Blast From the Past!

Hello people of the internet!

We said we'd be back, and here we are, with a new feature that we call "Blast From the Past." Once a week, probably on Thursdays, we will be posting a poem or two from previous editions of Furrow. Why? Because we can.

This feature will probably end up morphing into a "Poet of the Week" type situation, once you good people start sending us your submissions. (hint, hint) But for now, please enjoy these following selections from our Spring 2004 edition, "The Big O" by Adam Houle and "Dance Floor Voodoo" by Bryan Hurt.

Enjoy!

(If you are the owner of any of the poems we post, and you want it taken down from this blog for whatever reason, please email us. Thank you.)

*~*


"The Big O" by Adam Houle


In French, they're called the little death.

In America, we're not so honest.
It's called living, the upheavals
put off until madness-

think of 100 horses stampeded
by a rearing rattler under pinion
tree shade. In the sweaty after,

though, as I splash water on my face,
breathe thick musk & smoke,
I feel an emptiness, that little death,

as distinct as hominid footprints cast
in a sand-blasted arroyo; Antler said,

Waterfalls are eternal orgasms.

But cracked mudflats are new
road maps, deep lines tracing

history like wrinkles
around an old woman's peircing gaze.

*~*

"Dance Floor Voodoo" by Bryan Hurt

A thousand, thousand dragging feet loaded
with pistoled pockets. Good to see a friend-
ly face among the concealed carriers
and anti-smoking socialites. A black
clad and malignant, cellular lung.
Old school, faux cool, original, hipster
in guacamole jungles you slither,
a twisted slinky tripping through a tech-
no beat. The fiber-optic shimmy shakes
neue sachlichkeit symmetricals into
incongruous auld lang syne girls. Under
a mirror-balled and thatched cabana roof,
alone the tiki castaway hulas
down exotic, sexy lubricants.
A hunter, leopard-spotting zebra prey.
The spiral, voodoo speakers singing, "Dance,
you mechanical zombie fuckers, dance."

*~*