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About Michael Pollick
Michael Pollick was born in Akron, Ohio in 1964, but now lives and writes in the Deep South. His interest in creative writing began at a very early age, and by age 16 he had his first professional publication credit. His work has appeared in such literary magazines and anthologies as The Iconoclast, Midwest Poetry Review, MOSAIC, HART-A Tome for the Arts, Miller's Pond and the highly collectible political poetry anthology Will Work for Peace.
Pollick views his work as a hybrid of poetry and microshort fiction. While poetry can be viewed as a snapshot of a human experience, many of his pieces also feature a definite story arc. His poetry and creative writing influences include ee cummings, Raymond Carver and Cecil Adams. In addition to creative writing and poetry, Michael Pollick has also contributed thousands of nonfiction articles to online information compendiums such as wiseGEEK and HowToDoThings.
Michael is married to a fellow writer named Amy, and they share a home with their 17 pound tail-less rescue cat named Natchez. Michael is also the organist for a small Methodist church, and enjoys acting, singing, music and art house movies.
Titles By Michael Pollick
and when all that remains of
our dimestore dances are scuffs
on aching linoleum,
I shall consider you carefully,
and know that we were gods once.
this was how the rockefellers
played it, all hot and close
enough to the bones;
we blew eight to the bar,
eight to the bar,
on blistered rugs and buckling
and you were all fierce reds
and polished whites,
clapping and surging with
the pulses of Dorsey,
whirling and crackling with
the promises of Miller,
turning and wailing with
the heat of the vacuums.
Today, I played the Dorsey
and as the needle danced
back and forth
on only a paper moon
only a paper moon
only a paper moon,
I heard the creaking
of the storeroom
boards, and for one
you and I were spooning,
alone and invincible,
in the dust of
our makebelieve ballroom.
CLEFT FOR ME
Four small whispers can now leave rehearsal,
the last cigarette has been ground to ashes.
It was once important for us to kill some Negroes,
no matter how many times they claimed to fear God—
no matter how pretty their dime store dresses were—
no matter how late they were for choir practice.
In the whole of Birmingham, 1963,
freedom smelled a lot like gunpowder residue
on the hands of Bobby Frank Cherry.
Four shadows from another mangled storm shelter
can now share Cokes on hot summer revivals
and find Sister Henrietta's eyeglasses for her.
While I draw this
When my eyes
shall close in
I shall fly
to worlds unknown,
And behold thee
on thy throne.
Now is the day four little singers
found their way back
to the 16th Street Baptist church,
after getting lost in another man's smoke.