Two Poems by Rob Plath

flip your zippo, bitch & shut up

recently i read an article
about quitting smoking

one of the methods
they listed to combat
the habit
was to wear a rubberband
around your wrist
& snap it each time
you feel an urge to smoke

or

better yet--
slap your face
&
tell yourself:
'hang tough; don't puff'

how about continuing
smoking & when you get
paranoid about your health
& attempt abstaining
you snap a tourniquet
that's around your arm
& say "at least i'm not
shooting smack"

or better yet--
punch yourself in the face
& say: 'drag or no drag
one day you'll wear a toe tag'



quit graffiting tombstones w/bullshit

people aren't blank slates
when they're born
happily waiting to be filled up

rather they are wordless
tombstones pushed out of
the womb

mothers cradling
yet another grave-marker
in a birth blanket

not a chalkboard to be filled
w/formulas & philosophy
w/human horseshit

rather bloody
howling gravestones

& they spend their
lives slowly chiseling
their dumb names
into the slab

like they know
who they really are
what they really are

& maybe some etch
a cheap epitaph
a bald-face fabrication

HERE LIES SO & SO
& lies is fucking right
a rather appropriate verb

GONE W/THE ANGELS

row after row of
bullshit

nobody ever writes
the truth:

HERE ROTS A SACK
OF MEAT

ANOTHER FEAST FOR
CADAVER-EATING
BEETLES

& what will yrs say reader?

will you go down
into the ground
w/the rest
of the make-believe meat

a mute slab
of
LIES

Two Poems by Doug Draime

Dream From Motel 6

Drunk, and having no memory
how I got there:
the only passenger
in a front seat of an
out of control Greyhound bus

A 300 pound man suppose to be driving
black hair slicked back
dressed in an Elvis
blue sequined jumpsuit
and with white boots
slumped/ passed out
or dead
over the steering wheel
which was
bouncing in tiny zigzag patterns
pressed with the weight of his body
speeding down
Market street
headed pell mell
for the Wharf and
off and over the end
the Pacific devouring
me, the Elvis impersonator
and the 5 ton machine

When I woke up
I was drenched in sweat
and there were
skid marks
from my feet
deep into the mattress
but I was alive, and ravenously
hungry for deep fried shrimp,
cole slaw and several
ice cold beers



For All The Fakes, Flakes, Lairs, Betrayers,
And Ball-less Wonders Over The Last 40
Years In The Small Press

My heart
forgives you
but
my
middle
finger ( now
in
your
dead or
dying
faces)
I am
sorry
to say
has a
life
of its
own

Three Poems by Shannon Peil‏

'cramps'

rolled to the ceiling
my eyes locked up -- frozen
&
my head cramps up
it's hard to walk around
with so much bullshit
crammed in there
like
half-written poems
&
your birthday
it's a wonder
there's any room left
for anything else



'tuesday mornings'

my old neighbor
[60's, leather skinned]
lived in a house across
the way

he built himself
[on the side of his property]
a garage and filled it
with cars

he said, 'junior -'
[he always called me that]
'junior there's not much in life
besides contentment'

and he said this
[as an old bachelor]
after his kids and ex-wife left
years ago

'you can find a number in the paper,'
[the Westword, I think]
'and if you call on a work day
it's cheap'

their cars would park, Tuesday morning
[out front, facing my house]
and a little asian would go in
then leave

and he'd come out front
[Marlb red and a Coors in hand]
and smile across the way at me
just content.



'mudfish'

You letting me do it
wasn't actually as surprising
as how well it fit. It
was like your belly sucked
my hand up there, felt like
I was wrist-deep in a jelly
fish and it was grand. I
felt that hard ball of cervix
protesting my presence and
I wrapped my fingers around
it and tugged it out of
your hole to put it in a
jar in my fridge and you
asked for a glass of water
and told me to wash my
sheets tomorrow.

Three Poems by Donal Mahoney

A Southern Girl’s, Uncoiling

Whenever I mention you,
the doctor always asks
what do I see,

now that you’re gone,
when I think of you.
I say I see thighs,

tanned and gleaming,
kissed by the proper
Bonwit skirt, rising

through the terminal
toward me and above
your thighs

that smile,
a Southern girl’s,
uncoiling.



Harvesting Pumpkins

From villages in Iowa,
Indiana, Minnesota and Nebraska
and from towns in the Dakotas,
Wisconsin and Michigan,
there stream to Chicago in spring
parades of lithe girls
looking for boys
who will look at them.

But they find instead
men who will wine them
through summer,
who will wait until fall
to thresh in the fields
one summer can ripen,

men who will watch
till a pumpkin falls from the vine.
This is the courtship
village girls dream about,
laugh about, hope for.
Come fall, these are the men

who will fill the silos of girls
from Elkhart and Davenport.
Ely and other small places,
lithe girls who in spring
come to Chicago looking for boys
who will look at them
but who find instead
the reapers, the men.



Women Who Walk Like Men

They seem to be everywhere now,
women who walk like men.
With hair cropped in a paint brush,
bullets for eyes and knives for noses,
they walk long halls, hips so still
they can have no pelvis.
Then one day you meet one
and become her friend.
A week later you still wonder:
Are all the women who walk like men
wildflowers, really,
locked in a hothouse, craving the sun?

Two Poems by Joseph Hargraves

Hair

unfortunately
I was not
ordinary enough
for him
to love

is there
consolation
in that?

yes

he said
"you're immature
and afraid
of intimacy"

agreed

I told him
of Browning's
elective affinities

"not to love
is to condemn
ourselves"
I said

he understood
Elizabeth 's laudanum
habit
but not
Robert's theory

I suppose
he wanted
the art
student type:

rebellion
in
hairdos

someone
he could
comprehend
and comb



yesterday

yesterday
among a crowd of tourists
in a basement
I looked at
Monet's "Water Lilies"

fluorescent light
reflected
yellow whispering faces

I wondered
what was wrong
with me:

if anyone else
thought
the paintings resembled wallpaper

this morning
eating breakfast
in the hotel dining room

a young woman asked
my opinion
of the "Monet Salle"

I told her about
a prettily papered crypt

"it was just your mood"
she said
leaving the table

isn't it always?

Three Poems by Justin Hyde

the ex shylock for the hells angels

shows me a ring
special made
in the black hills:

two oak leaves
represent he and his wife
three acorns
their children
(two they had together)
the oldest
was hers
from a previous marriage
but he raised him
as his own
from the age of three.

says the oldest
stopped talking to him
after he went to prison.

"told his mom
he didn't want to chance
getting abandoned by me again
guess i understand
but it hurts,"
he says
and tells me
he sends him letters
that go unreturned.

"he's got a house
on the east side
i walk up
put the letters
in the mailbox
but don't have the balls
to knock on his door,
imagine that
grown man
afraid to knock
on a door."

i tell him
it cuts
both ways

how i haven't spoken
to my father
in over a year

that
sometimes
i dial the number

but always
chicken out
after the
first ring.



smoke break at the work release facility

she uses me
i know it
she knows it too
usually comes around
when her latest boyfriend
runs out of dope
or kicks her out
we got a daughter together
guess that's what
keeps her in my heart
some stupid hope
we'll both turn a corner
have something like
little house on the prairie
you know?
he says
lighting another
cigarette.



drinking in my father's bar

i knew
you was joe's son
way you
hold that beer bottle
like you're
making love to it,
says ron
a thin red head
with a toucan
nose.

shoot pool
like your old man
too?

nobody
shoots pool
like my dad.

yea
he's the
best stick around. where
is the old buzzard
tonight?

don't know
haven't spoken to him
in over a year.
forever really.

well
he was always
bragin on you
about that bike racing
he was awful
proud.

yea
i suppose.

suppose nothing,
he says
and buys us
a shot of black velvet.

then another.

then he
turns around
whistles through his fingers
and bellows:

we got
family tonight
this here's
joe's son.

Two Poems by Steve Calamars

from his poetry chapbook, American Violence, available at New Polish Beat.

death is harmless

it’s life you
have to watch

it’ll creep up
behind you and
slip a job around
your neck
like a noose

it’ll pull your
youth out from
under you
like a trap door

and leave you swinging
in a slow suburban strangle

by the time
you’re aware
of what’s happened

you’ll be too old
to give a shit



truth is

i’m a criminal
at heart

trapped in a
working-man’s
world

clip-boards and
blue-suits are
unnatural things

i’d feel more
comfortable with
a ski-mask
and 9mm

tossing bullets
like baseballs

instead of dodging
pot-shots from
time-clocks and
middle-management

Days After The Game by David S. Pointer

-For The Post Katrina
Folks in New Orleans

I pass a
prosthetics clinic-
later high kickers
caught on a dance
stage not leading
to Hollywood, I
think about an
elderly printer
proud of his policy
of not printing any
political poetry for
nearly 40 years
while Eli, Indy's
MVP Peyton and
The New Orleans
Saints all have
Super Bowl rings
as proud papa/ex-
quarterback Archie
Manning inherits
the earth under
NFL football

I'll Be Honest With You Simon by Mike Fitzgerald

I WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND
I WANT TO SEE YOU SMILE
LAUGH
BUT YOU WONT LET ME IN
WHY
YOU NEVER GIVE EYE CONTACT
WHY
WHAT ARE YOU HIDING
WHATS HAPPENED TO YOU
OPEN UP
TALK TO ME
PROPERLY
NEVER EYE CONTACT
always to the side
NEVER EYE CONTACT
YOU WONT LET ANYONE GET CLOSE
I DONT UNDERSTAND
I WANT TO UNDERSTAND
I WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND
I THINK YOU WANT TO BE MINE
BUT YOU WONT LET ME IN
WHY
WHAT ARE YOU HIDING
WHATS HAPPENED TO YOU

Limboed by Joanna Valente

His wife didn't like to go out on Friday nights,
It made things awkward between them.
She would paint her face on, her face older
than her body, swaying sometimes, her head.
There was a goodness

in her hair still. He would tell her to put it up,
like an upside down root praying to go back
home beneath the earth. She preferred Saturdays,
sometimes Sunday afternoons looking at pictures
of her father, hundreds dying before

him and after him. She touches her stingy belly, with its
stretch marks running untamed. She is disgusted, outwitted
by them and almost remembers what it was like in
the womb. Before she was a girl, she remembers when
yearning wasn't the only way.

Ten Tip Top Tips to Becoming a Writer by Joseph Ridgwell

1. Do not, under any circumstances, attend a creative
writing course, retreat, or evening class. These are for
mentally disturbed people, whose close proximity may
cause you to become depressed.

2. Read like a mother-fucker. Anything from advanced
Arithmetic to Astrophysics. Read all the greats of literature
as they will teach you a good deal. Do not read any current
bestsellers. This type of book can do serious damage to the
creative soul of any budding artist.

3. Do not listen to the opinions of anyone who works in the
publishing industry. These freaks don’t know what the fuck
they are doing. They must be ignored at all times and often
derided for their stunning ignorance of what constitutes a
writer. This includes all editors, literary agents, slush-pile
flunkies, and the PA girl whose father is rich and her
mother good-looking, but is as thick as two short planks.

4. Never ever plagiarise, but do steal. Theft in literature is
a virtue.

5. Write every single day for a solid ten years. After that do
what the fuck you like.

6. Do not expect to earn any money whatsoever.
Harbouring such a delusion can only end in tears.

7. Do not be overly influenced by any writer you may or
may not admire, including me, in fact especially me. This
will lead to imitation, which is to be avoided at all costs.

8. Be afraid, very afraid of academics and academia. This is
a one way route to complete and utter failure as an
artist. Thou hast been warned.

9. Live a little. Travel the world, get out of the comfort
zone, take a trip to the edge, shoot a man in reno,
consume a mountain of drugs, get boozy all the time, as
drink brings luck to a writer, take part in an orgy, fuck both
sexes in the arse, howl at the moon, one arm waving free,
the other holding a bottle of wine, swim naked in the
ocean, go dancing, sleep out under the stars, go a
wandering, climb a volcano, sing rebel songs into the long-
lost night, watch a sunrise, sunset, cloud view… Get the
freaking idea, fuckers?

10. Last, but not least. Don’t try.

Joseph Ridgwell can be found here: http://insearchofthelostelation.wordpress.com/

ASTROLOGY by Russell Streur

The moon is new
In the house of a blind woman
Lisa says in soft lament
gazing at the sky tonight
There’s no hiding

The bottom of the world
Is abandoned to eclipse
The Hour of Judgment
Passes into Saturn’s cusp
Planets are colliding

It all means trouble
Corpses in the forest
Trucks of kerosene exploding
Riots in Cathedral Square
Bangkoks of calamity

We’re in for sorrow
Equatorial dislocation
Days of fasting
Spiders at the bottom of the cup
And general anxiety

Rasputins guide these stars
The roof is caving in
The fallout in the fans
Is one part fire
One part flood

Listen
Lisa says
It’s a lousy time to make vacation plans—
On this road to Armageddon
The tollbooth is expecting blood.

Two Poems by Ross Vassilev

a friend of the poor

Frankie Yale was
the biggest mobster
in New York in the 1920s
made a fortune from
Prohibition

he was old school:
bootlegging
protection
gambling, etc.

he wasn't no pimp
or drug pusher

he gave food
and money
to the poor when
they needed it

he wasn't like all those
bankers
businessmen
and patriots
who think the poor
are lazy and
stupid

you needed help--
he gave it

and when his old friend
Al Capone had him
gunned down
and the car crashed
some family's Bar Mitzvah

he got one of the biggest
funerals in New York's
history

all the poor came out
and there was a million
dollars worth of
flowery wreaths

they don't make 'em like that
anymore.



no shit

I have dreams like
being in Russia
amid all the poverty that
Gorby and Yeltsin and
the rest of the asshole
traitorous Right created
it's often so realistic
I wake up feeling sick

or I dream that I'm
wandering in some strange
place and there's other
people there but they
ignore me and I ignore
them (dreams imitating life)

or this town is a raging
inferno and the flames are
kissing the night sky
and when all the white trash
have been burned alive
and there's nothing left
of the this shitty little town
Satan puts out the flames
by pissing on them.

I guess I must be crazy.

Mytholmroyd Haikus by Adelle Stripe

from her collection "Cigarettes In Bed" available from Blackheath Books.

1.

this is my cradle;
asleep in your warm chest hair
your heartbeat a lullaby


2.

the sun hides behind
st.john in the wilderness
our lips taste the hot raindrops


3.

the fading confetti sticks
to the wet stone walls
like fallen apple blossom


4.

palms sticky from pine resin
the transparent moon
sucks the light from my fingers


5.

cycling in the morning sun
the sweet smell of popping plants
hang in the june air

ON THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE STREET by M.P. Powers

nick from the lawnmower shop
is always cheerful
behind the counter

whistling, trilling
singing old songs

(usually tony bennett songs)

"i left my heart
in san francisco..."

and when he talks
to the customers, there's a pleasant lilt
in his voice

a rolling beautiful
sing-song
wave of vowels

i have never known him
to be in anything but his normal
jolly
mood

"it don't mean a thing if you ain't got that
swing..."

it doesn't seem to bother nick
that he has to listen to the same
chainsaw
infomercial
being played on an endless loop
all day long

or that he hasn't gotten a raise in three years

or that half his customers
are liars, cheats, swindlers, cheapskates...

he treats them all equally
and with a smile

and goes on singing

"grab your coat
and get your hat... leave your
worries on the
doorstep..."

"the best is yet to come and, babe, won't
it be fine..."

i asked one of nick's regular
customers
johnnyboy
what he thought of it all
though
and he may have been right

"don't worry," he said, "everyone's got a dark
side.
nick probably goes home to his apartment
every night
and wears woman's underwear
and a hat
made
of human
skin..."

an afterthought by Kevin Coons

I don't even bother hanging up the phone, I just let it linger.
The synapses in my brain lose their signal and suddenly, I am a dial tone.

I'm sitting on my bed alone in bare feet.
I look out the window and the world keeps rolling over.
I start to remember something my father once told me.

Down the stairs, and out the door,
I settle behind the wheel and exhale

"you can't control the shit this world piles on you
-only how you carry it "

I ease down the road and out
into the fog.

rothko by Paul Harrison

painted
empty
graves

An Unfinished Story Of Lust And Sorrow - Part 2 by Aline Rahbany

It is always at night, that they find refuge in each others’ arms. Late night, way after dark – when the
crowds have slept, and the stage has emptied, and the only remaining noise was that of the heavy rain,
and the only remaining sight was that of the lightning.

They lay side by side, on his bed, staring by the window, into the dark night. He was not much of a
speaker this eve. And she was enjoying his sound of silence.

As they lay speechless, once again she started having the same old thoughts – is he real? Or is it the
illusion of reality, playing tricks on her naïve mind? Again, she could never tell … She tried touching him;
she laid her fingers on that sweet flesh lying beside her. Flesh is there. She ran her fingers all over his
body, reaching his face.

Laying her fingers on his lips, she tried speaking to him. “Don’t wake me up”, he said, “I am in trance."
This left her puzzled. She laid back, surrendering her ideas, giving in, for the goddess of delusion to sail
her across the ocean of hollowness.

As she closed her eyes, and entered the realm of reverie – the few seconds when the person is neither
awake nor asleep – she felt his hand caressing her face, gently. She heard words being mumbled in her
ear, but she couldn’t understand the language. Somehow, she felt the words were not addressing her.
Somehow she felt alone, and yet surrounded by a powerful shade of humanity. Why does he always reveal
himself in her moments of weakness? Why does he disappear when she is in a state of wakefulness? Could it be
he is living in her mind? Could it be he is a creation of her bitter imagination?

Conceding to her confusion, she opens her eyes to see herself in her own bed – twisting and turning …
“where are you?” she screams. The only answer she receives is the echo of her own voice, on the sound
of which, she submits her fragile body back to sleep, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.


Specter by Ally Malinenko

-for Michele and Kristen

I was mistaken for dead for a couple hours
by some old friends.
They wrote me to tell me they cried.
But during that time, when I was thought a phantom,
I floated through Sunset Park
whispering in the ears of the Mexican’s selling empanadas.
They understood me because everyone speaks the language of the dead.

I teased the Chinese kids on 8th Avenue who ignored me
because ghost or no ghost
the number 8 is still lucky.
I possessed the old Russian women down by the ocean,
who crossed themselves and hid in the church begging for Jesus.

And I did a high wire act, across the thick cables of the Brooklyn bridge.
These are the kinds of things you can get away with when you are dead.
I even haunted you, as you wondered mid-town wondering
whatever happened to that girl you used to know.

But when I wrote them back
to tell them to dry their tears,
that I was still in fact pumping blood
and bloated lungs, that I was still dividing cells
and mostly water,
I fell back to earth, with an astonishing crack.

This is what death can be like.
You can vanish, go invisible, and not even know it.
Take advantage of that time, if you are so lucky,
the city will open her secrets for you,
and let you linger in the darkest corners of Brooklyn.
Ghosts don’t have to worry about fear or chain locks.
Ghosts can pass right through
your walls and sit across from you,
unblinking,
watching you fall apart.

That’s what I did.
And you never even noticed.

Hand-Job by Joseph Ridgwell

his debut collection of short fiction, Oswald's Apartment, is now available from Blackheath Books.

On his return Moshi told me the story like this. I was lying on a bamboo bed inside a
yellow beach hut. We were in Bali. The sound of the ocean’s roar could be heard
outside. I liked that sound.
‘Did ya find a massage parlour?’ I asked.
Moshi gave me a sheepish look, ‘I just had a very strange experience,’ he
replied somewhat enigmatically.
‘Tell me everything,’ I demanded
‘Okay, but promise you won’t repeat what I’m about to tell you to anyone. I
MEAN ANYONE!’
Now I was genuinely interested and more than a little intrigued.
‘I promise?’
A troubled look appeared on Moshi’s suntanned face.
‘I searched all over for a massage parlour, but couldn’t find one anywhere.
Then I saw it.’
‘Saw what?’
‘The sign?’
‘The sign?’
‘The words, Traditional Balinese Massage, were painted on it in white letters.’
‘And?’
‘Inside was this ancient Balinese woman.’
‘How much?’
‘Five dollars.’
‘Bargain.’
‘Yeah, and I’m thinking this elderly lady must have decades of experience, is
certain to give me a traditional massage, but I was sadly mistaken.’
‘Sadly mistaken?’
‘She takes my top off and gets me to lie on the floor. And she hasn’t got any
teeth and her lips and gums are covered in this red shit, and she smelled.’
‘Nice.’
‘She pours some oil onto my stomach and starts rubbing, I mean she must
have been around eighty years old....’
I raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘Yeah?’
By now Moshi was no longer maintaining eye contact.
‘The dirty old cunt slipped a hand inside my shorts!’
‘What the fuck?’
‘I didn’t know what to do or how to react.’
‘So you stopped her, right?’
‘No, I just closed my eyes and let the wrinkled up bitch do it.’
‘Shit,’ I said.
Moshi scratched his head and appeared puzzled.
‘And afterwards she demanded thirty dollars instead of five.’
‘Fuck,’ I said.

Two Poems by Justin Hyde

swimming with unicorns

the kenyans will win marathons
the yellow lines in parking lots will be repainted
the bright eyed infantry will
take night classes to get their mbas
and become six sigma black belts
limbs will be severed in industrial accidents
foster children will be
raped in rooms full of potpourri and stuffed animals
pelicans will drown in oil spills
midgets will commit suicide amidst confetti
but the shelves will always be stocked with marshmallows
and chances are
you will float through this life
untested.
like a pink moon.



sure as this

the history books
may or may not
include you

but

hardly anyone
reads
history books

and

the few
who do
discuss it among themselves
at superfluous conventions

or on various
esoteric internet forums

or in passing
to their wives:

those dull eyed creatures
nodding slowly out of habit
while planning the purchase of a Coach purse
or some other
asinine
coup.

exhausted earthling by Steve Calamars

tired of the planet
my finger falls asleep
on a hair-trigger

a bullet rolls down
the barrel and crashes
thru my brain cells
like bowling pins

my head snaps back
and the revolver drops

the last thing
i see is an empty
white ceiling

radiant as a
neutron star

The Corner of Wells and Madison by Donal Mahoney

I know that if I ever
fall in the street
the way that man did,
in the middle of an intersection,
someone will mind.
But if unlike that man
I make it
to the other side,
scale the curb and
mount the sidewalk
and then fall,
no one will have to
drive around me.
There will be no extra noise.
There will be only the usual honking.
People walking by
will have to watch their step, true.
But this is Chicago:
No one can blame me for that.

Two Poems by Mike Meraz

Wave

she always told me to wave.

"it's good to wave at the people
in the old folks home,"
she said.

so we waved.

me, half-heartedly,
her with a smile
that could light up
the darkest hell.

and as we walked,
we talked about the demise
of our relationship

but at that moment
it was all worth while.

at least we made
some people smile.



Light Moments

light moments between people.
I catch these every day.
"I fix cars," he said, "now get out of here."
"and I fix you," she said with an adorable smile.
how cute, I thought, how sweet,
that moment, that snap shot of love.

like the time I held her in my arms
and she looked up at me and said,
"so this is what love is."

or the time I lay on the floor half-asleep
and she woke up and asked,
"Michael, where are you?"
then she spotted me on the floor and said,
"oh good, there you are."

these are moments I remember.
although if I think of the consumption of time,
I become depressed.

it is these moments that make me happy,
and in a strange way,
give me hope.

Two Poems by Doug Draime

2 p.m.

He said he’d lost his mind
many years before
and that he was still looking
for it in all the same, insane places
He pushed the small pitcher
of beer he’d bought me closer
I poured a glass and held it up
for a toast, to bums and poets,
I said, touching his double shot of
Jim Beam with my glass of draft
He made a face. “I don’t know about
poets, fuck poets, but here’s
to bums who have lost their minds.”



Homeless Sellout With A PO Box

The odds were
against me, maybe
100 to 1
that they’d accept
any of the poems
I sent. Then one day
in my PO Box
a check for $25 and a note
saying they were
going to publish
one. The worst
one I submitted. But then,
what the hell
do I know
about poetry? I still think
Rod Mc Kuen
is a better poet than
John Ashbery. And Bob Dylan
has said more in one song than
William Carlos Williams said
in his entire
writing career. So, they were
publishing one of my poems,
one I didn’t
like much,
in their corporate magazine ...
with their large board of directors.
Well, I cashed their check, bought the
first real meal I’d had
in several days
and sent them some more crap.

The New Siberia Is the Old Siberia by Kyle Hemmings

If Hitler came down
with Swine Flu,
or Margaret Truman
discovered spiders
beyond the 38th parallel
of her sheets
I wouldn’t take a Glock
aim for the hamstrings
of history professors
denying their personal gulags
the rotting teeth of their wives
from too many chocolate truffles
and the mistresses
bedding any stranger
claiming to be a Trotskyite
from the old block,
never missing a chance
to cause a revolution
on crutches
making a scene
in Finnish train stations
under closely watched clocks.

All of These People Should Die Fucking Losers by xTx

It’s a radio
played all day
for dogs

How the girl
believes it’s important
to be only
pretty

The skinned sleeve
of the boy
with the lion
inside

A wrestling
before every prince
taking me down
again

Two Poems by Joseph Hargraves

1x1=0

When I told you I was working
on a new poem- you asked: “Is it
about me?” Antecedent receding.
Jesus cursed the fig tree when
it didn’t bear him fruit. This is
a threat. Foregone conclusions
of your status change daily. I’m
a crooked and crazy behaviorist,
with a nihilist bent. You want the
word made flesh. As a doctor, I
will no longer count your T-cells
or ambivalence. You’ve mis-
calculated figures, with me as a
constant value. This is basic
math; because you refuse to hear
the colloquial phrase: “Get lost.”



HEAT

We whistle violent tunes,
eat spotted crab-meat, savor
the burn of Wild Turkey.
Timid Shirley twitches as
wincing tweezers start
pulling back the skin of her
coded, antiseptic silence.
Stunned: bones, sinew, tendons
snap and tear in syncopation
with our angry pulses.

We hot-wire a banged-up
Corvette with a crooked
engine and flaked paint.
She drives. I’m here for
the ride; until the silver
highway ends in a desert.

Loaded, we climb out
of the wreck. Feet push
hot sand. Silent, we
notice the alcohol
has stolen our clothes.
Naked, we shake to rhythmic
waves of heat. Taut skin
goose-bumps to the beat
of pounding eardrums.

Without having moved,
rivulets of sweat run
between us. Her weight
starts the motion. No
smiles. Bodies shift.
Hesitant lips glide up
my neck. Fingertips trace
the arch of her spine.
Brines mix and drip from
joyous wool. Nothing
depends on this moment.

red star descending by Karl Koweski

I’ve never been good with affairs.
I’ve never been able to
compartmentalize my emotions
despite what I say to the contrary,
I fall in love easy,
fall out hard.

I’m addicted to the heart sick enchantment
excitement and disillusionment,
the hope and crippled expectations
that comes with giving oneself
over unconditionally
to someone
with a list of conditions.

but don’t read this as a warning
or as an invitation
to scorch your flesh
on the heat
of my white hot obsessions.
I’m incapable of burning
anyone other than myself.

beware instead
of the black hole left in my wake,
the implosion of our passion
as the red star descends
and our shared time and space collapses
leaving an absence so total
not even memory
can escape its allure.

Two Poems by Rob Plath

bruised from head to toe but unbound & alone

after
basking
in
solitude
for
days

to
sit
in
a
chair
in
a
room
full
of
people

is
like
being
bound
to
the
rungs
&
then
pounded
upon
by
a
mob

each
inane
thing
out
of
their
mouth
another
fist
in
the
gut

their
laughter
like
some
bitch
scratching
her
ugly
long
nails
along
yr
face
over
&
over


baudelaire my flesh is on fire tonight

baudelaire my flesh
is on fire tonight

i've come down
w/ ringworm

my skin itches
from my forehead
to my shins

the nurse said
don't scratch

but these parasites
are squatting
on my body
eating my cells

red patches like
cigarette burns
like cigar holes

if i itch it spreads
like pockets of death
across my shape

baudelaire i have
a weak liver
& bad teeth

i'm full of panic
sex starved
& always on
the verge
of going
over the edge

& now these
invisible shits
are eating me alive

but baudelaire
look how my bile shines
in my fucking lines!

Papered Rooms and Bodies by Ben Nardolilli

How much could I be making,
Standing out in the world,
Not sitting in bed, or sleeping,
Eight hours I could be working,
Lunch too, and breakfast,
Idle luxuries,
No one grows rich by eating.
Do I really need shoes, maybe
I should wipe my hand with my ass,
Or use old calendars and phonebooks,
A waste of paper, water is free.
Money in the bank does nothing,
It has to race, find itself a home,
Some land, some people to work on it,
The bankers fondle my bills and coins,
They get all the pleasure of their company,
How can I stand and hold it back?
And why should be a bank myself,
Keep this blood in these same old veins,
Or the hair dangling in the scalp,
Cut it off for a wig store,
Drain my body dry,
I could make a killing.

When in Long Beach by Daniel Romo‏

Kiss homeless on foreheads while they sleep on the knoll
in front of the library at City Hall; drink their dreams dry

and spit out seeds from their nightmares. Wipe the soil from their
brows; grind it into skin. Tatted euphemisms yet to come.

Tiptoe, naked through the ghetto; genitalia is universal: neutral,
and you’re less likely to be mistaken for having gang ties.

Ignore single mothers’ cries, curbside memorials,
and barricaded cul-de-sacs. They occur too frequently.

Sift sand on the shore smirking at the sea, once cerulean currents
of non-conformity now jaded, gagged, bound by breakwater.

Sit Indian-style in garages, sifting through “medicinal” haze
lifting to the rafters. And chew on songs birthed from wombs

of empty Corona bottles pardoning indie bands swum mainstream.
Follow the gulls.

They know where the best places in town are to eat.

Out of Age by Jonathan Butcher

It was during that damp morning, he
declared it his last summer.

His hole filled shoes, now hung on
home made washing lines,

Those cardboard envelopes not licked
now for over eight years, the powder
dissolved,

now sit framed in brass, polished
daily with drying spittle.

And at the end of the bed, a thousand cider bottles
piled high, like holocaust suitcases, as dust filled as
the memories.

He cracks his knuckles in time with the mantle piece
clock, feels each rung of the ladder turn to rubber.

Those voices thought gone, now return as whispers,
on that dutiful breeze, felt on the back of his neck,
a now constant massage.

Stinkin' Lincoln by Catfish McDaris

The fat supervisor
transferred up
north from Alabama

She had her eye
on me from
the minute
she walked in

I tried to keep
from staring
but with her
red dress

And long dangling
earrings she
was hard to miss

Sauntering over
to the area
where I was working

She laid her
fat arm on
my shoulder

I cringed in
disbelief at
her boldness

She wanted me
and I wanted
no part of her

Offering to drive
me home I declined

She tried to bribe me
with whiskey
and cigars

I refused everything

Finally she offered
to buy me a new
Lincoln Continental
on the condition

That I make love
to her I reluctantly
agreed

We went out to
the parking lot
and there was
that shiny boat

She got in
the backseat
removed all
her clothes

I must have got
acute nookie shock

I barfed all over
that funky bitch
and her sparkling
luxury automobile.

shamrocks and lightening bolts by Steve Calamars

I wake early. The sky solid and still like black cement. City silent. I walk out into the kitchen. I consume eggs, potatoes, milk and blueberries. I read Machiavelli and Aristotle. I walk down into the basement. Gray walls, rubber mats, metal equipment and yellow lighting. I jump rope. I skim through a black journal with training data. I do crunches, bench presses, French presses, dips and press-downs. I record the new training data on the soft red notebook paper of the black journal. I leave the basement and go upstairs.

I shower, shave and dress. Muscular, heavily tattooed body cocooned in black suit, black tie, black shoes. I remove a large black duffel bag from the closet. I exit the room and walk back into the kitchen. I grab car keys, wallet, pen and pocket knife. I walk out of the house and get into the car. The sun is a bisected pink chunk. I drive, no music, only burgeoning city sounds . . . traffic, trains and sirens.

I park across the street from the bank. Brown brick, white cement and gray glass. I turn the car off and leave the keys in the ignition. Two people wait for the front door to be unlocked. A postal truck drives by. I unzip the duffel bag and remove a pair of black leather gloves. I slide the gloves on and reach back into the duffel bag. I remove a revolver. The revolver is composed entirely of stainless steel. Menacing, luminous and insect-like. I place the revolver in a shoulder-holster beneath my jacket. I grip the duffel bag, steady my mind and exit the car.

I walk across the street. The front door is unlocked and the two people walk in. I follow, pulling a black ski-mask from the duffel bag. I pull the ski-mask over my face and pull the revolver from beneath my jacket. The steel screams in radiant moist flashes, fear floods everyone’s hollow ghost eyes. I rationally survey my surroundings, taking in two patrons and four personnel . . .

I order the two patrons down on the floor in front of the counter. I walk forward and raise the revolver into the popcorn white faces of the four personnel. I ask in a cool, monotone voice, “Who holds keys?” Three of the personnel swivel their heads instinctively in unison. One remains motionless, neck and head stiff, eyes fixed and frightened. I leap over the counter and call calmly once, “Vault.” The barrel of the revolver presses effortlessly into his soft dough-boy chest. I march the four personnel to the rear of the bank.

The one with the keys opens the vault. Blue walls, blue lighting, green blocks. I hand him the duffel bag and order him to place an undisclosed amount of money inside. An amount of money I will not disclose here. I listen for alarms and watch for die-packs. I receive the bag back full . . . heavy, bulky and monolithic. I close the vault with the four personnel inside. I walk to the front of the bank and leap back over the counter. A guard walks in the front door. He holds coffee and a box of donuts. The coffee and donuts drop. The guard goes for his gun.

I raise my revolver, like a cannon in my hand. I squeeze. Four shots. Slugs like softballs break through his abdomen. Body drops. Blood spills out over the white tile floor like sloppy wet red butterflies. I step over the dead matter and walk out of the bank. I place the revolver beneath my jacket and pull the ski-mask from my head. I cross the street and get into the car. I turn the key and drive off. Composed, calculative and analytical.

I pull into the driveway. I exit the car and enter the house. I remove the money from the duffel bag. I remove the revolver from beneath my jacket. I remove the gloves from my hands. I place the money, revolver and gloves in a floor-safe beneath my bed. I place the suit in the closet. I shower, stretch and dress. Gray shirt, gray sweats, gray shoes. Tattoos and gorilla forearms pour out from beneath my shirt-sleeves. I walk into the kitchen. I pick up the phone and call for a woman. Black hair, white skin, red lips. The sun is a hunk of yellow light. While I wait, I close the blinds and read Hobbes.

Convention in Miami by Donal Mahoney

for Gerard Manley Hopkins

Around his navel this morning
a halo, a red stipple
Hopkins would love:
"Glory be to God for dappled things..."

It's a gift from this woman
he doesn't know.
She welcomed him last night
with open arms and open legs

sending him home to his wife
this morning, unaware
he was bringing this souvenir,
a bright halo of crab lice.

the steam pipe choir ensemble of dirty birds and the filthy word of joy by Mat Gould

the lady next to me
smells
like
a wet hound dogs blanket of stale straw
and tells me
she got ran over
in
a Wal-Mart parking lot
and
thus her broken leg
she
is
breathing
as if there has been a forest fire burning in her lungs
all throughout
the rainy season
and
her nostrils lend no exhaust
she is checking over medical bills
making
sure
everyone has gotten paid
and
looks into her bank account
with
the sleekest
of
a mumble
-like most of us
or
certainly myself indeed-
has
acquired the lust
for
a
steady chorus of fuck
said
with
the ease and finesse
of
the morning birds
prodding
us
back toward
existence
like
an engine on full fire-

CRUISE SHIP by Suzy Devere

I hear you and you are
so remote
far from me like icebergs i see through binoculars
and hear
over a cold sea

i want to get closer
i thought we were the same?
but look, there you are
over there
magnificent
natural

and thats when i notice what i am
in relation to you

nothing the same...

my body is the big cheap cruise ship
faded white with strange gold accessories

soul is the little man
washing dishes

cleaning toilets
constantly being belittled and
forgotten

my mind is the asshole
laying on the deck chair
showing off

ordering mix drinks
smoking to look cool
trying to fuck the rest of the passengers
just because he
can

and my love is the bartender

listening to everyone else's
stories
patiently serving them all
longing for so many things
hidden beneath his smile

the bartender whose name no one knows

the quiet bartender who gives the impression
he will be
endlessly
silently
replaced
and
replaced
and
replaced

and so i look again
at your amazing integration

stare down at my fucked up
crew

look again
at your integration
nothing separate
you are one "thing"
fully engaged
involved and massive

and i feel cheap
so i close my eyes
turn the music up

float away

Episode 16 by Sheldon Lee Compton

I've decided not to sleep for five days.
I will ascend on the sixth day and make it holy
and eliminate the seventh day all together.

There is nothing lucky in this pig shit place,
least of all a fucking number.
If I were George Lucas's stepbrother's nephew-in-law I'd be:
FUCKING INSANE, Episode 16.
Harrison Ford and Sinbad would play me,
except they wouldn't.
Their daddy never taught them how to play the Sheldon.

Embracing it is the easy part,
squeezing hard enough to make it bleed through its pores
is the fun part.
I just drove 3.17 miles screaming to the bell tower of my lungs.
Now I can't speak.
I'll have to explain to people in the morning why I can't speak,
without speaking.

Maybe I will shit in my hand and write it on the wall.
Maybe they will cut my tongue out, just to be safe.
I would immediately command my broken tongue
to slap them in the face,
then lick and make up.

the new napalm by Ross Vassilev

you’d cut my head off
and feed it
to Saddam Hussein
use it to fertilize
the white phosphorous desert

the ashes of my
personal sorrow
will keep the stock market up
and fill your barren heart
with atomic warheads

I’m sick of porn
sick of fat
sick of myself
my head bursts out in flowers
that wither under your
military-congressional
consumer cannibal
zombie deathplex
that the hangman laughs at
in his white phosphorous dreams

As-Cen-Sion by Kyle Hemmings

So, I turned to my friend, Jherk Hand, and said, no, Nebraska is not made of bricks but rather the Nebra Disk is so hard on the sole. The mist had solidified green, formed a shale under our runny thoughts. I tossed a coin and bet which side contained a sol invictus on a quadriga. It was getting hard making a living sacrificing Spaniards in Tanumshede. The sky no longer opened up in jocular truffles and the tourists expected a free lunch with ox tails. At home, my wife was busy giving birth to Hours-Ra and Ramen Noodles but I was placing a wager that Svarog would kick some Indo-Eurasian ass. It was getting unbearable to stand before the caves waiting for The Next Coming, me with my wingtips, Jherk Hand with a sprained wrist, and of course, the rest of the contingent: Wadjet, Sekhmet, O Hathor, Nut, Bast, You-Bet, Bat, Menhit, and First Hathor. The latter could never stop talking how his mother met her death in an elevator. It didn't rain for weeks after it happened. Finally, the rocks broke and a creek of light creaked. Would this one lift night from our shoulders? He stood approximately three inches taller than Titan or as tall as I imagined him to be. A bird-man, with wing span of 6.6 feet and a beard that nearly covered his loins. His eyes turned upward and they bled blue in vociferous streams. Awondo's daughter fainted and I couldn't get a handle on The Barotse Prophesy my mom used to read me when I was knee-high to a Trojan. His mouth spilled movement, slow, gentle. "Eid thsi cor Uni be enog." He returned to the cave. We pondered the relative pronouns in our relative positions. "It means the sun has lifted," said Sekhmet who went blind by cutting the heads of too many goats. "No, it means we will have three more years of drought," said Soya, whose body was covered with tattoos of cobra, lioness, and cow. Finally, the most learned amongst us-- Inspector Zeki, said something about a solar barge, the suffering from the ground, fleeting. But these days, I wouldn't bet a sun chariot for a Hur’s crossing.

Against John Berryman by Mark Kerstetter

Henry,

The pressure in my head is threatening
this morning. An endless fucking sea of words.
And the words are fucking.

each other.

Dip into the sea:
Henry is not smiling. Henry does not feel well.
Moreover, Henry feels that he is not well.
This is what I think, and I have Big Eyes.
Henry gave me permission to use his name.
This is not plagiarism.
A mind has been fucked.

by another mind.

It occurred to me that this was a pleasant thought.
That I suppose was the orgasm.
Short lived:

Henry.

Two Poems by Ivan Brkaric

Missing Piece

It wasn’t meant for love,
but a mere arrangement.

A marriage of
family and ideas.

A puzzle
we could piece together.

A piece for culture,
family values
and security.

But in the end,
all the pieces were there.

Accept for one,
the missing piece
that was me.



Hard Times

She tells him a story.

How she was an orphan
and started dancing
to survive.

Then she talks about
the college tuition
she has to pay
and how hard it is
to be a single mom.

She talks about a better life,
but is soon interrupted
when the DJ calls her
back to the stage.

Leaving Behind by Ally Malinenko

Some time last year
or the year before that
you said that there was nothing wrong with being hopeful
as long as I don’t make a habit of it
and I know now,
with the veins on the backs of hands bulging,
the bones and sinew warping like wood,
how right you are.

I can feel the cells sloughing off,
the coming age, the dying, the next decade,
the pull of gravity and each time I see that girl
in the pictures of us when we were younger,
I hate her a little more.

Back home there is mostly quiet
where there used to be rap music
and you said that tonight, when you get in
with a six-pack we’ll take it down to the Narrows
and watch the lights disappear.
You said we need to stop taking everything so seriously

And that makes me feel pretty damn hopeful.
Cause the best thing about us has always been our triviality
little kisses and faces drawn with sharpies. The way you make
me howl with laughter, cupping my big mouth, in a serious movie.
The huffing and sighing everyone else does. Their dirty little jealousy.

I want to stay like this but I said that ten years ago and it didn’t work.
Besides, my nails are breaking off, paging through these books.
Little pieces of me I’m leaving behind in different cities
across this country. I can’t stop getting older.
What am I if not 22 and stubborn?
Something was left behind a few years ago
back in the first city.
You know I don’t like to talk about it but I know it as well as you
that things aren’t going to stay the same.

Last weekend the radio was talking just to me
a static whir till the dj broke through and offered
up some resolution. I wrote down what he said.
It’s another absolution.

I realized that I failed
because in the end, I probably don’t have the stamina
to stay in one place.
I’m washing away bit by bit
tiny suicides, part by part.

The Avant-garde Poet by Melanie Browne

ties you up,
wraps your hands
to the bed

you are the tangled explosion
of salt on a
watercolor painting

when he’s
finished he
gives you a sip
of water
from his leather
canteen

you are silence
and snowflakes,
the laurel and

the revelation

STILL A REAL HEART BEATS by Ford Dagenham

optimism has a two drink minimum
before
the gentle love thats soft like lions
comes growing up thru . . .
like a cherry
surprised on the estuary tide

when
I am alone
with Things and Stuff
a gentle love
like warm rising dough
for People
Things
the odd and old process
the Big Wheel
uplifts me
thaws down frozen nostalgia
that is always there . . .

. . . sad
as a
football terrace chant

Two Poems by Steve Calamars

the main course

i load shot-gun shells
the size of salt-shakers
into a revolver that looks
more like a cargo-plane
than a hand-gun

you see i’ve decided to
bite the bullet and eat
death alive

slipping the barrel in my mouth
i begin to salivate and start
chomping at the bit

i squeeze the trigger

buck-shot blows across
my taste-buds and out
the back of my skull

peppering the wall and
leaving me with nothing but
a bad taste in my mouth—



sucker punched

she gets inside my
chest and roughs up
my heart pretty good

a couple of jabs
a few right hooks

she says she’s just
shadow-boxing

but something must
be getting thru
‘cause i can feel
every blow

she’s left my poor ol’
heart with a black-eye
and a busted lip

she says she’s just
interested in light sparring
and some foot-work

but somewhere in our
exchange a body-shot
slips in

now i’m down on one knee
gasping for air

wishing i had put up a
better defense and not
taken her advances so
lightly—

Coming Worlds Apart by Doug Draime

We had little in common
( except we both loved sex)
She used heroin
I smoked pot
She loved disco
I invented the term disco sucks
She was a rich young widow
I was a poor young starving writer hanging on the edge
She was full of bourgeois culture
I lived a countercultural lifestyle
She liked fancy restaurants
I was a bean and spaghetti man
She had a Doctorate in Comparative Literature from UCLA
I barely got through 2 semesters on the G.I. Bill at Los Angeles City College
She believed in the political process and voted
I didn’t vote and thought politics was a cancer and could solve nothing

She was reading William James, Robert Frost and Susan Sontag
I was reading Louis-Ferdinard Celine, Henry Miller and LeRoi Jones
She bought things
I gave away things
She thought the Black Panther Party were criminals
I considered them heroes
She liked movie musicals
I hated them
She drank Southern Comfort on the rocks
I drank Eastside beer the cheapest I could find
She drove a Lincoln convertible
I took buses and cabs
We both loved sex
We got high and had sex and smoked cigarettes
( but not the same brand )

five minutes and you're almost dead: 3 Poems by David McLean

the water gets hard

the water gets hard
because it is angry envy

and aspires to life,
just as we aspire to eternity

before we can manage time,
we aspire to being after death

before we have learned
to be precisely alive



each car

each car which insults the street
trudges through the dirt that was white

innocence once (they call white
the color of innocence – i think

their god knows why).
because even the snow

declines with time, as children's
arms get crossed with angry

scars, and love grows tired
blind



guilty blood

the guilty blood runs
because it must

as we scatter junk
through a world

that needs nothing
better, that expects

dutiful replication
and sex, the guilty blood

stinks of the needy seed
that becomes death

next

another poem written on the clock by Karl Koweski

fifty bad parts,
the hole bored
.020 too small

and now
I’m on the hot seat

between writing
smut stories all shift
and breezing through
the latest
Palahniuk novel
I’ve somehow neglected
to zero out
my calipers

and management wants
to know why
I couldn’t take
the two seconds
to double check

I don’t believe in zero
I tell them, simply

what do you mean,
you don’t believe in zero?

it don’t exist
the Romans got along fine
for hundreds of years
without using
a single zero

the Romans…?

let me tell you something
know where zero comes from?
the Arabs…
and ever since 9/11
I don’t have any use
for anything
the Muslims have to offer
so now
I’m all about
the Xs, Is and Vs, baby

management considers this
torn between
patriotism
and common sense

all right,
the quality assurance
manager speaks
I can understand that.
I got a nephew
in Iraq right now
fighting those towelheads
but you got exactly
five seconds
to come up with
a suitable replacement

I’ve got any number
of zero synonyms
beginning with my life
and ending with this job

2009: The Tallest Titan by David S. Pointer

The NFL's tough-
The Titans went with
a small back attack
because Chris Johnson
cuts like an Indian wars
era bayonet turning
up chronic pain lane
helping teammates heal
from the Steve McNair
grief bear on their
numbered backs..45,
50, 45, 40,....Chris
has burned on now
even VY's jumping again
and the crowd is juiced
on fan joy where opposing
players packaged in high
tech pro pads normally
thought to be preservative
pinball onto injured reserve
as the white and blue
vapor back shines in
those silvercloud cleats
keeping him safe and speedy

A Smith for a Spleen by Ben Nardolilli

Lose your poems, instead
Read the hours entwined
With dizzy laughs and care.
Go to a cemetery for lovers
Looking ripped with smiles
Where miserable minutes meet
Shoving kicks around at children
While your dreaded whores
Write wanted sunny prose
Salutations to Keats, Yates,
And Caligula

But find them once more
As voluptuous vampires
Your skin whimpers to embrace,
Find the alchemy of souls
In order to escape
The false grandeur of cadavers
Finding the damned flowers
With delight,
Glittering clarity
From suckling bones

October by William Taylor Jr.

the air smells of rain
and is a perfect grey

the sad old buildings
lean against it

a beauty
you would have to see
to understand

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

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

outside
the people seem
to have places
to go

the cars
roll up and down

lights flash
green and red

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

never dreaming
to be anything

other than the sky
or the smell of rain.

A Night With Lyn Lifshin by Catfish McDaris

"To the left?"

"To the right?"

"No."

"Do you have a G-spot?"

"Catfish, you're in my light."

4 Corners by Brandon S. Roy

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

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

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

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

Two Poems by Donal Mahoney

That Greyhound Station

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



Husband and Wife on Hassocks Eating Sausage

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

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

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

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

Losing It by GD Anderson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

time sortof slipping-

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

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

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

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

I glance up and no one is listening-

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

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

I can’t recall what happened after that.

Never Trust a Monk in Colored Robes by Kyle Hemmings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

do they compose this stuff
while running on treadmills?

at some fancy desk while sipping
decaffeinated mint green tea?

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

where are the ones that are
beyond politics?

beyond history?

beyond self-preservation?

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

hemorrhaging whatever soul juice
remains

their teeth bared 24/7

b/c they are against
everything,

including life...

Liar by Hunter Liguore

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

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

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

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

Sunday's Grid Iron Gunslinger by David S. Pointer

Beneath the sacred
100+ yards of soil,

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

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

growling this argument,
insult or coach's expectations

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

fire still on each ball
bound for a bigger story

True Love by Catfish McDaris

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

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

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

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

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

The Party Animal by Paul Hellweg

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

Amerika über alles by Ross Vassilev

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

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

but the business
of the American people
is war

without war
we’d be just another
peaceful country

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

2 Poems by J. Bradley

The Kama Sutra of Prince Charming

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

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



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

The sweater collar gnawed
at my cheeks like embarrassment.

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

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

I Love Lucy by Catfish McDaris

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

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

a 16th street memory by Mat Gould

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

The Heaven Of The Alone by Mike Meraz

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

such is the heaven of the alone.

Royalty by Joseph Hargraves

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

3 Poems by Adam Moorad

Quantum

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

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

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



Goose Island

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

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

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



Eaten Disorder

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

my hair fucks static
my knees shred numb human faces

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

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

half empty bottle of sin by R.G. Johnson

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

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

teeth diminishing, teeth gone, teeth again.

tied spidery dream catchers from metaphysical ropes
to forget.

you left nothing but your stains.

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

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

I have run out of miracles.

Memory Of Vincent by Doug Draime

He had everything down
to an exact science,
he said, as he arranged
his sparse belongings
in his cardboard dwelling,
to make room for me.
There was a stack of
newspapers in the corner
and a picture of a little girl
in a small silver frame.
sitting on top.
It was a snug fit but there was
more room in there than I had thought.
Once I was in and turned to face out,
I noticed a large backpack
and a small Coleman stove neatly packed
in a corner by the entrance.
He pulled out a pint of cheap whiskey,
that we’d polled our money to buy.
We shared the bottle,
talking about the hostility
of downtown L.A. cops,
but nothing about ourselves;
Nixon was president
and we both hated him.
The rest of the time we sat quietly drinking and
watching the nine to fivers
drive down Hill street for home,
without a bit of envy.

ruined— by steve calamars

Frank parked the car in the alley behind the building. He climbed the fire escape to the third floor and peered in the window.
The apartment was one room and poorly-lit. The television was on and JR was sleeping. He was lying on his back beneath a slow-spinning ceiling fan.
Frank jiggled the window and it wasn’t locked. He opened it quietly and stepped in. He walked over to the side of the bed and stood over JR.
JR just snored and scratched his beer-gut. Frank felt sick and swallowed hardly. He clenched his fists and flexed his calves.
He pulled a hunting knife from his waist-band and cut JR’s throat. JR’s eyes shot open and he grabbed his neck. Frank buried the knife in his beer-gut and twisted. JR was motionless before he could amass any defense.
Frank wiped the blade clean on the bed sheets and went into the restroom. He puked in the sink and blew snot-rockets on the floor.
After he composed himself, he washed the vomit down the drain. He rinsed his hands and face. He looked at the floor and expected to feel better.
Frank only felt the same. He had killed the man who raped his wife and could sense no real improvement . . .
Frank stood in the bathroom and experienced no difference. He still felt sick to his stomach. He looked in the mirror and prepared to get rid of the bodies. He was thinking concrete, chains and the bottom of Lake Travis.
He walked back into the room and wrapped JR’s body in the bed sheets. He hoisted him over his shoulder and carried him down the fire escape.
He popped the trunk and set JR’s body inside, beside that of his wife’s.
He had killed JR for ruining his wife. Frank had killed his wife for having been ruined—

Two Poems by Rob Plath

the whores of Time

the hands of the clock
are both whores

two slutty sisters
making their rounds

the petite one
seemingly less aggressive
but a tramp still

perhaps the worst
of the two

fooling us more than
her straight forward sister
into believing we possess her

then inching away
right before our eyes



hiding inside a bottle within a cloud of smoke w/absolutely no wishes

as if
it
weren't
enough

to be
born
into a
family
where
yr an
outsider

to have
had lovers
who were
always
strangers

a country
where
you
feel
alien

where
yr every
step
is
along
some
margin
or
another

but
to
be
utterly
uncomfortable
w/consciousness!

now
where
can
one
hide
except
in
a
5th
& 6th
drink
&
an
18th
cigarette...

advice to recently married men by Justin Hyde

eventually
she's going to sit you down
and tell you
she's lonely
lonely lonely
as a lost earthworm.

you're not going to
understand
one bit of this.
all you ever want is

SOLLITUDE.

but her eyes will water
she will emit words
and gesture with her hands.

in turn
eyes dry as sandpaper
you will emit words
and gesture with your shoulders.

ebb and flow
this boomerang vector
as the universe
squats haunches
and scratches
behind its ear.

Physical For An Old Woman Picked Up Wandering by Donal Mahoney

Between her legs a goatee
gray as city pigeons
flying through factory smoke
a goatee that hasn’t been combed
that hasn’t been kept
that quits in fangs
an inch above her knees

STILL NOT HAPPY by Chloe Caldwell

Amazing girlfriend, ugly lover, still not happy.
That is what you wrote in inky blue pen inside your journal that I was
reading after you’d left for San Francisco.
Your amazing girlfriend was in D.C. to give a lecture on art history.
I was the ugly lover left in Manhattan.
Cozy on your bed, my thighs sore from sex
(my eyes sore from the sentence)
reading your private thoughts
smoking your pot
and eating your leftover colored Easter eggs.
I’d always assumed I was your beautiful lover.
Now I was nauseated---
Your livid lover.
Lonely.
Finding out you are not pretty is similar to
finding out Santa Clause doesn’t exist
or you won’t be a famous hip hop dancer,
Broadway star,
or writer, after all
I hurled your maroon journal straightforward as hard as I could.
I hated your maroon journal; I hated your maroon sweatshirt;
I hated you.
The journal knocked down the blue glass holding the single daffodil
I’d picked for you
Earlier that morning we’d both agreed the contrast of the royal blue
and lush yellow was just right
We'd looked at each other, happy with our masterpiece, in love.
Now I wanted to take the daffodil back
I wanted to burn your journals and smash your bongs
Suddenly I hated that you had the money to live in the East village and I had
to live in condemned apartments in Brooklyn with broken toilets.
I never told you about my insufficient funds.
You never told me you thought I was ugly.
I put on your maroon sweatshirt with the hood over my head and left
I walked around alphabet city with headphones on listening to Blood on
the Tracks.
No one would bum me a cigarette because I was ugly
I climbed the stairs back into your 9th street apartment
Defeated, depressed
Thinking about how cigarettes make you uglier, anyway.
Your cat with the ear infection, Moochie LaRue, had vomited on the
checkered floor
I had this idea of smashing the hard-boiled eggs into it with my Doc
Marten and creating a vomit egg salad.
Then smearing it onto the keys of your typewriter
and onto your maroon moleskin.
But I cleaned it up because I loved you.
I slept sad in your bed without you.
I woke up to a rainstorm.
Stole some quarters off of your dresser to get a coffee across the street.
The barista gave me bad service because I am ugly.
I sat on your stairs drinking coffee listening to Blood on the Tracks.
I was trying to look pretty during my pity party.
Pathetic.
The next morning I left for Berlin.
It was in Berlin two months later
While I was staring out a window eating a banana
After sleeping on the floor dreaming of your voice
remembering how you used to tell me to peel them from the bottom like
monkeys do
that I realized:
I was so angry that you thought I was ugly,
that I forgot to concern myself,
with you not being happy.
And I wondered how you were doing.
And if you decided to go on meds or not.

So Fucking Smart by Suzy Devere

i make an excuse and beg a little

say

can i have just a minute sweetheart?

push the top of my tongue to the back of my mouth
pretending to suck on a candy simply
so i can keep myself from shouting
deeply disturbing observations about
your borderline personality
that you will never
(i promise you, ever)
get over if they happen to leave my mouth

chomp

swallow

like a fifties wife i squeek

"sweetheart, i understand"

and i know i'm keeping the knife that is my tongue
sharp in the drawer of my mouth for one more night
and i count how many ways i am a failure
for not leaving you
or telling you
i am smarter than i act

but maybe i'm not that smart
because i can't give up the
game even though i'm losing

what's that they say about Einstein?
if he's so fucking smart
why is he so fucking
dead?

Back Into It by Damion Hamilton

This man had been a monk for years
And came back into the civilized streets
His beard was down to his knees
His eyes were wild,
His clothes very worn
And he smelled very bad
And he staggered as he walked
But he went off into the woods to think during
Those years, but he became curious about everyone
So he went back into it
When he approached the city, he was in
A stupor, with all the cars, and the people and the noise
And the smells which came from the city,
He remembered cars before he went away,
But when he came back—the cars seemed strange and
Dangerous to him
Then he noticed the clothes people were wearing,
And it all seemed so strange, and the hair styles,
He was startled, by how alike everyone seemed,
For when he was in the jungle, he had time to style
His own hair, and make his own clothes
The faces of the people seemed nervous and anxious
And cruel, and the way the building were made
Seemed horrible, like a womb upon the earth
The people moved fast, and the cars moved fast, or
If they were not moving fast, the faces and the bodies
Seemed lost, or out of place, and crippled
He remembered those days, were he would stare
At his thumb or foot, for hours,
And the thoughts and feelings this awakened in him
He saw the people moving, and one could see that they
Did not have the time to think or feel, things must be done
And there was little thought or feeling from generation to
Generation, and people would only knew what their parents knew,
 
If they learned that much, progress didn’t seem to be very much,
To him in the city
He walked along the various streets and whenever
He saw a cluster of crowds, he saw people talking
On portable phones, he wondered what
Could everyone be talking about, probably
Nothing too deep, things moved so fast
In the city
Then a policeman approached him, and he talked
Very fast, and he saw him wandering around for hours
And asked him for his ID, but he didn’t have any,
So they put him in handcuffs, and took him to jail,
Then remembered why he left the city
He waited for hours in jail, and the wait was
Horrible, then he thought that they might
Keep him in those walls forever, and this seemed
Too grotesque to him, and he had forgotten how
To tell time, and when you can’t tell time,
What’s the difference between an hour and eternity?
So he began banging his head on the wall to kill himself,
And this is the horror of jails
When the head doctors came in, they asked him his name
And about his personal history, asked was he depressed
Or anxious, and then gave various pills, then they wanted
To know why he was away for so long, after all civilization
Is so advanced and people were living longer, and we had the
Highest standard of living, and one will never get bored with
All the entertainment that we have: the movies, television, stereos,
The Internet, cars, baseball, football games, why would anyone
Want to leave all of this?
He told them about why he left and he told them about
How when the police officer had him in the back of the car,
How when they were driving along the neighborhoods,
With all the little houses, lawns and roads, and how every
Street looked the same, and how the walls cut people off
From each other, and how the long dull tasks one had to do
For years to own them, taxes that one had to pay, the envy
Which came from one’s neighbors, the gossip, rumors of war,
Schools, work and leisure
It all seemed too much for him
He began to weep, and told them, that he just wanted to go back
In the wilderness, were he was free to do what he wanted,
And couldn’t hurt anyone, and spend his days the way he wanted
To spend them, without any obligations to fulfill
They all looked at him very solemnly: a head doctor, a policeman,
A nurse, a social worker
They knew they would have to take him to the mental ward

Two Poems by Ross Vassilev

snake

my hatred
like a black rose
twisted round my heart

my insanity
like barbed wire
tearing at my brain

I’ve got crooked legs

I’ve got $20 in my wallet
and my driver's license

I’ve got 33 years
smeared like shit on
a blank page

I’ve got a photo
of a pair of boobs
someone e-mailed me

no face, no name

I wonder who the fuck she is?



fuck everybody

my grandfather was
an asshole
even when sober
but when he got
drunk every night
on rakia
that’s when his
demons came out:
screaming at
everyone
his bald head with
a Hitler mustache
looking like
the Devil himself
till he finally
crawled into bed
round midnight
and slept. his inner
demons wouldn’t
let him be and
I wasn’t there when
he finally croaked
so I’m just guessing
what his
dying words were.

life story by Karl Koweski

I sense Brandon working up the nerve
to ask me something
and I’m hoping it doesn’t involve
the loaning of money
it’s too early in the shift
to send him away with
an unpleasant physical reminder
of how much he all ready owes

after a good fifteen minutes
of jaw-jacking
he springs the question on me

how much would you charge me
to write the story of my life?

my eyebrows arch up into my hairline
the story of your life?
like the factual story?

yeah, man, how much would you charge
to help me write my memoir?
Brandon, you’re twenty four years old
and I’ve known you the last
two years you’ve been a factory rat
and I know for a fact
you ain’t done shit other
than smoke cigarettes
and bitch about your ex-wife
oh yeah, and you got those tattoos
which I all ready wrote about

well, before you knew me
I was a junkie for like eight months

oh shit,
you and fifty thousand other jackasses
think putting a needle in your arm
warrants a biography
let me tell you
addiction symptomizes
a lack of imagination
you need a therapist not a novelist

I’m just saying I’d hire you to write it
wouldn’t you like to make money
writing something other than smut?

that’s true, I conceded,
if I wrote about your existence
I wouldn’t have to overly concern myself
with writing about sex
so… how does three cents a word sound?

perfect

I sat down and wrote:

Brandon was born, but not very well
he seemed to stop growing
at the age of thirteen
he tried heroin but
was too pussy to keep at it
he’s never fucked a woman
who hasn’t turned around
and fucked someone else
in the same twenty four hour
time frame
he got to meet Karl Koweski

I handed Brandon the paper,
said that’ll be a buck, sixty five
I’ll just tack it on
to what you all ready owe me

american high school tour group at anne hathaway’s cottage by John Grochalski

dude
like
shakespeare
was only
eighteen
when he
like
banged
this twenty-six year old
and then
he
like
left here
for london
or something
and
like
banged all kinds
of chicks
in london
for all
of these
years
and then
like
he
only
became
the most
famous
writer
or all time.

dude
i told you
that
shakespeare
was
fucking cool
or something
huh?

cyber fuck by Coral Carter

infected with loneliness
she fell
into the arms
of the flesh free
no strings attached
cyber fuck

cunt shaved
clit licked
wrists strapped
nipples nipped
bottom slapped
arse whipped
rimmed
and to the hilt
fucked

infected with loneliness
she fell
she fell
she fell
into the arms of the cyber fuck

as the sharks of forever swim through my cigarette smoke by Rob Plath

near the end of it all
we drove far to an aquarium
like staring at seals & penguins
might heal us somehow

we both were smoking
on the long car ride
& patsy cline came on the radio:

"two cigarettes in an ashtray
my love and i in a small cafe
then a stranger came along
& everything went wrong
now there's three cigarettes
in the ashtray..."

after singing those stinging lines
i looked over at her face
& i saw her straining to contain
the guilt

i remember we spent most
of our time at the antarctica exhibit
watching those awkward
flightless birds waddling
over plastic molded ice
behind glass & she commenting
on how sad they looked
diving into the water

& then later we gazed
at large sharks dangerously gliding
through the floor-to-ceiling tank
& she took a picture of me
in front of it which looked like
a shark was sneaking up behind
my back

the drive home was silent
she pretended to sleep it seemed
& later on when we got back
to that little apartment
we fought once again

she didn't confess about the affair
but it was under there

the argument like another jagged piece
of ice sticking out of the water
while beneath loomed the enormous
crushing truth

a week later after 4 years
we were finished
the upcoming marriage stubbed out

"i watched her take him from me
& his love is no longer my own
now they are gone, & i sit alone
& watch one cigarette burn away..."

& now i smoke alone & the sharks circle me
& even though i tell them there's no blood left
only goddamn ashes
they continue their revolutions

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Black-Listed Magazine is an online literary magazine. We publish on a rolling basis: weekly, daily, sometimes hourly. Send submissions here: blacklistedmagazine@hotmail.com

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