Blood and Mechanics

I have to say I'm a big fan of this one. I found it in a publication with the ridiculous name of "Pontoon" (what is it, a literary journal for maritime military engineers?), an anthology of Washington State poets. Apparently he lives on Bainbridge Island (a large island in the middle of the Puget sound). 

I did find a self-penned description online, some excellent excerpts follow:

"I'm an artmag editing performance poet who mechanics for hire/trade by request only — I do not solicit others. I'm located in a quonset hut on a backroad and if necessary you could go so far as to rebuild here. ... I don't do freeloaders and my tools don't leave the shop without me, ever... I work on my rigs because I got tired of being ripped off by shops who either hate VW's or old hippies who smoke pot while they work on your car... Favorite beer type: Micro brands."

I'll have to find more of his stuff - I love the portmanteau words, the grimy stink and muck of the scene, and something slightly less gory as a denouement.

Bloodsong

Hugh Hosman

Ever smelled blood in the morning?


I don't mean like you cut yourself shaving
or sliced a finger making sandwiches.
I mean wholesale blood,
buckets and slabs and sheets of blood,
bloodwet smocks and bloodwarm knives,
wheels and hooks that sing of blood.


All the studs and all the steers,
pregnant cows and yearling virgins,
faces pressed to the messcaked ass of the next in line,
butchers bloodcrust black to elbow,
trolleyhook, legsplay, nose and lips, ears all shorn...


Speak once


before your tongue gets gone
and fat federal inspectors come much in your guys,
before your blood is everywhere,
before your blood is on everyone's hands,
before only this quiet space and the cleanup crew know
the price of a place in the herd.