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.

Two Poems by Stephanie Smith

CORRUPTION

Your ignorance confounds me

I corrupt your closed-in world
with a shot of cum in your mouth

And some eye candy

The death of your friends

And everything you’ve known
to be safe and secure
and comfortable in your home



WHEN A MAN IS DEAD

When a man is dead
he does not rise
to check the morning mail
He doesn’t barge in
on his wife and her lover
lying naked in the bed they shared
before he put a pistol
to his head

Facing West by A.g. Synclair

The Jazz station is playing Chet Baker
something recorded near the end of his life
he sounded like chocolate
if chocolate
was ravaged by heroin
and time.

In Europe, Jazz is revered
crowds jam darkened doorways
and tiny tables lit by unscented candles
at clubs like Ronnie Scott's
or The Vortex
which could also be a metaphor for all of this.

The shoulder cracks under the weight
I stop for a moment to consider the red sky
and why they jump from buildings
Baker, McCorkle....
they wore their scars
softly, I think

like rain.

The Party Animal #2 by Paul Hellweg

Went to a party last night,
second time in as many years.
Room heavy, sweaty, warm,
jostling, bumping, squeezing through,
“excuse me” the most frequent words,
no place for a wallflower to hide.
Free wine, all you could want, but
ate dinner before, too full to drink,
too depressed to chat,
too self-conscious to flirt.
Wanted to leave immediately,
forced myself to stay an hour,
remembering my therapist’s words,
people unwilling to face their fears
risk living
isolated and withdrawn lives.

But what about those of us
who go out and brave
that bewildering world
other people inhabit, only to find
it’s not for us?

Two Poems by Ford Dagenham

APPLIANCE TIMES MAY VARY

apparently my Time is NOW.
my Life; NOW.
in this weird slot straddling centuries
but
appliance times may vary.

radio on back door open occasionally a friend will call. her

again new black underwear.
listen to blackbird cry out flies slowly over.
Life Fire and the Death TV.
whisky flows softly to douse the burnout of my brain.
appliance times may vary.

I attempt Werds to not die useless
but its all coming out as barren self portraits
because
appliance times may vary.

Write New and Write Again- yes
tonight there will be drugs
but
tomorrow I work at the desk coffee cups and small lamp.
must Write Werds like burning forest painting ash on flowers.

must not die useless don’t know how long I have
because
appliance times may vary.

PLASTIC BUDDHA

these loose easy hot coffee days shine like a Mars.
but
the evenings!
the nights!
are slow cold
are stale tired
are difficult and stubborn.

attempt to file accurate reports when home safe.
but
uninspired!
dead!
awful blank head!
demented clock hands spin round I am sitting in the kitchen

hands still as stone.
midnight
comes
minutes
after
4 pm.

so light so late sky rich deep rock blue blooms black
when
the
orange
feathers
fade.
air is empty eager for autumn to rush in and die.

Two Poems by Donal Mahoney

The Deli On Granville

I lived in the attic back then,
and late those evenings I had to study
and couldn't afford to go drinking
I'd run down to the deli and buy

bagels and smoked lox.
I'd watch the lame son
wrap each item in white paper
while his father, coughing at the register,

pointed to the cans on the wall
and screamed, "Serve yourself! Serve yourself!"
I'd grab a tin of baked beans and he'd smile.
Now, years later, I return to the deli

and find that it's closed.
The sign on the door confirms
what everyone else already knows:
There has been a death in the family.

Father: Every Morning of His Life

The cup he took his tea from
all those years was Army surplus,
made of tin. It whirred

to the spoon he wound in it
15 times per lump of sugar.
We who slept in rooms just off

the kitchen rose like ghosts
to the winding of that spoon.
In my house, now, mornings

Sue’s the first downstairs. She
scalds the leaves and wonders:
Will the winding ever end?

Three Poems by Sarah Marie Miller

a moon painting in spain.

and the she

gets uncomfortably close

colors blurring the lines till they

become muddy hues muddy uncomfortable hues

til one day she sees a light raises her eyes realizes

art is her meditation realization of truth of life of getting
back to real to feel to remember to forget
she frowns a brown frown at the colors she has made
paints it black

starting from the neck of the dove who dared to
disappoint
in hungry dark chocolate hues
runs away

cries a glass of tears in your waterpark blues

homesick subterranean alien



moldementional.

everything in here smells old. moldy. filthy and covered in sweat from the seventies. sixties. my parents when they were my age and horny.
it is suede it is maroon. it is cracked and dry. it is my skin. it is my chimney stopped up for decades for fear of tenants burning the damn building down. utopia. thats what they called my apartment building. in nineteen twenty. when ladies had creme coloured lace gloves and wore perfume and crossed their legs.

whats that mold causes dementia.


(if i pull this last bit of nail off i will bleed.

i have to pull it off.)



kinkos.

in line with ipod ears buzzing signs flash buy this overpriced banner
a woman dressed to kill .herself. with some feathers and is that a clothespin sticking out of her head
a man with sportscoat and store-bought wrinkles ironed into the back of his stonewashed gap jeans


inside i am laughing at everyone and somber as can be

on the walk home i shoot out a first floor office window to push the button on the monitor of a computer left on overnight.


(to save electricity.)

A beautiful song, just beautiful… by William J Fedigan

Michael says he sings to cancer, says cancer sings to him.

Michael says cancer is a woman. Michael says she loves him, says he

loves her.

Michael says she will kill him. He tells Jimmy:

-I sing to her, Jimmy. I sing a beautiful song, Jimmy, just

beautiful…

-OK.

-She sings to me, Jimmy. She sings a beautiful song, Jimmy,

just beautiful… Can you hear the song?

-Sure.

-We love each other, Jimmy.

-OK.

-She will kill me, Jimmy.

-OK.

Michael and Jimmy on Ward B, basement.

Michael on Ward because he sings to cancer, hears cancer sing

to him. Jimmy on Ward because he wants to kill self. Jimmy tells ER

doc he wants to kill self. Jimmy gets 14 days on Ward B. 14 days.

Jimmy likes Michael’s song. Beautiful song.

-My mother sang a beautiful song, Jimmy, just beautiful…I wish

you could have heard her…beautiful song, just beautiful…

-Delusional, doc says.

Doc puts Michael on different meds, heavy meds. Meds don’t

work. Michael sings beautiful song.

-Tell him to shut the fuck up! Mouse says to Jimmy. Anger issues.

-He’s just singing to himself, Jimmy tells Mouse.

-Fuck you and fuck him! Mouse says. Anger issues. Assault with

intent to kill.

-Any thoughts of suicide, Jimmy? doc asks.

-No. Feel good.

-Any thoughts of hurting yourself, Jimmy? doc asks.

-No. Feel good, Jimmy says.

Jimmy discharged. Jimmy out. Week later Mouse out. Jimmy

sees Mouse in park. Mouse looks for clean butts on ground. Finds clean

butt with good tread left. Mouse cleans it off, fires it up.

Jimmy asks about Michael.

-How’s Michael doing? Jimmy asks Mouse.

-The asshole’s dead, Mouse says.

-What?

-He’s dead.

-Cancer? Was it cancer?

-He hung himself with a bed sheet.

-What?

-He says over and over he hears his mother. She sings to me, he

says, it’s a beautiful song, he says, just beautiful… next thing doc and

nurses running around. Code Blue, crash cart…dead.

-Shit.

Jimmy walks away.

Jimmy listens.

Jimmy listens for her voice.

Jimmy listens for her song. Beautiful song, just beautiful…

Three Poems by Jonathan Butcher

Spare Time

We walk over the pavements that display

a crude mosaic of chewing gum, needles

and half dead pigeons.

I know that mountains reside here, that

fields now entombed with concrete offer

a catacomb only visible through aged eyes.

As our coats hang loose, the change in

our pockets jangle, just enough ammo to

pass this free time, that we never hold

sacred enough.

It now frees us momentarily from the iron traps

that have become far more comfortable than

we ever anticipated.

No need now for those once consistent

breakouts, as the waters now run at our pace,

not theirs.

Morning Rush

That afternoon pacing towards work, in

frantic lateness I saw the gathered crowds.

He was spread across the curb; ironed

polo shirt, clean shaved, gelled hair,

knife wound in his left side.

The red river at his feet seemed to glisten,

reflecting the torrid tale of the hour previous,

as the air thickened within the crowd, like

a fog with the power to deafen as well as blind.

The crowd then dispersed, no two eyes meeting,

chatter suddenly erupted, as the help arrived

neither asking for or gaining assistance.

Within time's jaws we left him, in that waiting

room of ours, our responsibilities waving their

flags at yet another parade of delays.

Curtains

You hang oblivious, dust encrusted, a foul design

job, left over by previous irresponsible occupiers.

Hanging limp, like flaked skin, your rail fractured

like a soot covered broken spine.

When appropriate wipe away tears on your ends,

that are soaked into your fabric, and drank with gusto.

The cracked windows know you all to well, know

your almost smug like presence is really just

a cover for the secrets you hold.

And for all your time there, tying up the room,

you still don't fit the windows.

Two Poems by Jay Passer

MORNING EXTINCTION

In the shuttered darkness

Of a kitchenette

I’m nodding in the morning

And the world resistant to

My leap out the window

Into emptied lake of street

Into welcome menace of mortuary stillness

Adrift and misanthropic

When the blam-blam alarm

And landing splat in a pratfall

Shattering café idleness

Of urban mamas yapping Chihuahuas

And babies with pinched pink faces

Fate of the free world bundled into strollers

Screaming WA-WA! cuddly soldiers-to-be

In training from the potty seat to guzzle the dream

At a ratio of tit versus

Miles per gallon

READ ALL ABOUT IT

Uranium to critical mass

That’s all you need to remember

No doubt about it, the world is nearing its finale

I hear trees whispering about it in foreign languages

Here I sit with dice and cup

I can’t afford insurance.

This, This is an African Moment by Amit Parmessur

Lighting a crooked cigarette in a bus overfed

with bushed Sunday people. The young conductor

too effeminate to bring back order, with the smoke

stirring silent angry looks.

Sipping some stale

Coca-Cola while being already drunk, with the

body swaying to every whim of a hungry bus driver.

Watching then the tragic landscape

for a bit of elusive escapism.

Feeling too hot, and a bit frustrated

with someone’s beautiful wife sitting just in front.

Trying to swear in a language not resembling the

mother tongue but that of a faraway father’s habit.

Falling asleep after a few drags on the cigarette

that rebels and falls down

after being left alone between stinking fingers

as good as dry ladyfingers without balls.

Being laughed at by neighbors,

by well-dressed and perfumed neighbors

with intentions darker than lethal black ants.

Waking up to have a second drag on a cigarette

that is missing. Starting to

swear heroically, searching for the cigarette that

has rolled into someone else’s temporary territory.

Aggravating the situation by releasing

from the pocket a handful of stolen,

old and bent coins onto the ground, with them rolling

everywhere like the rapid shells of paralyzed tortoises.

After Pancakes (Cause and Effect) by Rebeca Linney

I

During the car ride uninterrupted by

cell phone-talkers, my father's

pinky snare and index crash tapped

loudly on the steering wheel.

I played air-piano.

He silenced his other children in the back seat

so he could hear me sing loudly, in perfect-pitch,

gesturing during the chorus.

My sisters sat with their arms crossed, rolling their eyes.

My brother scowled and leaned his freckled forehead

against the vibrating window.

II

"Get over here, Fat Bitch!"

My brother, standing at the top of the stairs

psoriasis-covered arms

embracing a blue sleeping bag.

I ran up the stairs to the back of our makeshift line

behind my laughing sisters.

James began his face-first slide

onto the downstairs landing.

Three Poems by James D Quinton

hell is other people

I find that nothing

ever gets beyond

anticipation

missing the freedom

of childhood,

the relinquishment

of responsibility

honesty dissolves

into telephone lies

nodding and smiling

nothing to say

blank blue eyes

three chord songs

blisters on my fingertips

hibernating in summer

fear of traffic jams

and exchanges

hopes and dreams of a young girl lost

daddy and mummy

must be proud,

twenty-something year old

daughter on late night telly

humping and grinding

in bra and panties

fake tanned flesh exposed

thrusting wildly at the camera

beauty lost

enhanced, airbrushed

disfigured with products and surgery

on explicit pictures

that can be sent to my phone

selling herself

(sigh)

it’s all in an evening’s work

I’m fascinated, not titillated

she gyrates, gestures

sound off, she talks

she shakes,

pulls at her body,

contorts her face

pretends she’s being…

trying to make herself alluring

waving a nokia

trying to get me to phone

£2 a minute and

£1.50 connection fee

and I want to call

and tell her about

Jesus, Gandhi

about another way, the light

about recapturing innocence

when the mike comes on

I’m surprised

her voice eloquent

she tells me what’s on offer

what the other girls are up to

signing off with

‘naughty kisses’

I look into her eyes,

I think I see sadness

I wonder what her

seven year old self

would say

if she where to see

her hopes

and dreams

lost

when love turns pornographic

rare, banished in the literati

the simplest language communicates

the most complicated feelings

slogans, red paint, brick walls

blood stains white cloth

Two Poems by John Tustin

JOHN'S LIFE

The review are pouring

halfway through the season

of “John’s Life,”:

an unmitigated disaster!

A situation comedy more sad

than funny.

Poorly acted, sparsely staged,

the villain too evil to be believed,

the hero unlovable.

Like watching a car wreck

in slow motion.

The only bright spot

those two up-and-comers,

ages five and two.

Maybe they can spin off successfully,

giving viewers something beyond

a numb ass

and a bad memory.

HORSES ARE BEAUTIFUL

Horses are beautiful,

contentedly snorting, coats glimmering

as they eat their hay.

Cicadas are beautiful,

making chittering calls in the sycamores,

flicking lizard-like wings

for eagerly waiting lovers.

Sparrows are beautiful,

battling pigeons for crusts and turf,

losing and trying,

frenetically grabbing.

Pigs are beautiful.

Geckos are beautiful.

Suckerfish are beautiful.

People are not beautiful.