DREAMS & ASHES by Rob Plath

i dream of a table in the middle of a wooded road
& natalie portman runs up to a bush, crouches down
& pulls out a binder marked ‘suicide letters’
along w/a tray of freshly baked peanut butter cookies

& we sit at the table straddling the center white line
& slowly read the letters & eat the sweet, warm cookies
& never once look up to see if a car is coming

& when i awake my mother’s ashes
are right there on the table
but i feel briefly & strangely consoled…

Three Poems by Robert D. Lyons

stepping
into the
shower
and remembering all
the women
the hungover mornings
their eyes
gentle
as they scrubbed my
cock
and back

their hair
heavy
in my hands

the way the
water
dripped
over their
cunts

like rain
over a rose
bud

their hands were so
soft
so compassionate

half dead
they resurrected me
with soap
and a smile

but today
there is only a
single
cockroach
in here
with me

i imagine its
female

but i drown her
with my
hangover

____________________________


breathing the ash
of old wamac
over a dollar fifty
beer

an old town
that has become
new
again

half the town
burnt
to the
ground
forty years ago
they only rebuilt the
dives
and the liquor stores

and it’s the closest thing
ive ever seen
to eden

the gods
sit
on the stools
up front
and speak as they
always have

in a drunken
slur

___________________________


for the past year now
i have been consumed
by the need
to flee
this city

i want to become a
refuge

but im barely
paying
my bus pass

i dream of finding
a city
bathed
not in sunlight
but in shadow
and rain

where the
jobs
and women
are easy

and where the
popping
of bottles
can be heard
as soon as you
step
outside

Miss Lakeishia Sings The Blues by Donal Mahoney

Listen, mister, you're a guest
at the Night Owl Club
so you can sit here
all night long, tip me
after every song,
buy me scotch
till the final gong
but none of that will help.

You'll still go home alone
unless some other lady has a need
to make her rent
and sees the opportunity
you offer. It won't be me;
I can't be bothered.
I need a different kind of man,
a man who'll hug me tighter

than my panties can,
a big ole man
whose big ole tongue
will be my tampon
when I'm dry.
Get off that stool
and look in the mirror
behind those whiskey bottles

so you can see what I see.
Then we'll both know why
you can never be that man,
not even for an hour.
I'm no Billie Holiday,
but even with my glasses off,
I can see that you
ain't no John Wayne.

Two Poems by Mike Meraz

ONLY A WRITER

a girl, Italian, big hips,
tattooed legs, comes in
my store every week
to buy groceries.

I’ve been meaning to talk
to her but all I get out is:

“can I help you?”

and

“uh, excuse me…”

and all I can get out of her
is:

“no…”

and

“mhmm…”

though our conversations are short,
I feel we have something going on,
a little pitter patter floods my heart
every time I see her.

I must think of something
smooth to say to her,
something clever,

like in one of my poems
where a light shines
at the end
and a smile enters
the heart.



You Are Beautiful, Don’t Let Anyone Tell You Different
.
your eyes write books.
your mouth plays songs.
your body is an orchestra.

you are not one
that needs to create.
you are a creation.

be still
and wondrous.

Three Poems by Rob Plath

PATTI SMITH WOULDN'T WRITE ME A POEM ABOUT SHIT

i asked patti smith
to write me a poem
about taking a healthy shit
"i have no time," she said
so i flashed her
my HOLY THE ABYSS tattoo
she said, "that's cool"
but still didn't write me
a poem about taking
a healthy shit
i was sad on the subway
damn her, i thought
as the car screeched
thru the dark tunnel
i'll write a fucking poem
about patti smith not writing
me a poem about taking
a healthy shit then!
i was happy i 'd decided on it
in fact, i was psyched
& far from constipated



PLANET ABSENCE

some absences are colossal
the emptiness the size of a planet
have you ever traveled in a lonely capsule to PLANET ABSENCE?
have you have wandered its terrible wilderness
where every one of the twisted trees is braided w/absence?



POISE

yes—there is a wound
for each doomed love

many scars from failures
like ugly constellations

& misery is for keeps,
my friend

but then again, there are
always white teacups
offering sweetness

a generously open window
resuscitating yr dead angel

& a bird in morning fog
whistling of peace