ten cent poem

Space Christals

ten cent poem

reflection in a looking glass
for our softer parts
listen to the mute wisdom
of us entangled

feeling each other’s heat
like the dying embers
of a fire on the beach

twisting together, entwined,
searching our softer parts
with all that we have in us

and collapsing in our own sweat.

Agnew T. (Goldwater) Pickens

his name is b.

"Space Christals" by P.A.Donohue

a poem about a schizophrenic i would meet at the psychiatric center

his name is b.

i meet him by the ashcan, his name is b.
he’s a poet like i someday dream to be
i’ve known him at the center where i get
my anti-insanity inoculations every two weeks

he shows me his latest poem, it’s called:

“I am not a Schizophrenic any more”

i love his fantastic psychedelic handwriting
he says he might write some poetry about horses
all i know about horses
is not to bet on them like my dad did

b. is a great guy
he has so many friends
he sometimes forgets my name
if he doesn’t see me for a couple months
but he remembers my name this time

he never forgets my face
he always smiles at me when he sees me
he likes to smoke out by the ashcan
and suffers the happy idiot a glimpse

a couple short poems

Space Christals by P.A.Donohue

"Space Christals" by P.A.Donohue

a couple of short poems from the volume “Space Christals”

underneath an orange sky

the pocket krakatoas are working overtime
filling the air with sulfuric hilarity
on board the mother planet i call home
tanning carrots underneath an orange sky

shed a tear

shed a tear for Jed McGrady
he thought he found himself a lady
he bought himself a brand new suit
they buried him in it with his boots



Behind the Monolith

Behind The Monolith

Behind the Monolith is
a hand-scribbled note

On the back of a drugstore receipt.
“I could still see you”

when your face shattered
at the news of the departure…

Lying in a heap of other notes,
some just as incongruous with the

Continuous hum of the MonOLith.

Here’s one:
Map of Berlin 2006″

written on a cocktail napkin
in lipstick.

Means nothing to me.

So I search through the scraps
that lie at my feet for what seems like-

And then I find it.

Written in my hand on
a used bus ticket from the future

“It isn’t so”

The Bread is Risen

Agnew T. (Goldwater) Pickens

Agnew T. (Goldwater) Pickens

the second poem from my volume of poetry “Space Christals”

The Bread Is Risen

The Bread is risen
on the observation deck
of our little station of the Crossroad

Just in time for
the transmigration of the fowl
to their summer palaces.

I’m catching a few H. Ray’s
out on the solar panels
in the heat of the blinding Moon.

Don’t sweat the delivery,
just open wide and receive
your hosts with Earthly delight!

The cran-grape juice is excellent
with the risen Bread and
makes a Steamed Hamster

As happy as a Baby Carrot
to wallow with the swine-flu
in the comfort of an epidemic.

Can’t you taste the Bread is Risen?


commentary :  my nickname in college was “hamster” and i imagine myself as a sacrifice, how would i be served?  steamed hamster and i surmised it tastes like baby carrots.

Space Christals

Patricia Anne Donohue, artist

bagpipes, gunfire & candy bar machines in space

This is the title poem from my new volume Space Christals : how i learned to ignore the ticking and love the bomb by Agnew T. (Goldwater) Pickens, now available on Amazon.

5Pac3 ChrisTa15

On CrY-5t.MaSS mOrn1nG
DaV1D cOm3s WaGginG 4Cro5s
to eAt tEh SpAc3 PumPk1n Ba1t

A5 1 Mine 5yNtHeTiC B4cT3riA Chr15tals
iN mY PsyCh3deLiC 5Pac3 Su1t

F0r a s1M(u)l4T3d 5aNtA C14Us
bl0wIng bAgP1p3s aT 5 AM

On Teh DarK s1De of sUnSpoT

PaR4D153 l2 is aWfU11y C0ld
wiThout t3H BurNinG f05-S0(u)L5

La t3a Da

0H Shit!

T3h c4NdY bAr mAch1ne
in t3h 5paCe f1ll1Ng staTi0n
1s oN Teh FriTz AG41N!

CoNteXt(u)a1itY qU3U3es aBounD
tEh LiMiTs 0f T3H 1MagInAt1i0N.

gAwd i5 0n Su1CiDe W4tcH
f0r teH 1aSt RuN oF tEh DaY

M0tH3r dE4Th is F3cuNd W1tH Po5siBb1liTieS BTW

Spr1nkLe m0r3 All4H ChR15tals
0n teh C0rNf1ak3s on teh Fr0nT14wN.

t3h VaCuUM ha5 a CraCk 1n iT AgAin

1t f3elS jU5t 1ikE a Tr4CtoR tRa1l0r
ruNninG tHro(u)gH y0uR h3aD.

1eT uS M4k3 tIme t0 aPp14Ud teh S0uNd
oF d1St4nT g(un)Fir3 1n TeH CaTh3(t3r)dR4l

d1nG D0Ng
L3t tH3rE bE Pe4S 0n 3aRtH!
DiNg donG!
leT TheR3 B3 p3as oN e4rTh
dInG DonG!
13t tHER3 b3 P34S 0N 34RTH!


Transcription and commentary

Space Christals

on christmas morning
David comes wagging across
to eat the space Pumpkin bait

(David is a Golden retriever that lives across the street & Pumpkin is a cat)

as i mine synthetic bacteria christals
in my psychedelic space suit

for a simulated Santa Claus
blowing bagpipes at 5 AM

(flashback memory of a bagpiper on the streets of New York City who i dropped $5 to 17 years ago)

on the darkside of sunspot

(i imagine that their are beings who regularly harvest synthetic bacteria christals behind sunspots)

Paradise 12 is awfully cold
without the burning fossils(souls)

la ti da

oh shit!

the candy bar machine
in the space filling station
is on the fritz again!

(returning from the sunspot with synthetic bacteria for the home planet, i make my usual stop to refuel and snack)

contextuality queues abound
the limits of the imagination

(c.f. contextuality cues in linguistics)

God is on suicide watch
for the last run of the day

Mother Death is fecund with possibilities by the way

sprinkle more Allah christals
on the cornflakes on the front lawn

(i see ice cubes poured in the grass of a fast food restaurant and imagine them to be Allah crystals)

the vacuum has a crack in it again

it feels just like a tractor trailer
running through your head

let us make time to applaud
the sound of distant gunfire in the cathe(ter)dral

ding dong!
let there be peas(peace) on Earth
ding dong!
let there be peas on Earth
ding dong!
let there be peas on Earth


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