RC Edrington

 

RC Edrington offers no graduate degree in any alleged art form. Nor can he produce a certificate of authentication from any hip writing guild to prove he is an actual writer. He currently scribbles in notebooks, fights off the urge to to become a full-time hermit, and kicks empty beer cans through the heroin induced potholes of his memory. 

 

His scribbles can be found in countless journals, e-zines, anthologies, and chapbooks. His first full collection of "poetry" was published in 2005. His most recent collection, "Apocalypse Generation", is set for publication in the late fall of 2009.

 

RC Edrington's blog: edrington.blogspot.com

 

Barrio Libre

 

blood of

junkies bloom

into shared

syringes

like the sweet

dewy fruit blossom

on a worn

barrel cactus

buried amidst

broken

Corona bottles

& stale

corn husk

tamale wrappers

that line

the pus

filled vein

of cracked asphalt

seeping its way

up South 6th Avenue

into the cracked

presidio

adobe houses

where Mexican

grandmothers

roll tortillas

between

arthritic fingers

& gunshots

 

 

 

---

 

 

Polio Flesh

 

our love nothing

but skin on skin

so accept it

 

like a deformed child

held tight

to your breasts

 

fear not

the dull ache

of a phantom limb

 

but cherish

this glorious flaw

 

to nibble the apple

in spite of

the worm

 

 

 

---

 

 

Apocalypse Generation

 

outside Sam's Liquor

Children dabble in cigarettes

 

their stolen bicycles

scattered in the dusty alley

like wounded horses

 

last night

they pillaged McDonald's

 

threw frozen beef patties

at cars on slow cruise

up & down the bruised blvd.

 

even Jose

the neighborhood dope dealer

offered them jobs

making heroin drops

after school

 

but like tiny fires

soon consumed into one

these kids

just continue to burn

& burn chaos

through the sleepy

barrio streets

 

 

 

---

 

 

This Aint No Punk Rock Song

 

tattoo stained kids

slam dope inside

porcelain shattered

bathroom stalls

 

where even rats avoid

hepatitis laced syringes

flicked like

cigarette butts into

a piss soaked corner

 

& there is no

hip soundtrack bleeding

from a stolen boom-box

to make any of this shit

beautiful or cool

 

& as for art

no one here

has any use for art

unless he has a $20 bill

& needs his dick sucked

 

 

---

 

 

Ocotillo

 

hot oil bleeds

from the busted gut

of a junked motorcycle

like mascara

down a bruised cheek

 

in the dust

beer bottles scattered

like gold teeth

swallow the sun

 

flowers

I remember

the bloody bloom

of ocotillo

hemorrhaging against

a cement gray

monsoon sky

 

& your face

almost forgotten now

like some

sacred language

lost to the wind