Untitled by A.g. Synclair

You find religion in a glass

in half empty bottles

in the twisted notes of that song

in the way she swallows you whole

in the secret hiding place

where you keep her words

a tangled language of crickets and clocks

I Look to You by Tyree Jackson

My journey isn’t smoothly paved.

I’ve been stopped by predators and poisoned along the way.

There were many times I believed I couldn’t stand.

And there were many times I felt my life would just end.

But then I looked to you—your smile allowed me to break the walls that

isolated me from society.

So when I looked into your eyes—my reflection reminded me of a boy striving.

When I cried, I knew that you would be there to wipe away my tears, and say

“My son be strong and keep your head up high.”

You give me strength, when mine has depleted.

And it’s your motherly touch that heals my cuts and bruises when needed.

I look to you when others turned away.

And I will always look to you—for your presence allows me to truly see brighter days.

16 Miles by g emill reutter

Cylinder crosses the landscape

into the city just across Darby Creek

slides into Southwest, passing graffiti

scared bridges, trash covered banks

hurdles toward the turn of the Schuylkill

past the ivory of Penn into the temple of

the old railway gods. Continues northeast

flanged wheels slap cold iron past boat

houses, art museum and zoo into what

was once mansions of strawberry through

badlands past hulking factories of Kensington

with empty eyes tattered remnants of

Frankford, the sweet aroma of Bridesburg

chemical plants. The cylinder flies along

the track crosses the Poquessing Creek

out of the city. They sit not noticing in

designer suits and shoes, tap on computers

ipods over wine beer or coffee. Like those

who came before them, they are not concerned

about what’s left behind.

15 Rounds by Billy Howell-Sinnard

Remember how we used to brawl our way

to a poem. A prize fighter pounding the keys

worthy of a Hemingway adventurer.

At the end of each line

the ding ended the round, then the sweep

of the cylinder like the cut-man

cleaning and sticking your wounds

so you could start another line.

The clack of the keys, hitting the speed bag,

enough in itself to add rhythm and sonics

the more inspired you became.

On your desk in the center of the ring,

a stout Remington or Smith Corona

taunted you to write that publishable poem.

You dreamed of the knockout that rarely came,

just grueling rounds of sparring,

split-decisions, and lonely girlfriends

jilted by your monk-like devotion--

battered and bruised, trying to be a contender.

Two Poems by Jack T. Marlowe

telephony

over a

month of

bittersweet

silence

thirty-six

days, to

be precise

and then

the princess

calls, says

that she

misses me

in spite of

her social

schedule

a perpetual

busy signal

so, she

misses me

she says

though my

answering

machine

tells me

otherwise

and after

more than

a month

on ice

i would

sooner be

drinking

hot bourbon

in hell

than be

just another

number

chilling in

her little

black book

transfusion

the broken

man opened

up the

main vein

of his life

and let his

sadness

bleed out

then he

filled the

emptiness

with

cheap

whiskey

and

cheaper

wine

it didn't

do any-

thing for

his soul

but it did

seem to

improve his

circulation.

when freedom of speech is treated like murder by James D Quinton

turning the corner

I hadn’t expected to see

an agitated young man holding

a frightened old woman to his body

“get back, get back,”

he told the crowd that had gathered

I could see a few ‘have-a-go-heroes’

sizing the situation up

eager

to make their name in the local paper

“get back, get back”

I crept closer

I could see in his

bloodshot eyes that he meant it

he had a Noika pressed into

her skull

his finger on the send key

he’d obviously composed a

deadly message

a diatribe against the government

a rant about capitalism

a paean to socialism

“get back, get back.”

suddenly, a man, well-built, late forties

with a shaven head rushed forward

(he must have pictured himself in print)

he managed to wrestle

the old woman free

the assailant, backing away,

put his mobile phone

in his mouth

some of the crowd shouted “No”

but it was too late

he pressed send.

Two Poems by Suzy Devere

WIT HUMOR CUNNING

like a serrated knife

when you're under it

twisting

black handle like a mountain

crowding out the sun

but next to

or on top of

it glistens and shines.

it's a beautiful

modern day woman's

blessing and disguise.

still, underneath?

well, it's bloody down here.

WORDSMITHS ARE WAIT STAFF

the forever inarticulate

try desperately to use

demanding words with

syllables they can

hardly

control

the forever inarticulate

imagine themselves to be

beyond the rest of us

in word and deed

to them

we appear to scrape

their crumbs

if only they were learned

enough to realize

we are picking up

in earnest

meaning nearly

lost

through their misuse

meaning that

without

Wordsmiths

slides away

scatters

disappears

so we wait

for their

every

disastrous

next

turn

of

base

phrase

we are

waiters

indeed.

Three Poems by William Keckler

YOU LOOK NICE

You look like the sort of person

who gets fucked

in a pink motel

with a miniature golf course

in front

and swimming pool

out back

covered

by a scary tarp

since they found

the dead guy

floating in it

with a knife in his back.

And the water

has a pink tinge

all these weeks later,

oddly sweet

because it matches

the motel's pink,

your lipstick

and almost pretty bag.

VERY SHORT POEM

FILLED WITH HUGELY

HELPFUL PRACTICAL ADVICE

Never trust

a pink motel.

FUCK

This strange outline

of an animal's body.

Or just part of a body.

Why does it last forever?

It feels like my soul.

It looks like an animal.

Fossil fucks.

Eighty year olds

probably

hunt for them in dreams.

Archeologists.

We're all archeologists

of our own fucking.

all apologies by Ross Vassilev

well, bad things would happen

and I’d take it out on others

and there’s no righting past wrongs

and it’s no good saying I’m sorry

but I am

and there’s nothing I can do about it

but as Bukowski once said

someday, we’ll all go home together.

bob kaufman by Steve Calamars

wooden hearts

crawling with

termites

and wet cement

brains drying with

the footprints

left by a

jazz poet

who clogged

our ear-canals

with his poems

like pipe-bombs

and left our

souls smoking

in an implosion of

paper wasps and

piano keys—

Two Poems by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

PLEASED TO MEET ME

Are you pleased to meet me?

I certainly don't feel the same.

You come here with questions

I already answered again and

again. You don't bring me a

cup of coffee or a roll. You

don't offer me a cigarette or

bring me the morning paper.

I don't want to talk to you.

You could go on your way.

If you come over next time,

bring me a pack of cigarettes,

some hot coffee with cream,

no sugar, and a jelly roll.

THE SILENCE OF STARS

I marveled at the silence of

stars in the moist night air.

I counted all the stars in

the sky until I was sick and

tired. I heard crickets chirp.

I smiled and applauded. All

the stars in the sky winked

at me when I rubbed my eyes.

Two Poems by Jonathan Butcher

Time Is Money

I awake to hear radio news of yet more

empty pockets being emptied further, whilst

shop counter tills overflow with increases.

I rise and make tea with the last tea bag

in the packet, hold my breath full of morning

frost, and out stretch my fingers that creak

like kicked in doors.

And from the window I see failed faces that

linger in shop doorways, that seem to lean

closer than before, their breath as hot as lava

in couds of lie filled mist.

Their slavering drunken yells fail to evoke fear,

only annoyance, as they crawl through gutters,

as natural as scratching an itch, as breathing

congested air.

And the tiny patch of grass in the concrete yard

soaks up any tranquility left, absorbs it in the

hardened ground, converts it into steam.

Easy Shadow

Once again his head drops and offers that

mental shelter, and he prays at least today

will pass him by.

He has learnt to keep his mouth shut, his

tongue now redundant, a slab of dried meat,

that learnt it's lesson long ago.

And he sees them approaching, the grins

and gleaming eyes, ready to project their

package of misery (and they never seem

to take a day off).

And his voice and clothes and walk and

hair and eyes and teeth and nose are all

to blame now, a collective hindrance, that

only serve to fuel the ever glowing embers.

And to touch that green horizon, with fingers

that roam free from this shell, hardly seems

worth the bother.

Two Poems by Mike Meraz

Enough Cigarettes To Last A Week

the uselessness of the pen.

enough cigarettes to last a week.

the ability to go to the cafe

anytime I please.

I am a man of simple means.

I do not expect much.

I do not ask for much.

I find a universe of wonder

in the simple things,

like this blank piece of paper,

filling up,

giving meaning

to my life

and yours.

Workin’ For The Oldies

the oldies sit in the

highbrow restaurant

talking about

marvelous things.

I walk by in

old shorts,

Wal-Mart shoes

and uncut hair.

I am a writer

hoping one day

to be the subject

of their conversation.

Getting Old by Stephen Jarrell Williams

He thought

he would wear holey jeans and T-shirts

through the forever of his days,

walk barefoot

smoking cigarettes cockeyed,

charm women under a pastry of stars,

never getting tired and never going to die.

Now

staggering down the hall to his greasy apartment,

opening the unlocked door burping,

two neighbor gals

taking a steamy bath in his tub,

their best years down the drain...

He pees into the tub between them,

laughing, the party of the old continues...

The three of them in bed with lights off,

each remembering years ago,

drip of tears on soggy pillows.

Magnificent Decay (For David Lerner) by Kevin M. Hibshman

Kamikaze air and the ghost of Rimbaud haunted and hunted you down

in sweltering, diseased-ridden San Francisco during the last gasp

of many angels.

I'd be pleasantly relieved to know the two of you had finally met.

Your lumberjack spirit, clumsy as ever, rushes in, knocking shit over.

Delighted to witness something else being dashed to bits.

It's that kind of life followed by the same kind of death. (anonymous?)

No one can hope to survive holding more than their breath.

Sweating it out under the heat lamp of "progress" until those last,

sweetly agonizing

moments collapse.

Face down again, pal.

I must confess I never knew you as flesh yet I was instantly

transfixed by the impossible

love your poems attest to.

The bright darkness, limitless depths.

Poetry became a hole you would never crawl out of but I thank you as

the muse demanded your death,

I feel blessed by your burden.

september evening by Steve Calamars

raging bull muted on

the television set and

dostoyevsky screaming

in my brain

as i leave a tiny room

on the second floor of

an old apartment building

and run 6 miles

thru rich streets

with poor social skills and

worn sneakers

the miles fall beneath

my feet and i climb the

flight of stairs back to my room

my mind still racing and my

thoughts sprinting

across the page

malicious as

missiles and

molotov cocktails—

Necklace by Karime Limon

I'm in my bed

my chin pressed into my pillow,

my heart pounds against the mattress

and the glow of this window

lights up my hands and face.

I think about him out there,

I wonder where he is,

I pretend

he's on his way

to meet me

and I grow nervous

and scared.

I even plan my outfit

and hair

to look perfect for him,

like his doll.

I feel that pain inside,

of missing his presence,

how lonely it is without him,

and not knowing

if I'll hear from him tomorrow.

the tears flood and blur my vision,

dropping out like little pearls,

formed and compressed

between the heart and the soul

I'll collect these pearls,

and make a necklace

to wear

when he arrives

Table of Discontents #5 by Russell Streur

Systemic flaws

Landscape barren

Outlet mall

Fast forward

Fault lines

Mass starvation

Other targets

Cloaked in secrecy

Learning in the dark

“Seeking truth,”

the incendiary said,

“is completely futile.”

Not enough water

New laws.

A Romeo's Comeuppance by Donal Mahoney

Coming toward young Tony now

are the husband and his wife,

that older woman from last night,

the one he danced with New Year's Eve

while downing Heinekens and shots of Jack,

the one he didn't know was married.

She told him he was tall for just 16

and that he danced like Fred Astaire.

But now it's noon on New Year's Day

and the husband just whacked Tony

harder than the drummer

whacked his drums last night.

Falling backward like a slab,

Tony sees the golden halo of the sun

swirl until it disappears.

Later on the gurney, Tony almost hears

the doctor give the nurse his diagnosis,

"a Romeo's comeuppance, not to worry."

White Girl by Stephen Jarrell Williams

fear

of never seeing

you again

hard

flat light

on your memory

overwhelming

mental explosion

you're all over

my hands

scarlet sunset

still manipulating

me like a hairy beast

in your field of naughty flowers

your long bare legs

calling me in for the squeeze

posing your breasts

skyward pink

ripe mouth

full of whispers and sucking

me into slavery

doom

shit

everything stinking

where are you

now?

Roaring out of Hell by Melanie Browne

I seek out your writing like

an insatiated sugar-cereal junkie,

a tired gambler at the last

Las Vegas flophouse,

sitting down with

whiskey I

read your poems

and I wonder about

your parents and your

siblings and, especially

the worthless X

did she bury your

heart in Siberia?

here, I'll take my

gold plated shovel,

we'll dig it

up for the bent

of it,

it's probably still

pumping underneath

all that frozen snow,

I'm sure it just needs

a slight dusting,

a nice toddy

and a shave,

a kick in the

O'l nucleus

Two Poems by Michael Ashley

Mortal

is the way I am nervous

around sharp points

and bare edges

the line of your form

the tips of your fingers

the rim of your tongue

it is the fact I know

the damage that can be done

by just the slightest slip

this shit isn't learnt

or taught

it's instinct.

This Abstinence

makes me

want to scrape

the base

of my bowel

tear out

that turning wheel

crush it

to the tightest

ball--

I see

your eyes

and want them

pressed against

my pubic bone

again

again

again

I eat

my finger ends

the nicotine

around my nails

to skin

to cuticle

to bloody mess

I need

a drink

a cig

an orifice

in any order.

I’d Make As Good a Teacher As Time by Linda M. Crate

They all ask me what I’ll do with my degree

as if English-Literature Bachelor is a title worthy

of shame; they almost cringe when they say it —

when I announce that I want to be a novelist they

smile and say ‘that’s nice’ as if they don’t think

I’m good enough to follow my dreams or they’re

worth following to begin with; I’m constantly

coddled and told that you should be a teacher —

they clearly don’t know that I do not like children;

or that I have a wit that rears it’s ugly head at the

first sign of a snarky retort; no, I’d make as good

a teacher as time, I’d end up maiming if not killing

all the pupils that had the nerve to cross me, I think

I’ll leave the teaching to people that love kids, I’ll

stick to griping and grumbling about how most

of them act as if they walked straight of Digrassi,

and expect us to not want to punish their bratty little

butts in the process, I’m of the opinion that writing

is a better day of spending my day than being two

degrees separated from raging at children under my

care, expecting me to remember them something

of greatness; I’d teach them the art of bitterness or

being lonely or cat lady 101, nothing much worth

noting after that, they’d be asleep before algebra.

FOOD FOR A FAILED ROMANCE by Richard Quigley

That night the screeching telephone was some slack-lip

Siren, luring you into her brackish grip, thirsting to gush

Over the birthmark you called your trademark. A fruit

So swollen, juices almost run from it. You got up

From the table, the way you were hunched over like a child

On a throne of tied sticks. Soppy tyrant. Those days you

Exhausted on fearing the one who could take the mirrored

Slab from your mouth, the one with grime-slick handprints

Who could dirty your work shirt. You’ve been waiting too long

For your ride to come. Swallow your pride like I’ve swallowed

Your load. A bone surfaces in a butter cookie: hard-bitten,

Sweeter than you could have ever imagined.

Tribes Revisited by David S. Pointer

In Tribes, Jan Michael Vincent’s

Marine recruit character told his

drill instructor that he didn’t equate

militarism with patriotism, and in

the decades since, I’ve come to

equate patriotism with a quest for

sustainable economic/environmental

justice, your left, your left right left…

Locked Psych-Ward, New Jersey, USA by Joseph Hargraves

The first rays of sun illuminate a Fantin-Latour

Bouquet in the nurses station while forcing

Morning clouds to sing a coloratura extravaganza.

If I had friends, to heal me,

They would lower me through the roof

Of Peter's house in Capernaum

Into the lap of Christ.

Coontang by Catfish McDaris

On tv the Turtleman, America's

answer to the Croc Hunter sat next

to Eddie Murphy talking about

catching possums & coons

Eddie tried to keep cool with his

goofy grin, but every time the word

coon came out of the redneck's

mouth, you could see him pissed

The Skunk Whisperers dressed like

varmint Texas Rangers went up on

a roof with a garden hose & sprayed

a coon in the ass to get it from a tree

Reminded me of Magnolia, a sex

machine with chocolate cantaloupes

& a mojo watermelon smile, she was

a stinky wet dream come true

I'd scrub both her nasty places &

armpits, then after fake orange juice,

vodka & bongs, we'd wreak havoc

like Thelonius Monk & Max Roach.

Oil and Water by Sarah Gamutan

We walked in a wonderland

where beauty never slept. We

thudded like we ruled that time.

We were ambitious, we strolled

with high heels and an unimaginable

grin. No more meek faces. Oh, but we

missed something. Our shirts got muck

at the back while the front portion spelled

"Save water, Drink beer." Embarrassing.

My chap said, " If you bang into this

door, that means you're pissed. Drink

water instead!" Then, we went our

separate ways. I went to heaven.

T E N by Sarah Gamutan

Some notes gave me

memorable stories whether this

room was loved or not. In this

room, I shared memories with some

musicians, lovers. Some of them were

cheaters, weepers, losers and mostly,

they were my counterparts. I hated the

scenery of unfinished tones, how they

didn't reach an octave, the way it gave the

worst sound in my ears - monotonic, copied.

Once, my counterparts considered music as

one boring college class that they blamed

how it defined different kinds of people,

how it caught lives of my fellows which

they hid for a long time. We asked them

to sing, dance, play and strum it the way

they'd like it. These friends, who got great

looks, married rich men, got impregnated -

those who lived their own lives. I liked

the way they meant their own songs, far

better than Mozart or any classical men

who got stuck on my head when they

were pasted on the wooden walls. I

knew I'd be like them too - loved

and cared that I'd sing songs

on my wedding, that my mates

would sing with me too, that

after 10 years, hopefully,

I'd be married too.

life is fixed by Linda M. Crate

life spins backward

from the point of

origin from your

death which is as

certain as your birth —

just unknown by

human knowledge

which is limited

even in the most

wise words or

witty retorts, life

spirals backward

plunging us forward

into straights we much

rather avoid, sometimes,

but in the end are ways

we needed to take to

either grow or learn;

sometimes, both —

it’s a sojourn that

many take yet so few

take time to enjoy,

it has the brevity

of fog’s breath yet

many waste it chasing

after things that never

mattered anyway.

Black Seed by Black Seed by Donal Mahoney

Every day the same people

at the same table

at the rear of the cafeteria.

The maiden, 35 at least,

is gray at the temples,

sour at the mouth.

The widow, 55, waves

a cigarette like a wand.

Girdled and dyed,

she needs no one now;

She ministers to a dog

and has a new apartment.

The accountant, 65, wants to retire,

his years of intemperance

tempered by a stroke,

his anger at everything

suddenly gone. The janitor, 60,

explains over and over

how over the weekend

he snipped from his garden

husks of dead sunflowers

and drove them out of the city

and into the forest

and there in a clearing

spread the black cakes

for chipmunks to strip,

black seed by black seed.

I, a young editor,

“with your whole life

in front of you,” they insist,

sit through it all,

Monday through Friday,

spooning broth, buttering slices

of rye, and praying that after

pudding again for dessert,

the phone on my desk

will explode too late

with a call I’ll take anyway,

and that after that call, I’ll rise

and take from my sport coat

a speech I wrote years ago,

a speech I’ll discard for two lines

off the cuff: “Here’s two weeks’ notice.

I have found a new job.”

A Cliché Letter to your Old Self by Jay Coral

congratulations

you are a reformed pessimist

you look at your friends in Facebook

and you say to yourself

you're not so bad afterall

you are unmarried

no pictures in your profile

of academically superior kids

and huggable pets in your sofa

you are successful

at being a floater and a survivor

not that it matters

you recently overcoming an insurmountable odd

and thanking the Lord God Almighty for being your rock

but in your cynical middle age brow

you venerate the impression

that you feel for their suffering

and that sorrow is an equation

you share in the world wide web

ah happiness

you don't have a thousand dollar showerhead

but you are innocently happy

walking eating breathing fucking

on inspired lyrics of pop songs

isn't that what you want others

to know/think about you?

you are almost forty

and you wonder if you are any wiser

you wonder if they understand your poem

you wonder what they'll say to you

the next time they see you.

my life by Steve Calamars

right now is

check-engine lights

and disappointed

parents

a lean muscular

physique and a

bearded face

i feel more like

a fighter than

a writer

pumping out pushups

over prose

6-mile morning runs

and shadow-boxing

in the park

kafka's death and

genius stretched out

across my brain like

the strings of a violin

my own pen touching

the page gentle as a bow

making a music that

never really escapes the

echo of his own . . .

Hate Department by Abigale Louise LeCavalier

Cringing in a corner

doesn’t suit her,

much.

She does it anyway.

Waiting

for the feelings to change,

in bold breaths

breathing.

Slipping her eyes;

something less formal.

She has that “stay away from me” look

down pat,

because she cares too much.

Always the problem.

Her emotions burn

like cheap cigarettes,

cold.

Almost surreal.

And she can feel the sand

in her teeth,

the heat of her skin,

steam.

She knew this moment was inevitable,

tried to wish it away

with small gestures.

But it came just the same.

Two Poems by Billy Howell-Sinnard

In The Smoke Room

glowing coil

in the wall

like an altar

a hole

big enough

to poke

a cigarette

Quasar paces

looks up

says cameras

and microphones

in the sky

follow him

i sit beside

the quiet girl

with sad eyes

who sees God

in the linoleum

she puts my hand

in the fire

between her legs

watches the door

for the devil

who prowls the halls

his keys jangling

Growing Older

Nothing seems so horrible

anymore in this new light

of waking up

on possibly our last day.

We learn to give ourselves

in ordinary ways

with what little we have left

like the fishes and loaves

when all is lost.

We've tired of looking,

content now with this

and nothing less.

for it to work, you’ll need to hide yourself away by Tyler Bigney

I got drunk again

double fisting rum and cokes

at a strip club in a town

with a name I can’t pronounce.

They want my money, but I got none,

so some chit-chat

casual as warm breezes

will have to do.

you need to keep your wits,

keep the conversation quick.

ask questions.

don’t let them see

what’s inside of you

or what’s not.

play dumb,

make it so they don’t know

you came here alone -

your friends in the bathroom,

or got sick

and went home.

and this is your first time

in a place like this.

you’re enjoying the atmosphere. the music. the comfy chairs.

everything but them.

don’t ask them for a dance

and when they’re up on stage

look the other way.

distract yourself with the pinball machine.

don’t ever let them know

you could love them.

how you want nothing more

than to love them.

The Unbearable Solidarity of the Dead by Paul Hellweg

Day four in Paris, hungover,

food coma this time,

no alcohol involved,

just despair, angst,

Big Mac, fries, pizza margarita, and

the excruciating loneliness

that, for me, always accompanies

lack of creativity.

Slowly waking,

espresso and coffee,

reading “The Wasteland,”

hotel restaurant packed,

tourists clustered together

as if afraid of being alone,

morning chatter on autopilot,

no one looking into anyone’s eyes.

I’m comforted to witness

what Eliot knew,

I’m not the only one

death hath slowly undone.

Snack and Caffeine Free Soda Break by Kevin Ridgeway

The adult daycare sanitarium

for the full-time

and part-time adult insane

opened at eight o’clock each morning

A long line of glum faces

extending from the fleet of

white van trolleys to the front desk,

where you signed in

and they handed you

three loose stale cigarettes.

Two group sessions drooled on

in monotonous stupors until noon

when we dined on

Thanksgiving turkey

and imitation cranberry slivers

with a teeny weenie

2 percent milk Dixie cup wash-down

One more group—a choice between

substance abusers or finger paints

followed by

a snack and caffeine free soda break

all of us wearing

our broken people costumes

Our deflated hangdog face masks,

medicinal vapors

pouring out of them

on the outdoor picnic benches

drenched in bitter sun

sipping on what

amounted to bubbling sugar water

Stowing away our

meds in our cheeks

for a stoned winter

Some of us made it,

and some of us will be back

for another round

Two Poems by Jay Passer

DRAWING FROM LIFE

in the back room of the old shingle factory

they draw furiously

and the model keeps running to the bathroom

to puke

and someone points out how poor the light is

someone else complains that the pose is too rigid

and yet another artiste resents that the model

is constantly running off to puke:

fuckin’ junky!

there in the dusty back room

of the old factory building

where every Thursday night

they draw furiously

as if invoking

the wrecking ball.

NOT A MORNING PERSON

I always end up

stuck in some room

with the lights off

pondering the infinite

shades of darkness

cast in a skull.

the ease in which

prone on my back

I ignore the alarm

of simply being

is enough to blind

every bird alive.

daylight slinks

through drab curtains

as I clutch for reasons

to keep up the farce

the utter travail

and insidious yearning.

I always end up

waiting for the bus

on some dirty street

sun and clouds

like the rent

hanging over my head.

the love of a nihilist asshole by Martin Leonard Freebase

you are asking me meaningless questions

making me think of things that I would prefer to avoid

you go to work on me with an ax

having a wonderful time of it

singing or rather humming some forgotten tune

sometimes it comes out just like you want it

the mere mechanical business

greasing all of my gears

seeing to it properly

the discomfort is an aid

or a bit of a stimulant

an electric cattle prod up the ass

putting juice to your demonic nature

killing the thinking animal

it is bad to think

I would rather have you feel

I'm not selling hope anymore

it doesn't last

as soon as i open the door

out it runs down the street

and gets hit by a car

then I'm in the middle of the street

crying because hope is dead

eventually I stop buying the shit

and I rip out that part in me

where hope lived

at our feet is an underworld

the first light of the death angel

new ranks are thinning

a hungry tug of desire

your claim for broken substance

standing against the wall

dark whispers reaching down

different words from god

violated by the madness

the stain of a dream

that has always been

a good kind of crazy

one you can sink your teeth into

together again

like dogs and angels

two people across the street

filled with doubt and self-pity

a helpless blue

painted on your heart

it beats a sticky pink

like the gums of angels

before sin enters in

all up and down

deep into the creature

out of the bottom

without a name

hot shooting in a cold medium

out your eye

around the curves

sick with fear

we all know the sleep

in the cemetery of the soul

the curse of death is in the blood

no more locks on your doors

a strange sense of love

your prison is self-made

the truth is your rejection

half torn and numb

a lifetime of mutilation

fight the possibility

beat it out of you

like the raven's quarrel

everything possessed of searching

an unfamiliar turn

in the bitter celebration

an empty victory with spread legs

appearing as if by magic

pushed up so high

the bodies move as a miracle

grinding into each other

higher and high

a child of two continents

death weeps at noon

something real and impossible

the waste of a loaded laugh

here every morning

the people have words to say

but no one wants to hear

we only want to listen to the pretty

dancing images flickering on a screen

burning into our retinas

fabricating a lie in our brains

it is a hostile condition

in their little dresses

carried and deposited by ancient angels

we play upon the frozen rock

it fell from heaven

tiny paralel lives

caught under the massive weight

pinning us down

short and tiny breaths

huge depressions

free reign over your soul

we are weak and swept aside

it is a continual battle

so hard to separate

with see-through eyes

a lovely dance filled with horror

my slaughter house memory

a few more left-handed shoves

hammer beating brains

as true as your insides

the blues into your cup

nothing I could say

someone had stolen my tongue

and it was boiling in a pot of water

sitting on your stove of hate

me inside of everything

my shell shocked and wounded heart

sucking up all that is left

every little morsel

not a crumb for a mouse

trying to hide from my hunger

thinking like a witch or a devil

leaning out your window sill

utterly pressed and depressed

busted layers of angel dust

they come alive inside me

growing through me

reaching the outside world

reaching you

with vacant eyes

using their knives

down sidewalks with beautiful looks

ths is where you slumber

you look uneven

putting you on the floor

the lights are just right

accusing me of hypocrisy

someday you become a productive human being

just like superman

collecting all your gold stars

putting them in this feeling thing

a giver instead of a taker

you were invented

I was trying to be socially responsible

when I ignored you

and placed you in the straightjacket

pointing you towards the lie

afterbirth by Ross Vassilev

there’s nothing

to do in this town but

scream

I don’t like squirrels

...(angels of blue sky

where the clouds are

gutted)...

I don’t like children

I like empty yellow

cardboard cups

that people leave

standing

beside lonely walls

sometimes

there’s a kind of soft

grey light falling--

tricks of light are

an illusion

they’re the Gods

trying to send out

a frantic S.O.S.

over the Internet

of Time.

The Green River Killer by David S. Pointer

Once a California mother

repeatedly sold her 12

year old daughter into

prostitution then offered

the girl physical protection

against customer beatings

or other kinky abuse— and

that’s a lot more than any

of the Green River Killer’s

victims ever got, and Gary

Ridgway didn’t bother with

any acid bath body disposal

system, he just dumped all

the corpses atop the land

bodies nearly as numerous

as PCB barrels at a Super-

Fund clean up site in Holden,

Missouri then Green River

Gary reported to work

trying to save fellow

employees from a life

of inexcusable sin.

Timing Is Everything by Cynthia Ruth Lewis

He wants to take me again tonight

but I am not in the mood;

I haven't been for a long time

but I allow his hands on me

in his clumsy attempt

to get me wet

his hands

like sandpaper on my flesh

and his cock like a red-hot poker

inside me,

pushing and thrusting

and trying to encourage the flames

and I feel nothing

but rubbing and scraping

and I want to blurt out

that I didn't love him anymore;

maybe I never did

and I am holding my breath

and biting my tongue

and fighting a scream

wishing he would finish

and get off me

so I could breathe

and find my voice

and tell him it's no good,

it's just no damned good

but he would probably misunderstand

my words and turn his back

while he nurses

a bruised ego

i’m a sucker by Steve Calamars

for a bookworm

with a stupid booty

and thick inarticulate

thighs

that open like

suicide doors and

leave me hanging

on their every word

till my heart

turns cold and

my body

goes limp

brain dead

they run psychological

autopsies to determine

what moves me

only to discover

a sex drive that

has me on a

collision course

with hard hearts

and piercing intellects

from learned women

equipped with sharp minds

and bodies curvy as

chess pieces . . .

CLOSE TO PARADISE by Stephanie Smith

The shit stains in the

toilet look like the

Hawaiian Islands

Cleaning that sucker

later on, you realize

that’s the closest you’ll

probably ever

come to paradise

Doctor, by Andrew J. Stone

I’ve seen things lately, things that shouldn’t be here. I’m not hallucinating, not yet; I’m just

glimpsing creatures from the corner of my eye. In the bath, with freshly brushed teeth, the mirror

reveals a thing scurrying out of the frame. Or in my car as I turn onto Baker Place, a flash of flesh

shoots into view from behind the fire hydrant and disappears beneath the weeds. They follow me

into bed, wait for my slumber. I’m not paranoid, Doctor, nor am I creating these creatures. They

are real. I’m not sure how much longer they’ll just simply follow. Soon, they’ll consume my

disease.

Two Poems by Sarah Ahm

Contentment

The salt in your eyes drips

rolling on your right cheek

a whole world of merry demons

as I drown,

pushing my way deep in the miser ocean.

Change

The summer breaks

shattering light,

rays burn

the likelihood of a smile

as barrenness fondles my hand.

Three Poems by Ford Dagenham

MOVIE GARDEN PM

steel planes scratch straight white flames over the sky.

placing the coffee cup on a chair I pull the chair nearer

with

the

hand

that’s

not

holding

a

book.

out here in castle grounds the quiet of mowers and the fence kids loud cries of fun and quick horror

form

an

ambient

movie

I

will

call

The Sun Is Hot.

pages flare with nuclear glare and when the clock says

5 or 6 or 7 or 8 I will drink something harder.

inside

later

this

happens

and

lonely and empty things riot on the borders of plastic zen.

quiet finger-winds blow on yellow brick outside.

this forms an ambient movie I call

The

Witness

Of

A

Mute

TV.

stare at the phone ringing like a fool in a movie

I call Black And White Coda.

ACCIDENT IN THE HOME

hammers from hard ground going at it in my head.

the

house

is

full

of howling dogs today.

whisky hangover again I never learn.

near gone gin bottle falling off the fridge

breaks

my

left index toe.

I say

CUNT!

28 times

then open some wine

and

watch

it

change

colours

and

swell.

NURSES

work in a hospital eye always out for a compassionate and giving nurse

with

sparkles

of

intelligence

in

her

tawny

eyes

but even all the rough and large ones have dull and bald men

to

drop

them off in the morning.

Teeth. by Devlin De La Chapa

The movie star scribbled autographs, posed for pictures, shook hands with his counter elite, then

he went home and drank himself into a stupor. He despised his life. He loathed his wife. But he

loved his teeth. They were ultra white. Sleek. And perfect. His climb to stardom began in a “Close-

up” toothpaste commercial. His decline in stardom happened when he “air-jerked-off” while in a

rock band to a crowd of misspent youths who’s mama’s and papa’s tried to sue him for everything

he didn’t have. After a year of drinking and falling and getting back up, he stumbled into an agency

to beg the receptionist for a five to buy a forty but ended up signing a contract worth thousands

instead when the agent behind the receptionist jerked-off to the magnificence of his teeth. He was

now able to buy every forty in the liquor store around the corner.

New Job in a Small Office by Donal Mahoney

Third day on the new job and Sue calls.

Will I hurry home and sit with our daughter

while she runs with Sean to the doctor.

I tell the boss why I’m leaving.

He says too bad about the boy and calls

the timekeeper who marks his ledger

and begins to keen for the parents

and for the deaf mute bobbing in the back room

stuffing envelopes and licking them.

I’m four tiles away from the front door

when my co-workers rise from their desks,

zipping their flies, changing their tampons.

They sing, a cappella,

“We’re all going with you.”

Except for the receptionist

who is eight months pregnant.

Her nails are chipping,

her ankles are swelling.

She sits all day, eyes

on the switchboard, ears in receivers,

her stomach a zeppelin

a moment from lift-off.

When the others rush out the door

it’s too much: She screams, throws her

breasts in the air like beach balls

and cries, “What soul among you cares:

For months my vagina’s been itching.”

Three Poems by John Tustin

AWAY FROM ME

Little Chinese chicks in striped socks

on their way to school

away from me

Young teachers

in flimsy summer dresses

taking my baby

walking away from me

The rainbow of high school girls

outside Dunkin Donuts

chattering, waving their hands

silken legs, animated faces

turning their heads

away from me

On the bus

on the street

in the window

white and peach

and yellow

and brown and brown

As I age

as I wither

as I ponder

as my eyes darken

in dim energy and inactivity

they turn further and further

away from me

11 YEARS AND COUNTING IT ON THE CELL WALLS

I’ve never been to prison.

Never been locked up.

Never been on the streets.

Or had a tooth knocked out.

Never had cancer.

Never been in the hospital overnight.

But I have been married.

And that’s hard time.

THERE’S A MADMAN IN MY SKIN

There’s a madman in my skin

picking at the scabs

needling the scars

fingering the sores

There’s a madman in my clothes

getting jerked off by whores

hating them

calling them bitches under our breath

There’s a madman behind my eyes

eating subtle poisons

popping pills

not sleeping

There’s a madman in my bed

leaving come stains

and half-formed thoughts

obsessed with legs

with feet

with lips with hips

with eyes with thighs

There’s a madman beneath my heart

scratching our balls

talking to ourself

singing the same songs

to earless heads

to blank expressions

to canceled faces

There’s a madman in my smile

wearing a mask the world cannot look through

we cannot see beyond

eyes wrapped in gray gauze

with barely the strength

to hug the kids goodnight

There’s a madman in my skin

dying to get out

dying to die

Two Pieces by Michael Frissore

Oven

They order scotch on the rocks until they shit Michelangelo’s David. He glances Wanna fuck, she

does a Groucho Marx impression using the tampon that fell out of her purse. There are dirt and

leaves all over the floor of his room, and a refrigerator, no door. In the kitchen he bends over

like her father – head first into the open oven. Like his own father. She can’t win here. She

spanks him and says Move over.

Wax

Her moustache is sexier than any man’s, including Rollie Fingers. Many hover, wanting to pluck,

thinking it’s painted on. Others ask her where Higgins and TC are. Still others are her son, her

mechanic, people who gave her blumpkins before she became a she. Their hands retreat, hoping

her ‘stache won’t eat their beards. She laughs because she knows this is a Woody Allen line.

Still it hurts because that’s how she lost her beard.

Two Poems by Zach Wilson

Can I Buy Salvation With A Visa?

Fuck.

God says,

cash only.

And Donne says reason is our soul's left hand,

faith her right.

That makes me a paraplegic,

soul bled out from the screams

of my mother's womb.

Circumcision truly is a bitch.

And if final hope is

indeed flat despair;

I've been sleeping

in the palm of Armageddon

for far too long.

Don't wake me,

no.

I'll find my way back

to the crumbs of this

clumsy living

with a hand. - Yes,

thats all

anyone needs.

I flat-lined at hello

and waned

at goodbye.

Shortcut

Break a line,

maybe of poetry,

or geometric

axioms.

Break a line of power,

emanating electricity

or one of corruption.

Break a line of formation,

one of warfare,

or intellectual paradigms.

Break a line of genealogy,

or the expectation that follows.

For the art

of Breaking

is a freedom,

and Point A to Point B

is shortest distance

to nowhere.

Three Poems by Paul Hellweg

Reading Bukowski Backwards

It’s been said we read to know

we’re not alone. Hungover,

breakfast at Mike’s Diner,

chipped-cup coffee, black, strong,

bring it on, bring it on.

Tried reading my favorite poet backwards,

caffeinated fields of asphodel,

my beloved skid row elocutionist

read like a Jedi Master, green,

wisdom for now, truth for the ages.

From the poem, the last winter:

“Now long too

waited have I,

on it bring, on it bring,

agree can we now ...”

Up, down, backwards, forwards,

direction matters little,

poetry inspires, words resonate.

Seeking affinity anywhere, I’m desperate

for the one and only message

every spirit craves, every soul needs, and

until I find it, I’d like another cup of coffee

and one more good poem, black, strong.

Breakfast at the Local Diner

Attractive young women peddling death,

cholesterol, bane of arteries young and old,

refined carbs, ticket to front-row seat

at the next diabetes fund-raiser.

Bacon, eggs, pancakes,

ample butter, extra syrup,

delectable as the servers,

sweet, friendly, earnest,

low-cut uniforms,

Wonder Bread breasts and

leave-me-a-big-tip eyes.

I only go there hungover,

these days all too frequent,

the artery-clogging fare and

a twenty-something’s smile

antidote to life’s pain.

This morning, that is enough.

God Is On Our Side, but Where’s Buddha?

June 1968, year of the Monkey,

mud-brick hooch thatched with rice straw,

dirt floor, dirt yard,

yellow-skinned babe toddling bottomless,

defecating anywhere, anytime the urge arises,

mama-san rushing over,

dangling babe by arms,

no Pampers, just mongrel mutt

delighted to eat the mess and lick clean

blissful baby butt.

Seeing that, on routine patrol,

armed with M-16s and

all the best firepower technology had yet

been able to muster,

we gagged and berated and condemned,

but mostly gagged.

They’re the Other, we thought, not one of us.

We’re civilized,

we have disposable diapers choking our landfills

and a proper sense of shame

when it comes to bodily functions,

not to mention B-52s capable of bombing

this shithole country back into the Stone Age.

June 2011, year of the Hare

three boilermakers thus far tonight,

desire strong to write a poem based on

the theme of forgiveness, but

whom do I forgive?

Them, for shooting me, or

myself, for allowing all that horror

into my life?

What I really needed was sufficient courage

to just say “No thank you, Sir”

when my dear uncle Samuel

requested my attendance

at his then current tea party,

the one in Southeast Asia,

3.5 million human beings destined to die

for the sake of our myopic national interests.

Old, young, male, female, babes without diapers,

they were the Other, them, not us, but

most of “them” didn’t have

the option to say no,

not when we brought the war

to their doorsteps and

didn’t even knock before entering.

Two Poems by Mike Meraz

Somewhere Between God And The Devil

somewhere between God and the devil

each man searches

for his own niche, his own groove

in the pavement of life.

(some find it, some don't).

somewhere between God and the devil

each woman searches for a man

who has found his own niche, his own groove

in the pavement of life.

(some find him, some don't).

Cheap Ass Poem On A Friday Night Because I Was Bored

this is my

"now I'm really pissed off" hair cut

and these are my

"never been in your room" shoes

and this is my

"everywhere but in the national publications" pen

and these are my

"never will be immortal" thoughts

being read by your

"how does he get away with this shit" eyes.

For Gram Parsons by Melanie Browne

Tonight I decorate

my bar with paper lanterns,

and listen to The Burrito Brothers’

Dark end of the street

I finish off a Bud Light

and staple the

last glowing orb in place

I stare up at

The lanterns,

their colors like

a dirty cantina

paper devils,

ominous and dangerous,

throw our silhouettes

around the room,

each one becomes

UFO-like,

Spinning off

Into the wilderness,

until it’s

only the night,

the imaginary stars,

and more

luke-warm beer

Twisted Or The 1,287 Word Sentence In William Faulkner's Absalom! Absalom! by Catfish McDaris

I sat trying to think of titles

Pop That Thang

Pop That Ugly Thang

Jackalope Mambo

Mezcalito Mambo

Magpie Jones

Wolfman Funk

Naked Tattoo Douchebag

The Douchebag Gargle

Fingerfucking The World

I'd Love To Eat Your Mother

Vagina Jones

Horsedick Mambo

Bald Pussy Itch

Pussy Fart Blues

Nipple Cunt Funk

Something else came about,

I knew Burroughs had used

guns & paint to create, I'd try

something with a twist like

Chubby Checker's peppermints

I wrapped 50 thumbtacks & 7

shotgun shells in a roll of

aluminum foil & surrounded it

with 8 cans of spray paint in

rainbow hues, then I placed

Sheets of canvas in all directions,

surrounding the microwave & I

juiced it up with an extension cord

Just before I could crank it, my lady

came home, I was cursed in 3

languages & my rocket never

left my pocket.

scribbling like a symphony by Steve Calamars

i feel these girls

out like rubik’s cubes

and then i feel them up

like braille picassos

almost reading their minds

i thumb thru their thoughts

and ear-mark their insecurities

getting inside their heads

i pour over past pains like

passports and catch a train

of thought straight to their hearts

where i piece together their

pensiveness like a puzzle

creating mental pictures of happiness

that thru their imaginations look

more like masterpieces and less

like the crudely traced knock-offs

they actually are—

And I didn’t want to be a writer, anyway by Melanie Browne

And I don’t have a dick

And I have a husband and kids,

And I’m from the south

And I don’t hate Jesus

And I don’t care about gay marriage,

Because, frankly,

It isn’t that interesting,

And I like grits,

And I have a tattoo

On my shoulder that

Says Rebel Yell

And I put it out on the

Internet,

For no good reason,

I think I just wanted some

Attention,

Which is the same reason

I am writing this poem

if the spirit moves you by Mat Gould

huddled away from a soft rain

waiting out its drifting hour

giving ourselves back to another day

spring was long over and somehow the summer was in the middle of ending

yet still full of long nights having an affair with the dallying sun

lovers that must part but are holding on

as they too are waiting out the drifting hour

I speak of such easily

all of this

waiting it out

waiting for what?

I am only certain of nothing so much as the drunken later-

Three Poems by Justin Hyde

sociology

see the twenty-two year olds

huddled around the pool table

burgeoning dictators

cock-strong

ignorant like

bullets.

see the forty-five year olds

leaning over their beers in silence

smoke

mortar

the impotence of defeat

ringing in their ears.

see the thirty year olds

paranoid

caught on both sides

like deer

hung up

in barbed wire.

watch closely

the leopard eyed women

scattered amongst them

like leeches.

the old red barn

they'd bus in

blacks

from cedar rapids

to play horns

farmer was the sheriff's brother

no trouble there

back pasture full of cars

ames des-moines huxley bondurant

even see plates

from kossuth and wapsecon county

blacks would start

playin the horns

farmer selling milk pails

full of beer

for a quarter

ladies of the night

with blankets

working overtime

out in the pastures

we all got our

pickles popped

at the old red barn

then saturday night

sitting with our girlfriends

watching lawrence welk

in their parent's living room

heads still spinning

from cigarettes

the long hair

in sandals sold us

lawrence playing bubbles

or something else square

we'd be holding their hands

cause that's as far as

they'd let us go

one of us would start laughing

then we'd all fall in

what's funny? the girls would ask

what's so

all gone funny?

they'd get angry

stomping their feet

old dad

yelling down

from the top of the stairs

pipe down

or he'd

toss us out

with the cat.

cattle call

the people

are lonely

but their loneliness

is not sacred

not learned

or aged.

it's banal

like the inside

of a styrofoam

cup.

their love

is faceless

nameless

a blind

stupid force

two magnets

in a

clutch.

Three Poems by Leeroy Berlin

the devil you know

there's a devil in the corner

in a dark, well-tailored suit

watching me. wears a fedora and

smokes a Dominican Upmann

eyes and ember glowing

he's not so fond of Zevon as I am

he follows me around

and likes to leap from the

dark places of the world,

grip me by the throat, and

make me listen.

there's a devil in the corner

he keeps telling stories

to no one in particular.

it’s just me, him, and the empty room

punctuated by a clacking keyboard

and a soft electric glow

that makes the folding chairs

and empty floor seem lonelier.

there’s a devil in the corner

he followed me last night and

snuck into the back seat of my car and waited

until I was whipping around the bend

he reached forward fingers tight

around my neck and screamed

because even the devil wants

to see an end to all of this.

there's a devil in the corner

and for now we drink together

and each beer wraps him in

a little more darkness

we're used to each other

and to the smoldering hate

familiarity breeds attachment

so I lift my beer and smile

Not tonight old friend, not tonight.

dead trees and ink

I'm sitting on the floor

surrounded by loosed sheets

printed with words I wrote

once

and remember

the tears

sweat

piss

jizz

and blood.

Writing one once

I tossed my laptop out a second-story window

furious that syllables refused to bend with me.

Another fell out, like some small thing lost in a suitcase,

from a week-long vicodin binge

self-prescribed for acute cardiac fracture.

I pick one up that's laying next to me and remember

how it stumbled from my fingertips

fifty-three hours after the last time I'd slept.

There in the corner I see the bastard

child of a bottle and a half of gin

and the realization that she wasn't coming back.

I poured into all of them

everything I knew de los cojones

but now I read them and

I don't feel what I used to feel

I see dead trees and ink.

It's like meeting a woman

you used to fuck

and when you told her you loved her

she left

meeting her years later and

you don't feel what you used to feel

you see this stranger who reminds you

that you can't get those feelings back.

miles of asphalt and heart-break

as I roll past Skirball

crane my neck to look

she lives down that road

half a mile, then a right

the house is just out of view from the 405

and it's not the smog

that stops my breath

or the shattering glass

crunch of steel

that stops my heart

but those things don't help.

HOW DOES A FELLA GET HIS GROOVE BACK? by Jason Ryberg

Oh it’s all well and good
when the world helps a sad lady
get back on her feet again
and truly start to believe again
and laugh out loud
in the wide-open-like-a-flower,
sun is shining,
birds are singing
outside world again
and takes her out dancin'
and buys her drinks
and shows her the glittering path
to new and fabulous romance.

But, how does a fella
get his groove back,

his moves,
his verve,
his nerve to follow through
on the follow-through,

or, is he like a race horse
come up lame
or a ball player
that's lost his game,
for most intents and purposes, ruined?

That is to say,
once he starts losin'
(and losin'
and losin')
is he doomed
to keep on losin'
and with little hope
for some new precedent set
to stop his slow, grinding
wounded-submarine-on-the-side
-of-an-undersea-canyon-like descent
into the funky, foul-smelling pit
of compounded booganism?

And if (as some would say)
a man is his game,
his moves,
his groove,
and the groove
is what maketh the man,
then is a man that's lost his groove
less than a man;

maybe a bumbling, buffoonish,
fundamentally clueless
BeaverCleaver/CharlieBrown
hybrid kind of a man,

a mildly amusing Charlie Chaplin tramp
or Giligan-esque court jester always good
for a tumbling pratfall kind of a man,

maybe a skittish little Woody Allen
without the jokes or geeky, boyish charm kind of a man
or a poor Little Oliver with wide, hopeful
kitten eyes and empty bowl kind of a man,

a "right away, on the double, sir" kind of man,
an "of course I wouldn't mind
dancing your Cutty and water
over to you, sir" kind of man,
a "my lord, the Royal Chef assures me
your Hasenpfeffer should be ready
any minute now" kind of man.

And whereby and therefore (in accordance
with the universal laws of God, woman
and natural selection),
should anyone but this man's mama
really even give a damn?

And once the “It,”
Which so vitally composes and contributes
To “The Shit” (which it seems he must
At all times and with supreme
universal confidence
Believe himself to be), is lost
is there really any chance
of getting it back again,

any probability or possibility
of hope, left in Pandora's
little black grab bag,
for a monkey-boy to be a man again?

Or, is a man,
once his spirit and stature
have been properly dismantled
(and the parts all sold for scrap),
best led out back behind the wood shed
or to an open pasture, somewhere,
and the fabled diamond bullet
of clarity put through his head?

'Cause sometimes there seems to be
a mighty fine line between
the merely walking wounded

and the dead that just don't know
they're dead.