Monthly Archives: July 2015

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Glenda Flew

Glenda flew from sun-soaked

California to Oklahoma.


California was idle for a few precious


Its usual bustle resumed as the plane

took to air.


Three DUI’s, two families.

Split  seconds, spit lanes,

a median.

Ed crossed the threshold of

the Yellow Brick Road



From yellow bricks to

dark concrete,

tangerine shimmer

the only life on the highway.


One leg over, then the other,

two ends with one impact.

Ed was struck dead, the man driving

struck dumb.

He held my uncle as emergency services rolled in.

Glenda arrived in Oklahoma,

greeted on unfamiliar soil by

faces the color of memory and

whimsy. She felt comfort despite

the journeys purpose.


Drinks were poured, film strip

like reminiscences shared,

tears shed and stayed.


Night dropped heavy its curtain

while rain warped the backyard view.

Nephew and mother sat beside one another,

speaking between wet cracks of charged



Glenda had never seen intense lighting,

never felt a thunder storm.

Sitting Indian style youth and wisdom,

holding hands, little in big,

waited as wonder washed from the

now empty space that Ed once inhabited.


Thunder, ephemeral, growling,

with rain crosshatching imperceptibly

the rippling sound, somehow

sealed a moment in a perfect pocket.

Those flashes and rumbles living still

as strong as before their birth.


Two bodies, each a vessel for shocked sky,

tributaries meeting at a shared end-body,

leave the storm and take shelter in bed.


Wet butterfly wings rest, knowing sun

will forgive, that forgiveness is not a loss,

and that flight is still reality.


Copyright 2015

Logan Mikal White-Mulcare









Wrote this poem as an experiment. Slam poetry, as it exists today, is not something I truly enjoy. Though slam’s origin is fascinating and its early works and writers phenomenal, it seems to have devolved into a template; a boring and repetitious flow accompanied by some shocking “drop” or purposeful placement of intensity that leaves some breathless and others sighing. That being said, I thought I’d write a parody slam poem, but what came to be is a half-decent poem that is written in a voice I’m not familiar with, a voice somehow not akin to the voices of my other works. Well, hope you like it.


Cause we speak through open windows

And passed closed doors

We whisper soft until streets of cities

Building peaked

Fill with syllables not even gutters

Can suck

And we siphon syllables

And crunch until fed

And we regurgitate as best we can

Whole words for folks to nod to

And I refuse to treat folks like refuse

Sometimes I treat people like street water


Street water can be saturated through and through

With words so full they burst and make puddles

Cause street water’s just rain

Just rain and exhaust

And I’m exhausted, and I’m rain

I bloom and I fall

The plumes of hate and pain are never amiss

Seemingly seeping deep into concrete worlds

So deep not even lighting cracks can absolve

The rock-still structures

But still flowers come

Through sidewalk slits and alley

Pits they come

Each spring they bounce in dirt and shit wind

And they never whinge, always all petal and brilliance

Grandma said

Tenacious is the flower that, despite harsh conditions,

Stands low heavy

We are low and heavy


Copyright 2015

Logan Mikal White-Mulcare


To the Sconces

 To the sconces

With their phallic filament-middled bulbs

With their labial flows of upturned glass

Each bit one, as in a sexless amalgam of

All that is sensual, no deviation

No dichotomy

Sconces that weep for one another

Are wept for

Weeping powdered light

Light so moving that even the stained glass

Is left in envious frenzy when it knows its warmth

The sconces beg the unaccustomed eye to see

To see and feel again like newborn babes

Seeing and holding that sight, clutching it

Holding, allowing it to hold one back

Asking not for or why, only whispering bitter something’s

Invocating and rending minds

Beauteous and somehow not so,

Somehow bringing light in from out

Making more black in corners born from black

Leaving all corners formless, fleshless, bloodless

Calling to darkness to end its foreboding bluff

Mourning cracking glass and dying filament

Pudendum growing grey and old

Untouched in its aging stress

To the sconces I say thanks

Welcome me in to your light

Make a moth of me

Dangle there, I’ll flit around and spasm

Knocking my soft head against you

Let me die by you

Kill me with unwavering acceptance

Touch me while you kill and kiss me

Bring me in close enough

To smell wet breath and hover over me

Move my head so that I’m not blinded

So that I can see what you cannot

So that I can be a vessel for you

For your light, for the darkness you create

Let it all be one, in burst let me die

Carry me with your brilliance, drop me in ignorance

I will not scream, but I will gibber

Nothing can come from me without you

Burn inside me, render me ever loving

Passion in your filaments, contained by your glass

Spilling out shamelessly, caressing anybody that you meet

Unabashed fingers twitching madly over hot skin

Never mind the gender, never mind the nerves

Keep whispering your something’s, bitter and bright


Copyright 2015

Logan Mikal White-Mulcare

OM of lamplight

Under the OM of lamplight

Almsgiving palm drooping,

dipping needle fingers into

warm, sweat laced, masculine hairs.

Feminine presence of flora, fauna

weeping into page,

wilting altogether now;

the lamplight, the palm, the hair.

Limp with want, erratic in its spaceless,

placid fervor.

An uproar of brow, breathing steady

into ceilings domain,

eyes wide with wonder, wide from sleepless

moments leading to aching fingers, arched, saluting as they


An ache elsewhere, and another

one fueling, the other dragging vessel

toward rest, toward dark new light.

Indigo stretch marks on the skies black-blue


Jovial as usual, singing and sighing its way into


Several empty aluminum cans.

Several empty aluminum cans, filling

plastic trash-bin, also stretched

Fingers still tapping, brow still rising

Screen an awkward pallor, signifying somehow life,

smelling more like death.

Silent despite its ancestors tendency to whine.

Air between eye and screen pinched tight

within a vice, within vice;

pinched and easily forgotten, though words

keep spilling.

Slowly arranged, slower now than before

Blank spaces to the right and left

matching the narrow atmosphere

the tight chest and shrinking man


Copyright 2015

Logan Mikal White-Mulcare

Fat backed spider

Fat backed spider,

perhaps stuffed with


or innards rendered liquid.

Wide like summer mood, heat

waves drifting, out and up,

fighting solidity.

Folded grass, not quite cut by

dull bladed mower, mower

pushed by swollen knuckled


Quakes in ground, above head shattered

light thrusting through charged cloud,

a fire wind here, a cold breeze there.

A web of moment, twisting violently

through footfall and eye level


Pollen thick as sand, creating web in lung

and stiff, struggling breast.

Thin spiders too, bundled in silk,

back like wheat tip, eyes hidden.

Dogwood stink, the life fluid of the season,

cotton colored nodes of bright but

empty detritus.

That mood, whispering warm, raising voice to cool,

and all for what?

For us, no. For us, certainly not.

We are of that mood, of the wind that

shakes branches from trees, branches like

trunk born June bug legs, of trees

that some think theirs, but trees

like spider backs; no mans thing,

strong in its being one, one of other,

one of all.


Copyright 2015

Logan Mikal White-Mulcare

Moon Bone (Pt. 1)

Moon-bone rattle,

Star-born feathers top

headdress descending;

Body married to all that is


Mind sojourns to the heavens.


Windows to two mirrors turn,

mirrors turning toward each other,

Self situated between.

Reflections now swirling, made parabolic, then


Closed eyes find infinite repetition,

though something solid blocks the source-image.


Copyright 2015

Logan Mikal White-Mulcare