I should be meditating.
No more pontificating!
Faking, shaking, making an image.
Masochistic,
aware I’m a statistic,
simultaneously believing my mystics,
“Your problems are severe, but have fixes!”
Going through the motions but
I believe I’m God down deep in my gut.
Blast beats of the sort that few will hear.
Operate that machinery.
The beep of the long tail.
Observe with all your might.
Riffage of that time clock.
Twin guitar in the lower register.
Those evil chords at the start of the workday.
Chug chug chug.
Corpse paint at the 15 minute break
Paid for by the company.
Non union binary bass runs.
Forced exposure and forced overtime.
…
Cameron Barnett holds an MFA from the University of Pittsburgh, and teaches middle school at Falk Laboratory School in Oakland. He’s an editor for Pittsburgh Poetry Journal, and a board member for The Bridge Series. His recent work has appeared in The Florida Review, The Minnesota Review, Rattle, and IDK Magazine. His first collection, The Drowning Boy’s Guide to Water (Autumn House Press) was a finalist for an NAACP Image Award. Cameron’s work explores the complexity of race and the body for a black man in today’s America. Find out more about him at cameronbarnett.net…
This building is known
As Dagget Street
It’s where we call home
It’s where we smoke crack
And sing along to old punk records
Until we wake the homeless
Sleeping in the stairwells
Its where the pitbulls
Are barely held back by their chains
Snapping as we walk by
Its where the graffiti writers
Have come and gone
Leaving their mark for us to find
It’s where they find b…
Molecular Flux
Lovers with soft lips
exit without warning
washed away in summer rain
But their passions
are organic
alive within us
until the final
breath
Honored Voices
I came up on welfare
so I write for the poor
the drywallers
the retail clerks
the ditch diggers
The voices
no one hears
are heard…
I’m the degenerate you love to hate,
the unclean sinner who won’t toe the line.
You ridicule my independence at dinner parties,
among similarly dressed cronies,
the institutionalized prisoners
of prestige.
Hate us all, the degenerates.
Scorn the indie musician on the sidewalk.
He colors the dull march of the khakis.
Despise the painter in welfare housing.
She strokes thick lines of anguish
onto uncomfortable canvases.
Taunt the quiet poet at the…
From an early age, before preschool,
there was one Pittsburgh man inside a box
who showed us how to find one’s bliss.
He set the tone to lead a happy life.
While I sat on the sofa, pillow hugged tight,
the Pittsburgh man inside the box taught me
the virtue of kindness and curiosity.
He taught me make believe.
When I grew up, life’s…
Basement Outpost is excited to announce an upcoming series of poetry contributions from gifted member of the Pittsburgh area art community, Ron Gavalik.
Ron Gavalik is the author of three poetry collections: Slag River Sins, Sidewalks, and …
Imagine my surprise
on my breath a crude disguise
but concerned eyes annihilate lies
on my breath a poison – reviled, despised.
Of course they knew, they know
from my mouth I lay them low
striking dumb blows against those
that dare thumb their nose at my cruel show.
Lashing out but within
I yearn for freedom from this sin
once more I’ve fallen, I’ll never win
but then they pull me up again.
Death distilled, I’ve had my fill
their resolve, my will, one less kill
one less notch for despair’s favorite swill.
