They Told me a Monster was on the Loose

Sradeja’s got a hot hand.

“There’s blank space in here,” he says,

showing where the white

of the page meets the black of the text.

He’s scribbling, filling up contributor’s copies, god,

I hope he’s sending shit out.

Dan’s putting it all down:

the roving trove of backalley wit, resplendent one-liners,

the panoply of Grover, Matthew & me,

he’s our historian, dutiful & sober. Seeing what we miss.

Grover’s here. He’s here, man.

Sick with heat & the years on the skid;

a culmination of a spring time

--because what is 50 years but a spring time?--

slapping feet on street, spraying words

like rain--a summer reprieve--and

maybe that’s what he’s leaving us,

the breeze, sometimes gentle, often not. A frenzied fever dream.

Me? What did I bring? Leave? 

Weed, a guitar &, maybe, a poem.

A.S. Coomer - Kentucky