tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73833220994577543972024-02-18T18:53:52.185-08:00Black-Listed MagazineBlack-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.comBlogger483125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-67985706707188606162015-09-04T12:06:00.000-07:002015-09-04T12:06:44.823-07:00An Ax For The Frozen Sea by Rob Plath available at Epic Rites Press<a href="http://www.freewebstore.org/Tree-Killer-Ink/product/ax-for-the-frozen-sea">An Ax For The Frozen Sea</a><br />
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Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-651754374067683622015-09-04T11:58:00.000-07:002015-09-04T11:59:12.186-07:00The Fold by Chris ButlerSociety<br />
attempted to fold me<br />
in square creases<br />
into the mold<br />
of all other scraps of paper<br />
shaped into origami swans,<br />
<br />
but like all of the fallen trees,<br />
I’d rather rot.<br />
<br />Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-85561479814011812112015-09-04T11:47:00.000-07:002015-09-04T11:48:03.041-07:00Smokes by Ryan Quinn FlanaganThe many teenagers<br />
out front the corner convenience<br />
want me to buy them<br />
smokes.<br />
<br />
They appeal to my vanity<br />
<br />
make me feel young again<br />
anything to get them<br />
smokes.<br />
<br />
A few of the girls<br />
<br />
make eyes<br />
rub my shoulder<br />
as if paedophilia<br />
took a holiday.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately<br />
<br />
for them<br />
I am good.<br />
<br />
Fortified<br />
<br />
as any<br />
wine.<br />
<br />
Having jerked off eight times<br />
<br />
in the past twenty-six<br />
hours<br />
(a new land speed<br />
record)<br />
<br />
I desire a bag of pork rinds<br />
<br />
and a 2 litre<br />
Coke<br />
<br />
and no longer<br />
<br />
them.<br />
<br />Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-30416847909939106482015-09-04T11:40:00.000-07:002015-09-04T11:40:23.431-07:00Map of wanton Omaha by James DiazAll fall<br />
the entire horse hair<br />
moving<br />
its blue bone prayer<br />
the blur in your voice<br />
is a borrowed thing<br />
not even five dollars<br />
will mother you<br />
<br />
the next station<br />
is a crippled man/woman<br />
with child rearing phantom hips<br />
lost in a bout<br />
of 48 years, non-living<br />
sentient blindness<br />
<br />
cool even<br />
the way a person hands<br />
you a piece of their soul<br />
smiling<br />
'I too, am lost in that desert'<br />
lesson #1, do not<br />
trust that the world<br />
will continue to be there<br />
every time you open your eyes.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-48306876381610781022015-09-04T11:35:00.001-07:002015-09-04T11:35:40.861-07:00ENJOY OBLIVION by Wolfgang Carstens available at Epic Rites Press<a href="http://www.freewebstore.org/Tree-Killer-Ink/product/enjoy-oblivion">ENJOY OBLIVION</a><br />
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Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-33492970539539895602015-09-04T11:17:00.000-07:002015-09-04T11:20:18.766-07:00Two Poems by John GreyTHE WOMAN WHO FELL FROM THE BRIDGE<br />
<br />
the crowd can’t get enough<br />
of that female corpse<br />
<br />
being dragged from the river –<br />
if you slapped that<br />
<br />
grisly green flesh<br />
on a plate before them<br />
<br />
they’d gorge on the misfortune<br />
like vultures<br />
<br />
then piss in their own mouths<br />
to wash it down<br />
<br />
unless, of course,<br />
it’s someone they know –<br />
<br />
then they’d be sated enough<br />
for having pushed her.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
WHERE IT LEAKS<br />
<br />
The leaking tap<br />
seems important at the time.<br />
Despite my struggles with, wrench and washer,<br />
my failure drip drip drips out of the faucet.<br />
<br />
On TV, more sick, more dying.<br />
A nun lifts up a frail arm,<br />
thin as a plumber's snake.<br />
<br />
On that tell-all screen,<br />
the world is never more repulsive.<br />
Children with concave chests, bloated bellies.<br />
Lepers. A young girl's botched circumcision.<br />
An old man sunk in a mire of sores.<br />
<br />
Almost forget the leaking tap<br />
in all this misery.<br />
But it's insistent.<br />
Hard to believe a tiny drop of water<br />
can beat the basin like a bass drum.<br />
<br />
The tap never does get fixed.<br />
Likewise the world.<br />
The newscast, at least,<br />
can turn to weather and sports.<br />
No idea who won.<br />
Only that it rained in my house.<br />
<br />Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-11930638564833606592015-09-04T10:57:00.000-07:002015-09-04T10:58:38.911-07:00Getting out of the fuzzy place by David E. HowertonFog covered, and cool day starts<br />
stay up late, eyes gummy, still tired.<br />
<br />
Just as some News copter<br />
passes overhead<br />
more annoying than morning rush.<br />
<br />
Run fingers through graying hair<br />
start coffee brewing.<br />
<br />
If I'd been out there<br />
I'd have given<br />
a one finger salute.<br />
<br />Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-86929100211105019822015-09-04T09:56:00.000-07:002015-09-04T11:36:53.749-07:00She Poems by Mike Meraz available at Epic Rites Press<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1926860500">She Poems</a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8WJsYT1u_t2G9RblxDT9JkSMqSmfN3b4Qs4w_jQLEURKnkvcsBsUFs4ZyayFm3QECexP14LO3t_yni9SFEmjKaC4IIxtZmZV7XqndpwLKBlW-9xsTMq38pUyDlMQkiXWl8MP76B4er7me/s1600/432383_orig+she+poems.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8WJsYT1u_t2G9RblxDT9JkSMqSmfN3b4Qs4w_jQLEURKnkvcsBsUFs4ZyayFm3QECexP14LO3t_yni9SFEmjKaC4IIxtZmZV7XqndpwLKBlW-9xsTMq38pUyDlMQkiXWl8MP76B4er7me/s320/432383_orig+she+poems.jpg" width="184" /></a></div>
Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-32948516180642093582015-03-19T21:41:00.000-07:002015-03-19T21:41:07.852-07:00girl in blinding pink boob tube by Michael Ashleythe flies come and go<br />
buzzing around<br />
<br />
it's a virtue the bastards<br />
can't tear up — patience<br />
<br />
& eventually the bin lid<br />
will lift — smell the rot<br />
<br />
the little blighters feed<br />
<br />
then leave as quickly<br />
as they came<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-20874942503701826622015-02-20T06:05:00.003-08:002015-02-20T06:07:03.376-08:00Two Poems by Christopher Mulrooney<b>mall</b><br />
<br />
formerly in the District of Columbia now a makeshift<br />
ersatz thing powered by electrons from the son of a bitch<br />
gird your loins before you enter they pat you down you know<br />
and feel you up put things where you don’t want ‘em etc.<br />
the tour guides all have unfeeling faces meant to look agreeable<br />
and no doubt but that is the face at the other end living<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>news</b><br />
<br />
it comes on a tickertape you tear off to read an item<br />
x-ray delta reports tom gib rumble oh dark hundred<br />
well got have them eh next daisy mae weds rube<br />
flash charlotte russe had by all shazam what a titbit<br />
framboise cerise writes on the fashion world latest thing bell jar that<br />
<br />Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-6396303939329163862015-02-20T05:58:00.001-08:002015-02-20T06:06:54.077-08:00Two Poems by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois<b>Grunge</b><br />
<br />
Kindly SHUT UP<br />
about the grunge<br />
under my fingernails<br />
That’s one way I express myself<br />
tell the world who I am<br />
<br />
Self-same my grimy teeth<br />
face with no make-up<br />
except for the red lipstick I smear wildly<br />
around my mouth<br />
<br />
These are my ways of being me<br />
avenues the psycho-pharmaceuticals cannot travel<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Army</b><br />
<br />
booze<br />
drugs<br />
domestic violence<br />
on the Rez<br />
<br />
Finally decided I’m no whipping post<br />
no ultimate scapegoat for<br />
European genocide<br />
<br />
The only out I could see<br />
was the Army<br />
<br />
Then I could be on the violent side<br />
giving not taking<br />
punishing Al Quaida for what they did<br />
<br />
What my enemy’s capable of<br />
I know<br />
<br />
No Iraqi will ever<br />
come in my barracks in the<br />
middle of the night<br />
and try to rape me and choke me<br />
to death<br />
<br />Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-35971066930892508702015-02-20T05:54:00.000-08:002015-02-20T05:54:52.374-08:00Three Poems by Mike MerazLast night<br />
I talked<br />
Too much<br />
To a girl<br />
In my<br />
Bed<br />
<br />
There was a<br />
Point when<br />
I knew<br />
I should just<br />
Shut<br />
Up<br />
<br />
And kiss<br />
Her<br />
<br />
Which<br />
Led<br />
To<br />
Another<br />
Conversation.<br />
<br />
__________________<br />
<br />
<br />
At least<br />
The<br />
Emptiness<br />
Is not<br />
Filled<br />
With<br />
Something<br />
I do not<br />
Want<br />
<br />
Emptiness<br />
Is not<br />
Always<br />
A bad<br />
Thing<br />
<br />
It is<br />
Sometimes<br />
Mass<br />
Potential.<br />
<br />
___________________<br />
<br />
<br />
She says<br />
Let me see<br />
If you can<br />
Hold my<br />
Weight<br />
<br />
She lays<br />
On top<br />
Of me<br />
Horizontally<br />
<br />
She is at<br />
Least<br />
140 lbs<br />
<br />
Of<br />
Love.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-55436396470692022072015-02-20T05:41:00.000-08:002015-02-20T05:41:47.079-08:00Three Poems by Scott Thomas Outlar<b>Sweet Sexy Mythology</b><br />
<br />
It starts<br />
as a little<br />
white spot<br />
on the inside<br />
of the cheek<br />
barely reachable<br />
by the tongue<br />
but enough<br />
to know<br />
something is wrong<br />
<br />
It grows<br />
over the months<br />
at a snail’s pace<br />
but with a bulging grace<br />
that spreads the tumor<br />
throughout the flesh<br />
to the gums<br />
and the blood<br />
and the deep parts<br />
of the mind<br />
that worry<br />
over the mass<br />
that is surely<br />
not benign<br />
<br />
The cancer erupts<br />
with laughter<br />
saying, “I’ve got you”<br />
but not realizing<br />
it’s a suicide mission<br />
It’s ok<br />
there are virgins waiting in Heaven<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Taoist Shit</b><br />
<br />
A ragged cough<br />
begins to sound<br />
the same as an orgasm<br />
after enough cycles<br />
of dualistic life and death<br />
have played out<br />
and all the primal noises<br />
prick the same synapses<br />
in the mind<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>It’s All So Stupid</b><br />
<br />
Everyone is poisoned<br />
by opinions.<br />
Everyone has beliefs<br />
that are complete<br />
bullshit,<br />
but they’re so implanted and infirmed<br />
in their life patterns<br />
that they can’t even recognize<br />
the habit energies at all.<br />
I’m sure I have my own,<br />
so I’m not<br />
just a fool<br />
casting stones<br />
blindly.<br />
I watch these people<br />
with their stupid opinions<br />
regurgitate, rant and rave<br />
about this or that,<br />
and I guess<br />
in the end<br />
I really am<br />
just one of them<br />
because all I seem to do<br />
is opine<br />
about how filthy<br />
and festering<br />
and fucked up<br />
all these fools are.<br />
I guess my opinion is<br />
that everyone<br />
is a failure,<br />
so I might as well<br />
go for first prize<br />
by running my mouth<br />
more than anyone.<br />
<br />Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-14276901657394001402014-09-21T14:19:00.000-07:002014-09-21T14:19:31.472-07:00Three Poems by Jasmine Aequitas<b>sleep</b><br />
<br />
legs are slick<br />
scissoring<br />
sin and<br />
bedsheet and skin<br />
talon grips<br />
pillow<br />
slips<br />
cotton tethers<br />
<br />
the night<br />
is made<br />
for ease<br />
<br />
but i fight<br />
like i never<br />
want to see<br />
daybreak.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>bottoms up</b><br />
<br />
i fell<br />
clumsily<br />
into love<br />
<br />
caught<br />
off guard<br />
all<br />
topsy turvy<br />
<br />
in a vertigo<br />
i enjoy<br />
more<br />
than i let on<br />
<br />
he laughed<br />
brushed<br />
the dirt<br />
from my scraped<br />
knee<br />
<br />
and<br />
casually<br />
remarked<br />
<br />
do you<br />
always<br />
defy<br />
gravity?<br />
<br />
for the right<br />
moment<br />
the right<br />
mouth<br />
<br />
i break<br />
every rule<br />
i was told<br />
i need to<br />
follow<br />
<br />
the ground<br />
is where<br />
the foundation<br />
of anything<br />
great<br />
begins.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>chasing mania</b><br />
<br />
on nights<br />
like these<br />
<br />
i<br />
chainsmoke<br />
drink<br />
write<br />
<br />
i dance<br />
<br />
trying<br />
to outrun<br />
the voices<br />
the heaviness<br />
the<br />
not-good-enough<br />
not-nearly-enough<br />
of life<br />
<br />
of blank faces<br />
empty eyes<br />
cold lips<br />
<br />
on nights<br />
like these<br />
my skin<br />
burns<br />
come-hithers<br />
and shivers<br />
coaxing<br />
lioness<br />
from<br />
complacent<br />
housecat<br />
<br />
on nights<br />
like these<br />
i channel<br />
the woman<br />
whose hips<br />
speak<br />
with a cheshire grin<br />
<br />
whose<br />
spine<br />
curves<br />
like<br />
a question mark<br />
that punctuates<br />
need<br />
as an<br />
answer<br />
<br />
whose<br />
mouth<br />
is a weapon<br />
half-cocked<br />
and ready<br />
to be fully<br />
loaded<br />
<br />
on nights<br />
like these<br />
i am<br />
pliable promise<br />
breaking<br />
<br />
until the cigarettes<br />
are all ash<br />
and the bottle is empty<br />
and the sun<br />
threatens tomorrow<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-74008075248288427302014-09-21T14:05:00.000-07:002014-09-21T17:20:10.920-07:00 Two Poems by Volodymyr Bilykhold your breath for a minute or so<br />
<br />
Complacency sets in<br />
Squandering<br />
the savage jaw<br />
<br />
"Drive", he said<br />
"Steve Taylor"<br />
<br />
"Drive", she said<br />
"Stan Ridgway"<br />
<br />
"...A change of speed,<br />
a change of style.<br />
A change of scene..."<br />
<br />
you dream of their kiss<br />
Do you think you'd like that?<br />
<br />
<br />
________________________________<br />
<br />
<br />
Thin White Rope<br />
for the<br />
Thin White Duke<br />
<br />
over the<br />
Thin Blue Line<br />
and the<br />
Thin Blue Line<br />
and the<br />
Thin Red Line<br />
and the<br />
Thin Red Line<br />
<br />
Man on Wire<br />
Walks on By<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-90775280427725998952014-08-25T08:26:00.000-07:002014-08-25T08:26:25.665-07:00Two Poems by Danny D Ford<b>She’s Gone</b><br />
<br />
She’s gone to Milan<br />
and left her perfume in the closet<br />
sweet cheek and neck<br />
hanging with the coats<br />
Her hoodie lies crumpled<br />
in the bidet<br />
it’s clean enough to do that<br />
she tells me<br />
but I know<br />
I wash my balls in there<br />
I don’t know when she’ll be back<br />
I have a faint idea<br />
but<br />
until then<br />
I’ll just have to walk the rooms<br />
wondering<br />
checking the curtains to see<br />
if any of her warmth<br />
still creeps from the window<br />
where she stood before lunch<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Bellano</b><br />
<br />
There’s a town we pass often<br />
called Bellano<br />
which literally translates as<br />
‘beautiful asshole’<br />
No one around here finds it funny<br />
Now in my time<br />
I’ve been fortunate enough<br />
to have opened<br />
some sublime slender<br />
legs<br />
to have pulled panties<br />
from tight, smooth<br />
cracks<br />
to have stared into infinite<br />
bliss<br />
and to have kissed what felt like the cheeks<br />
of God<br />
BUT<br />
I’ve never seen a view like this<br />
the trees, the lake, the mountains<br />
I guess<br />
whoever named this town<br />
had been more fortunate than I<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-2906679440004110322014-08-24T11:44:00.000-07:002014-08-24T11:44:41.227-07:00Monday Morning 7:05 AM by Ted JackinsThese are the days<br />
When all I want to<br />
Do is lay the needle<br />
Down on Bitches Brew,<br />
Side two,<br />
And throw open every<br />
Window so that the<br />
Sounds of the slowly<br />
Falling rain gets<br />
Lost in the faint<br />
Crackle of the speakers.<br />
I'll light a cigarette,<br />
And sit by idle<br />
On the couch<br />
With my coffee<br />
And my woman<br />
As the cats chase<br />
Buzzing insect<br />
Intruders under<br />
The kitchen table,<br />
And for one brief<br />
Moment not have<br />
To worry about the<br />
Slowly piling bills<br />
Or whether or not<br />
I'll be late<br />
For work,<br />
As the last gasps<br />
Of summer fade<br />
Into the run out<br />
Grooves of<br />
My periphery.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-32160980618940049032014-08-24T11:38:00.000-07:002014-08-24T11:38:44.949-07:00Pussy by Amanda HarrisYou write about as well as I did<br />
when I was six–<br />
with your use of animals<br />
and your need to make<br />
every goddamn<br />
thing you write<br />
in the shape of an animal-<br />
My friends think I shouldn’t<br />
hate your guts,<br />
but they’re nice people.<br />
They don’t know what<br />
it feels like<br />
to look at a poem<br />
and want to<br />
gouge your eyes out<br />
with fire.<br />
For months, I’ve<br />
been trying to forget<br />
you exist.<br />
I trashed my library.<br />
I attacked my computer<br />
with a blowtorch.<br />
Every time I got in bed<br />
to write or fuck though,<br />
I thought of your bad words<br />
and your bad sex<br />
and it’s no wonder<br />
a woman like me would<br />
say such angry things<br />
when the literary world<br />
is contaminated<br />
with men who<br />
can’t fuck,<br />
can’t write.<br />
<br />Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-55125504422936136832014-08-23T19:59:00.000-07:002014-08-23T19:59:19.395-07:00In which my Puritan ancestor visits me in a waking dream by Thomas R. Thomas<i>and another thing, you’re just dressed in a t-shirt.</i><br />
<br />
but I’m home alone in my couch.<br />
<br />
<i>but it’s shameful. God will condemn you,</i><br />
<br />
God doesn’t care what I wear at home.<br />
<br />
<i>and you should be ashamed</i><br />
<br />
well, you might have something there. I don’t have the body<br />
of a thirty year old,<br />
<br />
<i>of yourself and cover your shame.</i><br />
<br />
and I can’t imagine God made this body, and look at you<br />
you’re just a skeleton in a Puritan outfit.<br />
<br />
<i>Well, I’m dead you know.</i><br />
<br />
That you are, and besides some nights even a t-shirt is too<br />
much clothing, but I can’t take it off all because of you<br />
damn puritans - thank you very much.<br />
<br />
<i>You’re welcome.</i><br />
<br />
That’s one thing you Puritans gave to America.<br />
<br />
<i>Shame.</i><br />
<br />
Shame, thank you very much.<br />
<br />
<i>You’re welcome. What’s America?</i><br />
<br />Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-10475488170351785832014-08-23T19:36:00.000-07:002014-08-23T19:36:26.289-07:00Pow Wow by Bud Smith other people don't understand<br />
our window, washing machine<br />
the trick to the shower<br />
how to force open the broken<br />
cellar door, cabinet, closet<br />
where to find our condoms<br />
secret fact, there are none<br />
they can't stand in our doorways<br />
even, and sigh how we can<br />
or find the other shoe<br />
the secret sugar, the pink candles<br />
playing cards, remote controls<br />
maps to wherever the dog ran<br />
wish I knew too<br />
our sheets could use more bleach<br />
and our cops need to get laid<br />
in this development, our fortunes<br />
are invested in beer<br />
we raise our fortunes to you<br />
as you walk up the driveway<br />
thanks for coming to visit<br />
tell me about some things<br />
I could never<br />
understand.<br />
<br />Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-9923743671912818602014-08-16T09:53:00.000-07:002014-08-16T09:54:13.094-07:00Two Poems by Marc Olmsted<b>Vegan Lollipop </b><br />
<br />
she wants to be approached<br />
she doesn't want the trim hipster beards<br />
she wants trouble with her blue hair<br />
vegan lollipop<br />
the next big thing<br />
glowing phones<br />
has somebody called?<br />
getting older<br />
it's in the crowd<br />
a pestilence<br />
the next big thing<br />
red-lit<br />
nobody won<br />
hands of vapor<br />
cigarette ruins<br />
Poe's "Red Death"<br />
"...dominion over all."<br />
BLACK ANGELS<br />
private<br />
party<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>di Prima B-day</b><br />
<br />
Hook knife suspended by itself<br />
<br />
Poetry benefit - those who don't come send the most money<br />
<br />
The silence is deafening<br />
the gap between words<br />
drive a truck through<br />
<br />
between worlds<br />
enlightened society flickers<br />
<br />
here you are 80<br />
<br />
Dharmic yammer<br />
Political rant<br />
Kitchen sink practice<br />
<br />Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-26107935757490120042014-08-14T05:05:00.000-07:002014-08-14T05:05:58.264-07:00Two Poems by Kevin Ridgeway<b>Cock-Blocked by Robert Stack and the Pillsbury Doughboy</b><br />
<br />
twelve years old<br />
and lying flat on the<br />
pink fuzzy bath mat<br />
of the only bathroom<br />
in the house,<br />
the sink running<br />
two feet resting against<br />
the door, a pair of<br />
Wrangler jeans wrapped<br />
around twin ankles,<br />
a wrinkled picture<br />
of Barbara Stanwyck<br />
in a negligee<br />
cut out of a movie<br />
magazine taped<br />
on the wall at eye level,<br />
hard at work and<br />
nearly--<br />
<br />
there is a loud<br />
knock at the door.<br />
my mother asks if<br />
I am alright.<br />
<br />
Yes, I yell back.<br />
<br />
she asks me to hurry,<br />
that Unsolved Mysteries<br />
is about to come on.<br />
<br />
at work fast.<br />
Stanwyck sneers<br />
with absolute<br />
disgust as I am<br />
just about to--<br />
<br />
another knock and<br />
hollers to hurry. <br />
the creepy music and<br />
Robert Stack's voice<br />
ruin everything.<br />
<br />
I walk out with my<br />
Fred Flintstone t shirt<br />
stretched to conceal<br />
the miniature failure while<br />
the Pillsbury Doughboy<br />
giggles with delight from<br />
a commercial; I bet his<br />
mother gave that little<br />
bastard plenty of time to<br />
finish up.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>The Macauley Culkin Lookalike Contest</b><br />
<br />
you've got the goods, kid<br />
the talent agent told me<br />
after I wowed him with<br />
a monologue from<br />
Eddie and the Cruisers 2:<br />
Eddie Lives!<br />
and all his fellow<br />
agents agreed that I<br />
could very well be<br />
the next tow-headed<br />
miniature billion<br />
dollar franchise<br />
to sink<br />
his Velcro shoes<br />
in Chinese Theatre<br />
concrete, immortalized<br />
forever in between<br />
Ethel Merman and<br />
Billy Dee Williams<br />
<br />
my hair was saturated<br />
in Sun-In for each casting<br />
call, where me and hundreds<br />
of other kids ran our lines<br />
from the same three page<br />
scene in competition for<br />
the coveted role as<br />
Alan Thicke's son<br />
in a sitcom pilot,<br />
which I came very close<br />
to landing but they<br />
complained that I was too<br />
reminiscent of Macauley,<br />
which all of the casting<br />
directors said until I called<br />
it quits. <br />
<br />
my headshot still greets<br />
me from mother's wall,<br />
a stark reminder that I<br />
am a generic label<br />
knockoff, one of<br />
thousands of bastard<br />
Culkins who never<br />
amassed fortunes or<br />
hung out with Michael<br />
Jackson and Bubbles,<br />
only to grow up to have<br />
kids at Jamba Juice tell<br />
them they look like<br />
the fat guy from<br />
The Hangover.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-70017881728138765482014-08-13T22:34:00.000-07:002014-08-13T22:34:42.232-07:00Two Poems by Joel Landmine<b>Extended Metaphor</b><br />
<br />
I’ve heard of these shamanic “power animals.”<br />
Power animals are supposed to represent a person's connection to all life, their qualities of<br />
character, and their power.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Bullshit modern people<br />
have adopted a bullshit version<br />
of this totemic belief.<br />
<br />
Except these bullshit modern people<br />
just make up their own<br />
and pretend they’ve always had it,<br />
that it means something to them.<br />
<br />
So I’ve given it some thought,<br />
and decided to join them.<br />
I’m as full of shit as the next guy.<br />
<br />
My power fucking animal<br />
<br />
is the snail.<br />
That means something to me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Sometimes I Think the Fates Are Just Shitty Kids Shoving Firecrackers Up Cats’ Asses </b><br />
<b>and Lighting Bags Of Shit On Fire On Your Stoop</b><br />
<br />
“I have a dentist appointment<br />
tomorrow at one.<br />
Please, please, leave before or after that.<br />
Please don’t leave me while I’m sitting at<br />
the fucking dentist’s,<br />
with those protective glasses<br />
and that little fucking bib<br />
I don’t think I can bear it.”<br />
<br />
It was the last thing I ever asked of her.<br />
<br />
“Oh baby,”<br />
she cooed sweetly, kissing my scowling mouth,<br />
“of course I can do that.<br />
You know I wouldn’t do that to you!”<br />
<br />
And guess what?<br />
<br />Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-90458746923521563742014-08-13T22:22:00.000-07:002014-08-13T22:23:43.281-07:00Two Poems by Cassandra Dallett<b>Chains</b><br />
<br />
I’d been walking along in the afternoon sun<br />
when his fist hit my sternum<br />
ripped my shirt open.<br />
Reaching up I feel my chain still there.<br />
That’s what he was after<br />
but he’d missed.<br />
<br />
I held my shirt closed,<br />
felt a little raped.<br />
He was gone before I could yell, or turn, or run after him<br />
just a blur behind me<br />
standing at Seventh and Mission<br />
fingering my saved Herringbone<br />
the top ripped open on my fly black shorts outfit<br />
printed gold with Egyptians<br />
there was nothing to do, no reason to call,<br />
I lived with the Police<br />
was out on a pass<br />
from The Sherriff’s Work Furlough Program<br />
what could I do but keep walking<br />
Seventh Street is always bad news<br />
the path to the VD clinic<br />
or the police station<br />
<br />
I crossed the street by the new jail construction<br />
head to the Swap building.<br />
Wonder at the fact that, though I have nothing<br />
I have something<br />
I‘m kind of homeless these days<br />
since my surrender.<br />
I live in custody but this piece of gold on my neck<br />
a gift from a married man<br />
is something,<br />
someone else wants enough to take off my body<br />
the day’s light cools<br />
I sign in at the deputies’ desk<br />
head back to the ladies dorm<br />
throw my fly ass Egyptian short suit in the trash.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Open Containers</b><br />
<br />
At dusk I’m dreaming country roads and pick up trucks<br />
places I ran away from long ago<br />
my bare feet on the dash<br />
jean cut-offs leave thighs burning dusty vinyl<br />
some dirty white boy behind the wheel gripping me one handed like a beer<br />
<br />
Every summer these fantasies come<br />
I close my eyes in traffic<br />
will myself to another time <br />
on a bed of moss under a canopy of green<br />
where rain thunders through the hot build up<br />
not like here where air keeps thickening but stays dry<br />
the grass all yellow parched matchstick<br />
not like here in drought city waiting to combust<br />
<br />
I need at least a week with no rules or phones or interwebs<br />
late nights empty bottles roll the floor<br />
crickets fill the spaces warm enough to lie under <br />
the speckled dome above us and he will worship me<br />
hold me weightless in cold spring water<br />
mud between our toes cat tails guarding us<br />
<br />
why does everything have to go.<br />
<br />Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7383322099457754397.post-88290687350137858602014-08-13T11:12:00.000-07:002014-08-13T11:12:16.407-07:00Ecclesiastes 12:7 by Joseph HargravesLeaves of bonsai Bodhi droop<br />
Over computer screen. Buddha<br />
Of bronze under Norfolk pine.<br />
<br />
Christmas cactus un-bloomed.<br />
Dead English ivy turning<br />
To dust. I touched the quill on<br />
<br />
Saint John of the Cross<br />
Statue. In monastery<br />
Where it was made<br />
<br />
They poked a finger bone<br />
Of San Juan de la Cruz’s<br />
Onto the plaster poet.<br />
<br />
T.S. Eliot Reading “The Wasteland”<br />
On Youtube:<br />
Transmissions<br />
<br />
From the past<br />
And hot coffee<br />
As I wait to turn to ash.<br />
<br />Black-Listed Magazinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16926221066405665935noreply@blogger.com7