Poem, "Underground Sonic Kingdom" 
--Published in NOVA Bards 2016: An Anthology of Northern Virginia Poetry (Publisher: Local Gems Press)  http://www.localgemspoetrypress.com/nova-bards-2016-preorders.html

​A crooked finger reaches through the darkness and
presses play on a 1985 style boombox, tip bathed in
acid to remove the print for reasons that will remain
unexplained, and a hiss and pop sounds as the tape rolls
forward.

Sounds of drums leap through the speakers, moving
rapidly, the intensity building, as Ravi Coltrane’s
saxophone moves up through the beats to shift
manically overhead with hummingbird aerobatic
flight.

“Since they won’t see me like I exist, then I won’t
play their game,” the raspy voice drawls.  “Let them all keep
their damn stuff made for trash bins and let’s grab a seat,
brother, take our own time, listen to this music!”

The abandoned subbasement to a warehouse, carelessly
forgotten by developers more eager to break new ground
than utilize existing possibilities, is still connected to the
grid and water flows through industrial pipes to this willful
exile.

Drumming fills the space with a rat-a-click-click-rat-a-click
like a prisoner chipping through the stonewalls of his
confinement, while a foot clad in slippers monogramed
with someone else’s initials taps its heel on the floor in
release.

-- by Steve McKennon, 11 March 2016

Featured Poet and Speaker, Vienna, Virginia, 11/21/2015

Excerpt from Firinne Buscar (Search for Truth), Short Story, Winner of  "She Blinded Me With Science" Science Fiction contest on www. DarkPoetry.org:
​ As Leif walked toward the streetcar stop near Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco, he knew two things: the streetcar was pretty much just for tourists; and he didn’t care.   He liked to feel the air on his face and the vintage rumble of the wheels on the tracks beneath him as the operator applied brake technology from the 1800’s to keep the car’s steep descent under control.  He liked the burning smell of the pine brake pads, which only lasted four days before they had to be changed out, and the way this shuddering ride always made him feel a link with the past.  There were quicker ways to travel, but to him, not nearly as enjoyable.  Sometimes it was about speed, and sometimes it was about the journey. 

During Leif’s days at NASA’s Ames Research Center, it was about speed, but at least once a week he made it about the journey on the streetcar.  His ritual was to ride down to the end of the line and walk along the water to the Butterfly restaurant on Pier 33, where he would have three beers and a vodka drink before walking back to the streetcar line lost in thought.  This evening, as he walked back from the Butterfly, he was thinking of quarks.   In fact, he was debating the merits of quarks with himself, out loud, using sweeping hand gestures.  This evening, his vodka drink had been a rather large James Bond style martini, which had left Leif in the philosophical “what the fuck am I doing with my life” mood that often strikes young men as they walk home alone from a bar on a Wednesday. He retained enough self-awareness to suspend his conversation when he passed close enough to another pedestrian to be overheard, but he resumed it after allowing a few seconds to go by so the wind could drown out the sound of his voice.

“But do quarks hold any meaning?”  he asked adamantly.  “Do they hold any intrinsic meaning for mankind, for humanity, for me?” 

“What else would they hold?”  he responded sarcastically.  “They are an essential building block for everything that there is.  If they don’t exist, there is nothing.”

“No, no, no,” he responded with exasperation.  “Do they have MEANING?!  Meaning, meaning, real meaning, does matter really matter when I pay my rent?  Not, are they necessary and fundamental, but do they mean anything to anyone? Why does it matter?  Does matter really matter?!”

“There is nothing, if they don’t exist.  If things that exist have meaning, then surely the things that make up the things that exist necessarily do too.  Right?”

“Maybe that is the question, though,” he said, looking up and sighing.  “Does anything really have any meaning?  Am I studying the poetry of the universe, or am I simply mapping out the mechanics of a big engine?”

 He walked on, lost in thought, and trying to find a way to marry his interests in science and the humanities in some compact quotable way that might be typed onto his curriculum vitae, or maybe a t-shirt he could sell to ThinkGeek.com.  Of course, what he also wanted was a quick and stimulating answer to the question “what do you do?” when posed by the quirky, but intellectual woman that he hoped would one evening walk into the Butterfly and sit next to him at the bar.  These thoughts, combined with some strategically placed shadows, almost caused Leif to trip over a large box that might have once held a mattress, but was now taking up half the sidewalk in front of him.  He stared at the box for a few moments, wondering who would have left it there. 

​***

Video for Poem "Head for the Open Waters" 
--Featured in 2010-2011 International Pen & Brush
​(An Exhibition of Poems and Paintings)

Poem, "Painting with Stardust" 
--Published in NoVA Bards 2015: A Northern Virginia Poetry Anthology (Publisher: Local Gems Press)​ https://amzn.com/0692531920

​Shudders agitate my shoulders while my insides turn to stardust
and I try to sculpt satisfaction from the unshaped clay before me,
tracing the lines of her face and arms and breasts softly,
knowing the image I am shaping will be less created than revealed.

When I at last form fingers and can clasp the newly freed hand,
we’ll waltz above volumes of yellowing brittle paper in which
are recorded histories no longer cherished, feeling
the pages crumble irreversibly under the soles of our feet.

To the east of Orion, the mighty Horsehead shakes stars
from its mane and they fall like raindrops, the children of oceans,
that go on to beget rivers that in turn give birth to the seas,
joining a cycle around us altogether ancient and constant and new.

My chest opens to spill stardust onto a palette she can mix
with ochre to paint scenes on cave walls of ancient herds
being driven by hunters that seem to move in the torchlight,
the rumble of their hooves silent as sleep eventually takes us.
 
-- by Steve McKennon, 26 December 2013

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