Thunder Sandwich
#17

Poetry
4 poems by ron androla

dweeb by jeff filipski
dweeb by jeff filipski

our balances

stepping upon knuckled nodules
of dark jelly bodies oozing
creosote high in the head of
things hardening like water,
like certainty tubing into
an ocean of new space where
physics is funny & our two eyes
are micro-microscopic glinting
scales of skin, shreds of quartz
at the front of a peep-frog mind.

yes, let us create god & arguments
& poetry as sulphur smokes upon the moon of
europa.



dear mark hartenbach

the marvin pontiac cassette
you sent months ago
is fucking up, tape twisted
in the insides, crinkled
wrong on the spools.
i can fast-forward it a little
& it plays ok,
so far.
the marvin pontiac cassette
is one of a very few i
crank louder than loud,
it's one of the best tapes
you've ever sent us,
that affected us immediately
& joyfully. how
the holy hell are you
mark?
& this morning before rising
from ann's warmest flesh
i was thinking about mark
weber
& how long it has been
since we've communicated.
we had some marathon phone
conversations in the early
80's too, weber & i, when
he was still drinking.
it is the jazzbo days
of phone-calls.
david spicer, who so
sounded like charles
bukowski's real voice,
tho i KNOW i was
calling tennessee.
mckinnon.
mckinnon calls me
before leaving
with his young wife
& young kids
for belize
from a pay-phone
on a street in duluth.
chuck connors
wishing me merry
christmas morning
1984
phoning from england --
not the rifleman,
no. what the hell
am i thinking,
when?
well fuck it,
it's before noon,
i'm gulping a cold
bottle of beer.

cheers,

ron



realizing it's saturday morning

pre-dawn. i wonder
if i'll die on a saturday
pre-dawn morning,

very high on demerol,
morphine, i'll be one
hundred fifty-two

& satisfied
with the answers
to a long long lifetime of questioning.

pre-dawn saturday
morning poems
are awe,

i'm awed,
my two eyes
are a telescope of physics &

sensory experience.
i carry this voice
of my mind like a

mynah bird
in a big
cage over a

mountain,
over glaciers, over
ice-fields of mars. speak,

little, weird bird.
mimic wallace stevens
poems. expound pound!



sky-diving at 50

nestled within the tendons of ann's
angel-wings, i've slid onto our bed

after sleeping in the recliner
most of the evening

thinking i can ease right
back to the magic

of one's self
losing one's conscious grip of mind.

i'm almost there, ann is so warm,
so soft, giggles, mmmmmmm's,

in the darkness. but my brain
is a lava-coming volcano, all

inner activity bursts up in forms
of fire & thought & memory. ann will be

46 wednesday.
i say into the skin of ann's back

oh ann dexter soon you'll be
the big five oh!

she mumbles from the other
side of the world,

"that's when i want
to go sky-diving for my birthday."

with a parachute?i ask.
she giggles a little like an

amused cartoon marge
simpson.

i'm
up.

i'm
downing coffee.

ann is
peacefully asleep.

i'm
writing.

i'm
dropping down thru black sky

mist of
cold dew molecules crackling,

my head is a
melon

while a reader
is a cement street.

< Back

ISSN: 1534-4037