ISSN 1551-8086
return to home search for a contributing writer

seach for poems by title

archive of previous issues submissions information mailing list online store links to other interesting sites contact us  
  November 2017
volume 14 number 2
-table of contents-
 
  home  
 
  featured poets
  Jonathan Beale
  Marjorie R Becker
  Catherine Berry
  Robert Beveridge
  Bill Cunningham
  Jack Harvey
  Robert S King
  Cynthia Linville
  Genie Nakano
  Jared Pearce
  Margarita Serafimova
  Jeanne Marie Spicuzza
  RK Wallace
  Kelley White
 
  home
  poets
  poems
  archive
  submissions
  mailing list
  store
  links
  contact
 
RK Wallace November 2017
   

 

bio


art by jared barbick

    RK Wallace is a writer from Scotland who spent many years in Southern California before returning to his native homeland. He runs a poetry/spoken word event in the city of Glasgow which sees some of the best poets Scotland has to offer passing through. He has an MA in Creative Writing, and is working towards a collection of poetry about his time in Southern California. RK Wallace's poetry has been published by The New York Quarterly, Glasgow Review of Books, Qumunicate magazine, Literature in Los Angeles (LILA) and more...

   

 

The Marine Layer - 2nd Street, Long Beach

Leaning out
of my window, my cigarette burns slowly,
charming the early morning fog
as it wraps it's arms around the entire area
of down town Long Beach,
making out with the tar laden breath
from my mouth, flirting with the fallen ash.

Below me
            two surprised shadows
stop kissing,
they whisper a nervous laughter,
holding each other more tightly,
more solid than the light heartedness
of the hedonistic molecules in the air.

I pretend I haven't noticed them,
look into the distance, where they will be heading soon,
continue with my own nicotine dreams.

I wonder if they have just met,
they have that awkward posture
of new love;

the fear, the joy, and the water particles
of the marine layer disco dancing around them
like wedding confetti.

I wonder, also, if they are going to feel the same
when the afternoon Southern Californian sun burns away
the last of that which hides what they will have to face
in the coming heat wave of traffic jam nihilism.


What will
the cruel light of day
reveal?

I stand behind this city
wide cloud,
pondering on what responsibility I have
to enlighten them of my own experience,
of divorce, of bitterness, of resentment,
of the careless use of that four letter word
people spray from their mouths
in the hope to create rainbows.

My cynical junk yard tongue remains silent.

I will just finish my cigarette,
throw it down the toilet,
and spare them a hurling doubt.

copyright 2017 RK Wallace

   

 

A Special Lady (San Pedro)

On stage,
with her ripped black stockings,
she had the stance
of a distressed maiden

whom all the men salivated over with the presumption
she needed rescuing.

She loved punk for as long as she could
remember, but all it could give her in return was adultery.

After all, it began as a one night stand,

then, just like that,
it
vanished.

Not a word.
Not a note.

Until years later, when it came crawling back,

a residue of its original
self;

aged,
decrepit,
obese,
sick.

She thought, why should I deal any longer
with its laziness,
its selfishness,
its infidelity.

How can I trust an ethos that has gone
against it's own commitment to itself!
It's own principles.
Principles
of liberation,
which has now become nothing but a fashion garment
suffocated by it own treachery.

Even my friends warned me about it,
said from the beginning it would only drag
me down,

but I always rebelled against
middle of the road advice...

because I could never resist
the gravity of punks hook...

and now I am left with a lingering question
did I ever really want to be
saved
in the first place?

copyright 2017 RK Wallace