoy that immensely.  Also published a poem about real estate for Red Fez, mainly because of its exceptionally simplistic delineation, and has also been published in many zines, his favorite being a story of the lead investigator for the O.J. Simpson murder case, Mark Fuhrman, dying and going to Heaven, only to discover Heaven is an eternal S & M parlor.  Crazed like a broken cup by definition, Hilgers leads a reckless but drearily vague existence somewhere in the inner recesses of the city that killed a president: Dallas. 


Who broke-off the bridge before eating his vegetables?
If you can get that blow-up doll to give a yell,
you should get hired, but no naps in the conference
room.  Press on, Eduardo of the North, the Aurora
Borealis, scream of nature under orange skies, is not
so boring.  Think of Jimi Hendrix, tearing it down, Hawaii,
July 30, 1971, not in the Haleakala Crater in East
Maui, but in a horse pasture, Cry of Love tour, mostly
culled-out of the Chuck Wein movie, the band, Gypsy Sun
and Rainbows, jamming roar into “Hear My Train
Coming”, left as background Muzak to montage shots
with spiritual affectations. 

Woken by a flashing dream archetype at 5:32 a.m.,
bridge holler panned from high above, here in the future
black bedroom here in Stepping Stone, some angel
had chewed the rainbow ragged, thinking possibilities
of more candy, the river below patently two dimensional
gray:  Good
God it is morning in New Jersey’s Fort Lee spectacle,
Governor Chris Christie’s sagging backside running behind
in believing plastic traffic cones, metallic traffic morphs
willfully golden arches, George Washington Bridge bottled
like marmalade to make way for the Hudson Light vacancy proper
green tea as a one-billion dollar office project’s trim atrium,
access roads arc-welded at the spot Washington took
Manhattan, only to become the movieland home turf
of fabled silent film cliffhangers, the old black piano
tinkling background. 

“Wanna buy some real estate?”  Now scream, Munch, vapidly
polluted river crossing gray as stratus clouds above you.  Try
taking the ferry to Tribeca art openings.  In Hell. 

No comments:

Post a Comment