535 West 22nd Street, 5th Floor
New York City
Todd Colby has published six books of poetry: Ripsnort (1994), Cush (1998), Riot in the Charm Factory: New and Selected Writings (2003), and Tremble & Shine (2004) were all published by Soft Skull Press; Flushing Meadowswas published by Scary Topiary Press in 2013; and Colby’s latest book, Splash State, was published by the Song Cave in 2014. He lives in Brooklyn, New York.
A Wee Smidge
That sound you hear in Brooklyn
is everyone really showing up
for work. Needless to say, we are
all a bit tired, like we wish
it was the next day. There, there.
You invented a revolution that only
works for you. Willy Wonka was built
on the idea of an heir or a legacy.
Can’t you see I’m burning? Out in the open
a dear wound vibrates. With the right
bandwidth, it could be the 19th century.
Mayakovsky’s dyslexia is well known.
Everything is happening at once, literally.
This morning I woke up and made a list
of my top 10 worries and then I rooted around
in the junk drawer. Brook’s ghost. Albert’s ghost.
All the water I use in a year could fill
this apartment up to the ceiling twice.
Anything that makes you laugh is true,
and you know it’s true. I am genuinely going
to and fro in 3-D.
Bobby Byrd grew up in Memphis during the golden age of the city’s music scene. “Black music, the great DJ Dewey Phillips and WDIA radio,” he says, “probably saved my life.” Byrd and his wife, Lee, meandered through the Southwest until they moved to El Paso with their three kids in 1978. In 1985, they founded Cinco Puntos Press, which published his most recent collection, Otherwise, My Life Is Ordinary, in 2014. Byrd has received a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship for Poetry, the D. H. Lawrence Fellowship, a National Endowment for the Arts International Fellowship to live in Mexico, and, with his wife, a Lannan Fellowship for Cultural Freedom. He makes a good pot of beans.
I Make a Good Pot of Beans
Christians like my beans.
Right-wing, left-wing—they like my beans.
Buddhists like my beans.
Muslims and Jews like my beans.
Agnostics and atheists.
Mexicans and gringos.
Vegetarians and meat eaters.
Phyllis and Bill like my beans.
Does Megan like my beans?
Yes, yes, Megan likes my beans.
They all like my beans.
Even the drunks down the street like my beans.
And I know some politicians who like my beans.
Likewise some ex-cons and thieves.
Friends of mine.
All of them.
Poets of course like my beans.
Perhaps some novelists.
A few holy men, a few holy women
(Not too many wise folks out there—be careful who you listen to.)
My kids and grandkids like my beans.
My wife likes my beans.
She really likes it when I cook my beans.
Write me a letter.
A real letter the old fashioned way—
Buy a stamp. A postcard.
I’ll send you the recipe for my beans.