Author Archives: Louis Kasatkin

About Louis Kasatkin

Unadulterated commentary and analyses on all aspects of contemporary literary arts news and topics, can be viewed on twitter under the cunning guise of @louiskasatkin also at my blogs,"fahrenheit451"on and "And So It Goes"@ My facebook page etc.etc, ad infinitum...

Early Delivery

Long road nights,
away from cargo terminalled towns,
days passing by like strangers
across midwestern plains,
beating time chasing sundowns
roaring on into chimeras
of purple-flecked dawns;
sights and sounds streaming north
skies bleached passing fast fading
truckstops neon-pink motel signs,
listening to the broadcast game
fade in and out with
the commentators’enthusiasm,
a stray memory of
another game a long time ago
those watching it running down their
lives soaking in the tavern sweat;
Long road nights,
running that clock down,
passing anonymous cities
their silhouetted skylines,
on toward the rumbling
carotene-colored dawn
crashing down breaking
into the final day;
scouting for that dirt road
miles off the Interstate,
rolling up to the farmhouse,
rendezvous with the Man in shades,
and a bulky manila envelope
exchanged for the cargo manifest;
drums of fuel oil
and pallets of Ammonia.

Technical footnote:

ANFO Explosive –

Ammonium Nitrate is an adaptable oxidizer that works well when explosions are needed during mining or quarrying operations. When combined with fuel oil, it makes an effective explosive that has a wide range of applications.

Whose Dog? (by Russ Crabtree)

  Whose Dog?

Lots of people kept a dog for a pet
never had to take them to the vet,

always let them out to have their fun 
running around the streets all of them,

some barked some went berserk
kept in while their owners were at work;

See them still now on a rainy day

having fun watching them play,

barking mad fancy free
not one of them a pedigree,

and come evening in front of burning logs

there asleep in their basket
a litter of cuddly puppy dogs.

Excerpt from a Fantasy:2

             Excerpt from a Fantasy:2

Tin soldiers
on the nursery floor 
broken and strewn
their colours faded;
All along the endless hallway
ancestral portraits 
with verdigris etched like memories 
into their faces;
In the library
the morning papers
lie unread and neatly folded
the passage of time compressed 
graven on pages now
a patina of brown and yellow ;
Elsewhere in the grand mansion house
now aslumber,
hidden nooks and crannies
are dreaming dreams again.

Excerpts from a fantasy

When the dancing maidens 
stop their dance
and the band on the stand 
ceases to play
and the ballroom lights
are dimmed for the last time 
and the waiting carriages 
take all the guests away,
the grand mansion house
slips into its slumber 
and in its dream like state 
continues making merry.

Passion of the Christ

Passion of the Christ

“Fifteen ” ,

” Sixteen ” ,

tears flowing like a tidal flood ;

” Again ! ” ,

” twenty-four ” ,

” twenty-five ” ,

blood coursing in scarlet rivulets seeping down ;

” Again ! ” ,

” thirty-one ” ,

” thirty-two ” ,

flesh flayed torn wounds open to the world ;

” Again ! ” ,

” thirty-eight ” ,

” thirty-nine ” ,

now sublime ineffable Grace subsuming all the hurt ;

and now ,

The Cross …

The evidence wasn’t in the nail-marks

that Thomas asked you to show him ,

it wasn’t in the tears that your Mother Mary shed,

it wasn’t in the arms of Joseph of Aramathea ,

nor in the crown of thorns upon your head ;

It wasn’t there when you walked upon the water ,

nor in the 5000 that your loaves and fishes fed ;

It’s by the promise of your Father

that Grace abounded ,

when at Calvary your blood was shed.



Each moment that passes by

is just like the moment yet to come,

that has already been and

is here with us again

until its time for it to go

and another arrives in

anticipation of yet one

more waiting its turn;

Though all moments

truth be told

are the same,

clones of clones of clones

camouflaged as “time”

so as not to appear

indifferent to our rather mundane desire

to see differences

appreciate variety;

After which we conclude

that all of it really is

just a waste of time.

Crime Scene

                 Crime Scene
A Police Cruiser
drives down the dirt road
the dirt road leading
to the farm,
the farm where the
bodies were found
buried back of the barn;
a Police Cruiser
pulls up at the main gate,
Red and blue and red strobed lights
flashing all around
here the bodies were buried
in their unconsecrated graves;
The Sheriff,
lean,tall and haggard
steps out of the cruiser,
surveys the scene
spits on the ground
and utters an inappropriate oath..


There are memories
which even our dreams
can’t unlock,
and there are dreams
we’ve yet to have
that will fill our waking hours
with dread,
what of those dreams
that still evade us,
those of which we
only have memories of
and which we dare not
unlock from within
our dreams.

Mystery of the Numbers

What do the numbers do when calculators are switched off ?

And when they are switched back on again ,

will the sums add up the same as before ?

Have numbers taken to redefining themselves ,

their values ,their own worth in the hidden realm

where we can’t see them ?

Are addition ,subtraction ,division ,multiplication

set in their ways ?

Inviolable .invariable ,inexorable  or are they

a matter of conjecture ,interpretation ,uncertainty ?

Only the numbers themselves can truly know

what the consequences are of those policies

and principles decided upon in secret conclave ;

far from our gaze ,beyond our mortal comprehension

the sum of two plus two hesitates to give an answer .


Mystery of the Maps

Do maps redraw themselves after they are

rolled up and put back in the drawer ?

Do rivers and mountains relocate and

topographically readjust in the quiet

of the dark whilst we are asleep ?

Are distances shortened between

continents before those maps are

once again unfurled and inspected

by statesmen and generals over Port and cigars ?

Do red lines themselves alter language ,

reinvent culture ,annul history or do they

only seem to do so long after they are drawn ?

To think ,if the maps had been handled differently ,

we should have ended up on the other side

of a line made by an errant pencil stroke .