FROZEN CRESCENDO

KEVIN RIDGEWAY

======

The fire of summer is

put out by the shimmering

quilt of color blanketing

the autumn world,

and the mania of autumn

is frozen in time

by the cold bitch of

winter’s frost

this mind slows

into a jazzy downturn of

horn solos and sadistic

drum clatters rumble

across the blacktops of

a cold space of dreams

that linger from the

uncertain rants

of the mind—

holidays come and go,

pumpkins turn to mulch,

another birthday is celebrated

with rain hitting the roof

with yet more music—

reaching a crescendo come

December’s dissolution

and the early months’ rise,

an internal scream that

takes the unrecorded

frantic rhythms of the

previous year

to a dramatic close

celebrated in lawn tableaus

and other dances

born out of different holy texts

that dot continents in a

glorious globe lantern of the spirit

that have suddenly burned

to black.

======

Kevin Ridgeway is a writer from Southern California. He lives and works in a tiny bungalow surrounded by posters of dead rock stars. His chapbook of poetry, Burn Through Today, is now available from Flutter Press.

DEAD MALLS

KEVIN RIDGEWAY

======

Scattered across the continent

empty merchandise mausoleums

wires emerging from

the concrete craters

born beneath the lonesome sun

of the parking lot dunes

tumbleweeds guarding the

sealed doors

drunks and transients rest

in the darkened

inner sanctuary food courts,

dining on aged Orange Julius

they do their last minute

Christmas shopping in

the wilted shops breathing

asbestos and wielding

faded charms for loved

ones squatting within

the abandoned

sporting good

store tents,

washing their feet in the

cesspools of the drained

fountains flanked by

chipped baby angels

some headless and some

heads bowed whispering

demolition prayers.

======

Kevin Ridgeway is a writer from sunny Southern California. Recent work has appeared in Underground Voices, Negative Suck, Electric Windmill and Thunderclap! Magazine.

THE GOLD SUIT

KEVIN RIDGEWAY

======

Metallic yarns

gleaming in the spotlights

and bouncing off his

crisp tan visage

lifting a marionette of

pained smiles

-

He needs the extra

expression,

for he lost it

internally a long

time ago

-

washed up in the

current of popular culture,

wiggling his

alcoholic jowls

spewing air symphonies

in between his

butchered yodels

-

The long player tanked,

and now he’s in Tahoe

wondering who these

women are in his bed,

calling his priest

with stuttering saliva rivers

of confession,

and his doctor with

an emergency care package

of prescription refills

-

The gold suit

sits gleaming in the

morning sun as he

passes it

to shit

and vomit

and pray.

======

Kevin Ridgeway is a writer from sunny Southern California. Recent work has appeared in Underground Voices, Negative Suck, Electric Windmill and Thunderclap! Magazine.