The Ramingo’s Porch – Three Poems By Jeff Bagato

Jeff Bagato.jpg

It’s a Lapdog Thing

Clever little generals
barking along a pissed out path,
hoping a smaller pisser
than themselves laid down the trail;
no one likes to take Goliath,
‘cause a slingshot may fail
to do the business—
then you’ve got an angry giant
smashing cell phone towers
and beating down buses with a pole,
leaping border fences for another
trip to the eat-it-all buffet;
this barking could go on all night
unless some sweet Lysistrata
with a rolled up newspaper
swats ‘em back to the kibble
and the fireside, where lapdogs
again become kings
of tiny castles shaped like
padded lumps of dough


Maggot Picnic

A maggot bead curtain
smelling of ripe cheese
hangs between you and the void,
where a dead lightbulb
cools mote by mote,
releasing slow electrons
like pulsing maggots fall
on the floor to writhe
and squish under hobnailed boots
shining with crankcase grease
and worn by some gorilla
masquerading as death;
his mirrorshades reflect
the dull senses of a man
caught in traffic, waiting
for the light to change;
time extends outward
like an earworm jingle
that demonstrates relativity
by stretching the fabric
of the universe, absorbing
all light and matter
in a fit of gravity,
a storm ignorant to hope
and home sweet home
and the gravy on the plate—
what it devours is not gravy
but souls, the souls of stars,
the souls of gods, the souls
of dragons, and if any human
has a soul it’s also on the menu;
the chef is a battering ram
grinding it all down
in a cosmic pestle—
feeding time for all good larvae
comes twice a day
and the living is easy—a picnic
on the lawn while the brass
band plays “all saints
hallelujah, and all the
way home”


Ass Dragging on the Main Line

Somebody runs foul of the dogs
when they fail to throw down the bone;
all the king’s men rush to aid,
finding shards instead of gold,
spoiled yolk and my god the smell—
that guy rotten to his marrow
so a lucifer stick couldn’t clear
the room

Open the windows, open the walls,
let some wild geese in;
if they flap wings hard enough
it may clear the air;
monks with incense
might get better results,
but the cost is your soul,
and who has enough of that?

Around here, the roadsides
gleam with skulls
and the grinning really
makes you sick.
They like bacon,
they like fried eggs
for breakfast

They like to see people
on the cell phone
behind the wheel of a car,
calling mother, calling dad,
“Can you hear me? Can you
hear me now?”

This sunrise looks
like a yolk, an eye,
an everlasting drain for dreams
that simply wish to die


A multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose  as well as electronic music and glitch video. Some of his poetry and visuals have  appeared in Angry Old Man, Anti-Heroin Chic, Chiron Review, Rat’s Ass Review, Slipstream, and Unlikely Stories. Some short fiction has appeared in Future Cactus and Danse Macabre. He has published nineteen books, all available through the usual online markets, including Savage Magic (poetry) and The Toothpick Fairy (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at

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