October by William Taylor Jr.

the air smells of rain
and is a perfect grey

the sad old buildings
lean against it

a beauty
you would have to see
to understand

today my sadness
is bigger than Jesus
but there is a joy
even in this

a quiet bar on Polk Street
something to drink
and a table by the window

outside
the people seem
to have places
to go

the cars
roll up and down

lights flash
green and red

and I could never find it
in myself
to strive for more than this

never dreaming
to be anything

other than the sky
or the smell of rain.

A Night With Lyn Lifshin by Catfish McDaris

"To the left?"

"To the right?"

"No."

"Do you have a G-spot?"

"Catfish, you're in my light."

4 Corners by Brandon S. Roy

The pimpless hooker on the corner
in the tight red and black dress
stands waiting with her umbrella

A bum sings across the street
about lovers and lust then
passes out mumbling about
how he lost his wallet

The man in the rainbow hat
spits fire and ash through
his bullhorn at locals and
tourist

The biscuit place smells
warm and has a line around
the block and I can't stop
because I'm late for work

Two Poems by Donal Mahoney

That Greyhound Station

This woman
I am interviewing,
one of her front teeth
crosses over the other
and sticks out like a leg
crossed over the other.
Otherwise I would hire her;
I am certain of that.
But she reminds me too much
of that Greyhound station
at three in the morning.
There, alone on a bench,
across from me still,
her little dress up,
skulls of bare knees,
hillbilly child waiting.



Husband and Wife on Hassocks Eating Sausage

He tries again to situate his
grosbeak nose beneath his spectacles.
He twists the toothpick in his teeth
and hunches now a little more toward her,
saying “Listen, dear, I’ve said all this before,
and now I'll say it all again:

“You’re slovenly and gross. Your jowls
swing beneath your jaws like testicles.
Your mammoth breasts need tweezing.
Your freckled calves are carved of lard.
These things are true, my dear.
They’re not some crazed
vision of conjecture.”

The lady belches, reaches for
a pickle spear, a slice of cervelat,
and begins to comb her yellow hair.

She hunches now a little more toward him,
saying “Listen, dear, I’ve heard all this before.
What’s happened here is eminently clear.
You no longer love me.”

Losing It by GD Anderson

Les, the owner of the army surplus shop
invites us to his farm in early August for a
hodge podge: a meal of bar-B-Q chicken &

new season vegies. We arrive after 7, a few dozen
locals sitting on fold up canvas chairs and coolers,
looking up briefly as we enter- the host shakes my

hand vigorously & we enter his kitchen & down a shot
of rum to settle the stomach. He introduces me to a
few of his friends & we hang around outside watching

the grilling of the chicken. The meat is pressed in
quarters on a large wire frame & every ten minutes
or so it is turned and sprayed with a mixture of water,

oil and herbs. I talk to a bloke from Paradise, N.S.
who has pitched a tent prepared for a big night. He
speaks in a frantic highly energetic voice about

his organic crop pointing/ stabbing into the distance-
laughing a fountain of words numbing as the beers sink.

A queue forms: wax beans peas potatoes carrot a
couple pints of cream water pene-wort. Les says:
‘BLOW THAT IN YEH!’

time sortof slipping-

Having beforehand- sucking on some womble laughing,
just laughing, cracking up behind the barn, laughing
until it hurts. Returning to the main group of people,

I can’t really recall what I was laughing about-
I just had this crazy feeling that nothing mattered
& as everything splintered all I wanted to do was laugh &

laugh- so there I was drinking Keiths Ale sitting on an eskie
next to some crazy Nova Scotians and explaining my life story:
‘Yeah’ I says, ‘I’m an Anderson, my grandfather used to play ice

hockey for Acadia he had to be totally tanked before
hopping onto the ice/ loved to fight/ reckoned the war
stuffed him/ he was in the navy a lookout two hours on and
two hours off/ said it destroyed his ambition/ his mine sweeper
was sunk in the North Atlantic in 1944…’

I glance up and no one is listening-

Two young women in their late 20s or early 30s
gather around a middle aged man near me
He says matter-of-factly, ‘What do you want Fuckwit & Sheila?’

I notice he has a glazed moronic look on his face. They turn to go.
‘Come here Fuckwit!’ The younger woman obeys kneeling beside his chair.
‘Grab me another beer will you?’
‘OK, daddy’.

I can’t recall what happened after that.

Never Trust a Monk in Colored Robes by Kyle Hemmings

In my old bedroom
I was a turncoat monk
who became your ambitious lover,
sold your hooch on the street
for sixty pieces of silver,
excited by your stories
of your first tampon,
touchy recollections
those early signs
of anal bleeding.

And you vowed
never again
to be on your knees
discharging static-electric guilt
uttering a penance
for every fellatio committed
with blindfold and numbed tongue,
the groping tickled.
And you
praying
like some sex-starved convert
to a pagan god
of broken down dishwashers
and Budweiser Light epiphanies
your nipples erect
as totems
in between the sheets.

i read the big shot poets & i just don't fucking get it by Rob Plath

i skim their books in the store
w/nicotine stained fingers
while hungover as shit

searching for something to make
the hairs on my arms stand up

but the strands remain flat
on my flesh much like their verse

their souls are as stiff as the uncreased
spines of their books
while the poets themselves are spineless

do they compose this stuff
while running on treadmills?

at some fancy desk while sipping
decaffeinated mint green tea?

while wearing slippers & a robe
& reading the goddamn newspaper?

where are the ones that are
beyond politics?

beyond history?

beyond self-preservation?

where are the ones shaking in a corner
somewhere like one-eared mutt

hemorrhaging whatever soul juice
remains

their teeth bared 24/7

b/c they are against
everything,

including life...

Liar by Hunter Liguore

Truth, subjective anarchy, a model of right and wrong.
Whose truth is sculpted and molded in its likeness for all society to embrace?

Truth, like laces of candy-cotton melting on one’s tongue,
melding, forgotten, replaced with a newer truth.

Over time the sugar and sweet of your righteousness rots the teeth, the bones, the spine.
I am a liar. You are a liar.
We are equal partners, sharing our blasphemy, our contradictions.

We have resolved our differences, we are one, both liars, both soothsayers of the truth
anarchists with a common tool—Truth.

Sunday's Grid Iron Gunslinger by David S. Pointer

Beneath the sacred
100+ yards of soil,

Broadway Brett Farve
has been sutured,
surgically repaired
and sent wintersmithing

purple or 'Packering'
to coldest Minnesota,
pinned under wide screens
by wider tackles or guards

growling this argument,
insult or coach's expectations

the ex-Lombardi land
leader drops back
blazing like a buckled
racehorse full throttle

fire still on each ball
bound for a bigger story

True Love by Catfish McDaris

He'd waited 29 years
for his team to
get in the Super Bowl

An ice chest of beer,
a bowl of nachos & popcorn
rested next to his recliner,
he was in heaven

Nonstop action from kick off
until 5 minutes left,
his boys were ahead, but
victory was far from certain

His wife walked in buck naked,
yanked the lever on his chair,
so that he was staring straight up

Throwing her leg over his head,
positioning herself like a bronco
rider, she said, "Now prove,
that you love me."

The Party Animal by Paul Hellweg

Twenty-five years ago
I wrote poetry
about going to parties
and being the outsider,
observing life,
writing about it,
but not partaking.
Last night
I went to a party
and met all the lonely people
who drank to ease their pain,
and I’m becoming more social
now that I fit in.

Amerika über alles by Ross Vassilev

my friend Bob Flanagan
wrote a novel called
Maggot
about the horrors of
Parris Island
where they turn
Marine recruits into
killing machines

hearing the stories
on the news of
what American soldiers
do to Iraqi civilians
I’d say
mission accomplished

but the business
of the American people
is war

without war
we’d be just another
peaceful country

wasting away
the summer afternoons
drinking beer and
smoking pot in
the glorious setting sun.

2 Poems by J. Bradley

The Kama Sutra of Prince Charming

I will bite the apple
of your neck, hold you
like a glass coffin.

I will empty you
of all your promise;
you'll say my name
backwards.



How I Learned To Hide The Evidence Using Bulimics, Poor Fashion Sense

The sweater collar gnawed
at my cheeks like embarrassment.

I spent the afternoon prying
fishing hooks from the corner
of my mouth; she asked earlier
"Why do you still love me?"

I wrote "help" in the dandruff
smothering my shoulders;
I'm still waiting for the dogs.

I Love Lucy by Catfish McDaris

My name is Pancho
I work on a rancho
I earn $2.50 a day

I go home to Lucy
she gives me pussy
& take my $2.50 away.

a 16th street memory by Mat Gould

I walked out
of
a
frigid gas station bathroom
on
the other side of the freeway off ramp
after
your
girlfriend slid against the wall
and
hit the floor
I didn't see you for awhile
and
I still haven't
the last I knew
you
were a thespian of sorts
and
working out of the renovated church office
where
we
used to meet up
insignificant angels
taming the stone gargoyles
of
inner city roof-tops
knowing
our
sadness
was
animated
we lived it out anyway
now
I spend my days
looking
for
used books I don't really need
and
finding poem
in
the rust of bones
and
the blood of soles
and
get paid for social work that no one else wants to handle
only
because
I've been there with these fuck-ups
and
I remember
the taste of kissing my arm
after
loosening the tie-off
and
I remember how hard it is to care
about
much else
but
thats not true
there isn't anything we can do about it
and
this is why
I
think about you
every
so
often-

The Heaven Of The Alone by Mike Meraz

some dreams are cut short by reality.
I have never grabbed hold of reality.
my dreams are still alive.
as other men my age have a wife,
kids, and a house payment.
I have nothing but a hope,
a dream, and place of solitude.
we all put importance on different things.
some see marriage as the ideal life.
I have never thought this way.
to me happiness consists mainly of peace.
whatever situation brings me this
is the situation I gravitate to.
relationships have never brought me peace.
as absurd as this may sound, it is true.
most of my happiness comes from
moments of solitude.
when that strange feeling comes over me
that says, "it's ok, there is no need to conform,
be by yourself."
even now, as I write this to you,
there is no place I'd rather be
than right here with this pen and paper,
with that feeling of peace,
and the untainted energy of myself.
as others scramble about outside,
doing whatever they are doing,
I am here, needing nothing, wanting nothing,
but a room, a space, a place
of solitude.

such is the heaven of the alone.

Royalty by Joseph Hargraves

The quacking bum has found a partner
in the obese woman who’s taken off her
Mercedes Benz T-shirt. They’re kissing
smack in the center of the fountain.
The sun reflects the pool:
for a moment- they are beautiful.
The lunch-break secretaries in sneakers
are frightened by the lovers’ exalted state,
and return to high-rise cubicles.
But the couple in the fountain
are so blessed that even prick cop
Sanchez doesn't write them tickets.
Instead he's lighting a cigarette
for a blonde face-lift in 90 degree
heat and leather pants.
A naked girl with filthy feet
is laughing. Another little girl
kisses her on her left nipple
and strokes Sappho's hair.
A tattooed drunk yells to the crowd:
"My wife is royalty!"
He is embracing a grey haired
woman who is, despite the odds,
statuesque and regal. They
know they are Royalty.
Holding hands, they laugh
and stagger to an ivy bower.
After a luxurious fuck,
they fall asleep, oblivious
to us anti-royalists.

3 Poems by Adam Moorad

Quantum

there are pictures of my embalmed body
posted on a website selling ad space

i’m squeeze a Visa between my testicles
swollen my broken brown bowl buttock fishes

i download myself i buffer
i see something else my ribs
no color i saved them i deleted them



Goose Island

the trash digs condoms full of unsent sperm
someone stored for cereal sex
some sound of screeching in/out a cheerio hole

i press one tongue i chew
i make, i find my saliva well
frothing old coffee mush mold

i swim my arms
in the bottom of the can
inside empty bottles
under the brown bags
there is a germ
who says, swallow



Eaten Disorder

my drones feel, press error keys
make speckled buzz spayed cat choke

my hair fucks static
my knees shred numb human faces

i fall to the floor on the floor i feel another
floor behind it vibration fiber eats
and eats the carpet

the carpet eats my hair
my hair cells grow out saturated
the tar baby black trauma
insect squeak-rubs its legs together
squealing, i worm dance

half empty bottle of sin by R.G. Johnson

carved you flowers of frogs and glass,
hung displays of infant worlds awakening,
wove a thought that you never wear.

shrubs should have been silver-fronded, but they were not.
words were sabotaged by clock puppets flashing solitude from your briefcase;
wooden solitude with a black veining smile.

teeth diminishing, teeth gone, teeth again.

tied spidery dream catchers from metaphysical ropes
to forget.

you left nothing but your stains.

drank mournful remembrances
of green life drying up
as psychotic windmills wobbled old hymns.

liquid jewels seeped from fractured and starred blue eyes,
and golden gloom waved a sure farewell.

I have run out of miracles.