Previous Feature: Jeff Bagato

Jeff Bagato is a multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, who produces poetry and prose, as well as electronic music and glitch video. Some of his poetry has appeared in Empty Mirror, Ex-Ex Lit, Futures Trading, H&, Otoliths, and Zoomoozophone Review. His published books include the poetry collections, Cthulhu Limericks (lulu.com, 2011), and Savage Magic (ibid., 2016), along with the novels, Computing Angels (ibid., 2015) and The Toothpick Fairy (ibid., 2015). To learn more, please visit his blog at http://jeffbagato.wordpress.com.

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Margin Flowers

I draw flowers in the margin with crude petals
in quick lines, always the same
way with the leaves because I
never draw from nature, only
my own mind, cause it’s all
we have in this world, programmed
or not—
and the stem’s always this curved
line with two peaked leaves coming
up alongside, and the petals
looping lines dancing around the hole
punched in the lined paper—
like glad-handing the machine
worked world, like recycling
the absences of our lives, like
making the by-products of industry work for me—
and that hole beckoning the eye
downward and through
the page; held up to the light
it goes there, but laying against
the notebook, you know I can’t
say if it’s going to take you
anywhere

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Eat this History

Because there’s no such thing as history,
as all history is dead, and past,
and you cannot travel in time,
you cannot live any life but
your own, and there is only one
music, art, work, play, love, laughter
or sorrow in the world and that
is your own, as the world becomes you,
moves into you, you move into
it and both vanish coming
together like a black hole consumes
one gravity with its own, like rain
slips down along a wall of glass
to a pool in which you see yourself
dying, that is moving forward
and away from anything that would tell
you what you need to know before
you live your life, because this history
falls into a void that is your own
life, and then that life, eaten
day by day by dead stars,
feeds itself with something beyond
what has passed for another life,
and leaves carrion for those
who would die too soon

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Tame me Baudelaire

Heaven with butterscotch wings,
heaven is near, rising as we do over
California mountains and falling
into lights, lights floating like heaven
with butterscotch wings
before three a.m. eyes, not LA
or even Hollywood but some kind of
suburbs, our destination

Mountains stand back behind
stained curtains, the gas pedal
flaccid on an uphill drag;
the world makes hand rolled
cigarettes or so you’d believe

We aren’t dead yet, only
preparing to do laundry
and Dave sees Charlie Manson’s
eyes again, this time in over easy
eggs with sausage eyebrows
and pancake cheekbones;
daylight comes slowly to the dying man,
so save me, Baudelaire, with boxing
glove hands and a fist full of rain

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All Hail! To view more boo-tay shakin’ videos like Jeff Bagato’s “Fire Dance” below, please visit his YouTube channel at Bionic Eyes . . .

 

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