Art and poetry on page and stage



Mike Jurkovic


I’m not comfortable here any longer.
Too predatory. Prehensile,
Too liable to pull the trigger
at any given moment.

I don’t sense
a civilized voice,
Or a song that makes you wonder
how it got this way.

I was buffing the urns
when all this started.
Making my meager, minimum pay
pursuing ingrained despair.
I mean,

Can you not look around
and see the obesity?
The pierced behemoth
we have become.

Ashen, grey, ashes
lift, descend.
We are below noir,
Lost in a crowded substratum
where public services have run aground

and the mayor’s on the take.
Everyone’s on the take. Even we
who usually wind up shoveling shit do so
awaiting our climb up the golden head of the idol.

No one pokes you in the ribs anymore
unless it’s with a knife
or some sharp object
you smuggle off a plane.