Mike Walker

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by Horror Sleaze Trash on March 6, 2011

At his nine-to-five, Michael Walker writes on company supplied sticky notes when a poemy idea hits him. He’s burned through several stacks of stickys and figures he’s into the company for about seven bucks. He recently published three poems in the chapbook “The Joint” (Martin Rheemer Press, 2010), and is currently knee-deep in the second draft of his first novel. He blogs half-heartedly here.


They feel like magenta—
the polished porn sites
glazed in air-brushed asses
and tits softened by the shifting
of the hidden ones and zeros
blinking beneath the facade
of the liquor they pour out
in the form of light

Out through glowing screens
to ripple over sticky beige keys
and fall into the laps of the alone
and human like a brackish gin
that if traced to its source
would lead to a crystalline
pool of warm skin bubbling
up through a fissure as deep
and forgotten as youth


Leaving through the desert,
past its scrubby brown rock,
creosote and sand mountains
where jackrabbits and tortoises
cool in the shade beside snakes
and the fabled Gila Monster,
that you’ve never seen
but know is out there,
resting and watching
as you streak by
below a blue sky
flowing like a current
filled with horsetail clouds
resembling the bottoms
of canoes, their bows
pointed up-wind, their hulls
skimming east toward
a destined vanishing,
not knowing you’re beneath
their fluid ceiling, rowing
with them in kindred formation,
dissolving in a kind of water.

Almost Rain

Not a mile from work
when Cure for Pain
sauntered through the speakers
and the gray blustery morning
had me seeing Utamaro Ukiyo-e
and a sudden wash of sympathy
for junkies, johns, gamblers, geisha
and every shade of those
who bathe themselves
in all that soothes and numbs
until it absorbs them.
And as thoughts of the
evening’s bottle surfaced
too many hours too early,
through the scene up ahead
a hawk on his updraft sailed,
wings unmoving
on a buoyancy cradling him
to his next nest.

Sunday Afternoon

Jumbled, multicolored bits
of chewed chewing gum

stuck beneath the bird shit dotted
green picnic table nearest the duck pond

gleam dull and plastic
above an empty soda can

spent and on its side

while ants file through its open mouth
as though filling an ark.

Perhaps a Beginning

Drift drowsy, sweet fish,
’twas languor got you caught.
Numb gums let the barb pass without pinch,
and though your belly’s left the sand
the sudden tug and whirr of current
tell you nothing.

With tail slack and fin down
glide limp now, through the razor seas.
Past others thrashing on their lines
though dream by them,
they know they’re hooked
and it’s the boat’s hull
that has them spooked.

Without fight your water’s air
will soon thin in the net,
and you’ll mouth O’s gasping
when your side slaps the board,
and the numbness fades,
and the sounds of strap and blade
bid you stiffen, steel your scales
and brace to be opened.

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