Dennis Bagwell

The May Editor's Pick Poet is Dennis Bagwell

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Most days, Banjo is just a dog
Like any family pet
Barks at squirrels
Chases tennis balls
Roams the woods
Licks himself
Feels bad when his family scolds him for pooping on the carpet
But every full moon
He transforms into a human
He doesn’t know how or when or why it happened
But it happens
Maybe a Gypsy’s curse gone awry
Or a witches spell incanted backwards
He sneaks into his master’s bedroom
And borrows some clothes
Steals some money
And enjoys a night on the town
Using his opposable thumbs
And bathrooms
And roller skates
And taxi’s
Walking on two legs
Going to the grocery store and staring at the meat shelves a little too long
Stocking up on dog treats
By dawn, he’s back home
Snug in his dog bed
With no one the wiser
Except for his family
Wondering where the hell all these dog treats came from


As I write this short verse
About apocalypse and death
I find myself suddenly
Very short of breath
I slump over the couch
And onto the floor
And I realize that death
Is always at the…


They appear in the twilight
Banners in the breeze
Some died from bullets
Some from disease
Marching in rows
Organized and straight
Out to meet their enemies
Marching to their fates
The phantom troops advance
While unseen cannon roar
They blaze away and boom
Their anthem of the war
Onward they march
These disembodied soldiers
An army of shadows
With muskets on their shoulders
They fight the same battle
Night after night
Until one by one
They disappear from sight
The ghost soldiers march
Until the rising dawn
For the rest of eternity
They all go marching on…


I saw an alien in an alley yesterday
He glared at me with sullen eyes
He didn’t know that I knew he was an alien
Because they look just like us
But he was one
He took a swig from his bottle of cheap wine
To drown out the fact that he will never be able to return to his home planet
And to dull his memories of his little alien house
And his little alien wife and kids
I didn’t let on that I knew he was an alien
Because he might have killed me then and there
He just turned and stumbled away in his drunken stupor
And cursed me in his native tongue, and I understood him
I feel sorry for him
But he knew the job was dangerous when he volunteered for it
And that’s what he gets for coming to my planet and trying to destroy us

Dennis Bagwell is a politically incorrect, mad at the world, X Generation, heathen, musician, and writer from Orange County California. Dennis moved to North Georgia in 2007 and is quietly preparing for the inevitable zombie apocalypse. He has been writing in one form or another since high school. His warped rantings and observations about the cesspool of a world in which we survive keeps his spiraling descent into madness at bay.