Two Poems by Brian Pitt

Self Destruct (I ate the wine pt. 2)

On that lonesome night I put the bottle to my mouth
I took out my good blade and slit both of my wrists
I smeared my blood all over the walls and I kept punching myself in the face
I used my own blood like lipstick and then I beat my eyes black
I danced around my living room shaking my ass to the sound of the static on my television set
I walked to the hospital and told them that I had attacked myself
"We can't help you tonight, sir." they said, in their white coats and rubber gloves,
thinking that they were something really special and important.
They couldn't help me, so I helped myself.
I made hypodermic needle angel wings.
"Look at my wings Doc! I'm a movie star now, Doc! I'm a real Hollywood guy!" I told them.
"I attacked myself, Doc!" I reminded them once more in case they had forgotten.
"Look at my eyes and lips! I did myself up all pretty for you and now you are going to turn me away?"
I am going to be a star.
I am going to be in the movies.



Scaled Hero

The covered wagon filled with snakes
The wheels cease to turn
The dusty path ahead of us will surely keep our bellies empty
I beg for rain
We are thirsty
Our kettle filled with dirt
Our spirit dried out by the sun
Camouflaged Messiah, locked and loaded
Paranoid guerrilla hiding in the brush
Jungle Christ, rapture ballistics
Baptismal hero with scales hidden in the clouds.

Two Poems by Mike Meraz

A Simple Act Of Survival  

you have thought about it.
if not one day you will.
the thought will be with you
for a long time.
for months
maybe even years.
until one day
the thought is gone.
you are actually doing
what you thought about doing
for so long.
it is not the miracle
you once thought it was
but a simple act of survival
as natural as breathing.

you pack up your stuff,
walk out the door,
and leave.



There Is No Such Thing As Failure

there is no such thing as failure,
it is a lie, a hoax, a tall tale
told to you by your parents,
teachers and employers.

there is no such thing as failure.

it is how you look at things,
if you look at things realistically,
not emotionally,
you will find failure
is a lesson on how to succeed.

Two Poems by John Tustin

I REMEMBER

I remember you being quite beautiful
and you are quite beautiful still
after all these years,

not even differently so.

It’s not about the way
the light reflects
or the clothing hangs
or the shape of your breasts
or body,

‘though that is spectacular.

It is some unnamable thing,

some glow,
some movement of your mouth
with lips and teeth
of my drunken dreams.

The way your eyes are something
that seem to be
made for me
like God apologizing.

I remember you
as you were

and see you
as you are

and dream you
as what may be.

Tonight it sustains me.  



THE SAME ENGINE

all my life
wherever I go
it’s been the same –

the same conspiring eyes
on a different face

the same chastising mouth
on a different head

the same inexorable killing engine
in a different frame

the same switch
in a different taskmaster’s hand

the same ending
sweetened by different beginnings

Two Poems by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Again

Again
she has a grip on me
below the waist
straightening my tower
playing her hand of cards
I reach for the dark heavens
making constellations on the ceiling
she breathes in my ear
whispers the price of slavery
turning over night to dawn
flutter of light through dust motes
her shiny hips rising
from the sea of shadows
gliding to the mirror
disappearing
again.



So Many Times

You
standing there
dressing
in dim light
bulging breasts
pearl buttons
wanting to pull
you
back into bed
squeezing the good
out of you
hoping
you forgive.

Three Poems by Benny Roberts

EVERY DAY IN THE OFFICE 

This office surrounds me with mediocrity
conversations are banal at best
I sink into my chair and try to fight the boredom
I take on some filing and lose

I look out the window at the office across the road
see endless reflections of myself
soul after soul at similar desks
clutching on to nothing
they never dreamt of this as a kid

a gang of three boys and a girl go past
they’re carrying crates of beer
lucky, young, free bastards
that girl will be crying by the end of the day
even the best male friend can break a girl's heart

the girls in this office are full of anxiety
all think they’re too fat
I’d fuck every single one of them
apart from the bitch of a boss
I do have some morals

lunchtime comes and there’s a stay of execution
there’s nowhere to go except the supermarket
the trolley collectors look blissfully happy
who argues with you over a trolley?
I sit in my car and eat my sandwiches
I’m surrounded by doppelgangers
all wondering where it went wrong
brushing the crumbs from their seats

I get back to the office
those damn kids are probably drunk now
that girl’s discovering what lies ahead from men
I’m sorting out the photocopier
I win the heartbreak stakes by a shade.



HOT DRIVE

The sun beats down on my aging Citroen
sapping what's left of my spirit
on this goddamn drive to work
to an industrial estate hell
which even Satan would wince at.
The misery is punctuated only by girls
stripped to the bare minimum by the heat
revealing tanned flesh in all its glory
for a moment I forget about my in-tray
until I see my supervisor getting out of her Ford
a carriage straight from the underworld
paid for by misery and spite
and driven on pure arrogance.
I can see her legs
withered, veined and a sickly shade of death
the same fate that awaits my soul
I turn the car round and head home.



DESPERATE DAYS

She was like a cigarette butt
screwed up
unwanted,
nicotine stained.
“You’re very attractive” she slurred.
What was that white sediment on her teeth?
it was thick and furry
like the hairs springing from her upper lip.
Her oestrogen had given up long ago.
It really highlighted the age gap.
Yet I was thinking about fucking her
my young cock pushing into her patchy haired cunt
forcing its way past those dry, discoloured labia
doing its best to avoid the warts.
Two years without sex was really starting to take it’s toll on me.
I dry heaved at the thought of coming in her.
“Come here, sweetie,” she gurgled.
I smelt stale alcohol on her breath.
It had a tragic scent.
There’d been life there once
but some bastard had beaten it out of her
taken everything that made a woman good
and reduced her to this.
I dry heaved again.
She went to put her arm round me
but I left
she deserved better.

twenty-three dollars by Steve Calamars

in my bank account
and kafka stories
shuffling thru my skull

i’m a mess of
taut lean muscle
and
book smarts

as these rainy
december days
roll beneath my
vans like
ball-bearings

and i trip over
the weeks
and fall into the nightmare
of a new year
with time clocks
unnoticed prose and
shrinking youth

i see carver mopping
floors and cleaning
toilets till his death

i see selby never getting
out of a hospital bed
and over to a typewriter

i see lorca crushed by
the loneliness of new  york
and leaping from a towering
tenement rooftop

and i see my own
bearded face
stocking cereal boxes
in a grocery store

run down by life
tire-treads like
typewriter ribbon
torn across my brain

my mind caved in
from an avalanche of
unfulfilled ambition
and words heavy
as anvils—

Two Poems by Devlin De La Chapa

YouTube Interlude


trotting through these
fiber optic veins
is the liquescent boredom
of  teens,
some troubled,
some abused,
some x-rated,
some outdated,
but damn are they popular
on YouTube




Fatal Love Chase


radiator falters
the separation-
120 degrees


somewhere
in Texas,
a revolver spins


she wipes her nose
the hit is bad
tweaking hard


daylight breaks
thunder cracks the sky
blow melts the heat


from his hands
they glitter of gold
slugs plated of love

In Chesterfield and Spats by Donal Mahoney

The father of the girl
I stare at now,
as we wait for our morning bus,
stands across the street,
tall and proper in his
chesterfield and spats.

He is waiting for a bus
that goes in the opposite direction.
He wears a derby,
swings a silver cane,
smokes a green panatela.
Suddenly he pirouettes

and smiles at my daughter.
She takes the same bus
to school every morning.
That night at supper,
I ask her about him.
"Dad, he's super!"

At 12, she knows.
"Dad, he rides the same bus
as me every morning.
He checks my homework
and I ask him questions.
Dad, he knows all the answers."

Two Poems by Bill Wolak

In a Brothel Bedroom


Charles Baudelaire’s 
only recorded dream
takes place in a dimly lit 
brothel bedroom
where a body curls 
in a fetal position
beneath many 
obscene paintings 
hanging on the walls.



The Wife’s Revenge


When a wife of the Ugandan Gisus tribe
is denied sex by her husband,
she screams at the top of her lungs
night and day for all the village to hear:
“My husband’s penis has died!”

Insect Proverbs by Melanie Browne

you see her in the street,

nadja with the chocolate eyes,

you have arabic  dreams where it rains sand 

and she feeds you red locusts 

you are too shy to speak to nadja with the 

fireflies in her hair,

you want to make love

under the jasmine trees,

but nadja refuses,

you follow her,

the vines clutched

tightly in your fists

Two Poems by Michael Ashley

Two Bullets Away

at 2.43am

Dr Konowitz

removed the first slug 

it swilled 

around the kidney dish

like a small black beetle 

number two 

was never removed 

today he slaps his chest

rattles a penny in a jar 

and laughs with Billy  

too ashamed to tell him 

how this moment 

almost never came

The Vintage Jacket

it hangs 

in the confines

of my wardrobe

the words 

Devil's Disciple 

emblazoned 

on its back

at least once a month

I take it out

slip it on

for a moment 

I'm nineteen again

and can feel her roar

between my thighs

taking the hair-pins 

at ninety on Sunday

afternoons 

but the door

always shuts

sometimes

leather scented memories 

are not enough

most Sunday afternoons

I walk to Wynstons

pay £75.00

for an hour

with Halyna

who smells 

of CK One

and grunts

dirty words at me

in Ukranian 

as I plant

another meaningless load

into the emptiness

Untitled by A.g. Synclair

You find religion in a glass

in half empty bottles

in the twisted notes of that song

in the way she swallows you whole

in the secret hiding place

where you keep her words

a tangled language of crickets and clocks

I Look to You by Tyree Jackson

My journey isn’t smoothly paved.

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

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

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

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

isolated me from society.

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

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

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

You give me strength, when mine has depleted.

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

I look to you when others turned away.

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

16 Miles by g emill reutter

Cylinder crosses the landscape

into the city just across Darby Creek

slides into Southwest, passing graffiti

scared bridges, trash covered banks

hurdles toward the turn of the Schuylkill

past the ivory of Penn into the temple of

the old railway gods. Continues northeast

flanged wheels slap cold iron past boat

houses, art museum and zoo into what

was once mansions of strawberry through

badlands past hulking factories of Kensington

with empty eyes tattered remnants of

Frankford, the sweet aroma of Bridesburg

chemical plants. The cylinder flies along

the track crosses the Poquessing Creek

out of the city. They sit not noticing in

designer suits and shoes, tap on computers

ipods over wine beer or coffee. Like those

who came before them, they are not concerned

about what’s left behind.

15 Rounds by Billy Howell-Sinnard

Remember how we used to brawl our way

to a poem. A prize fighter pounding the keys

worthy of a Hemingway adventurer.

At the end of each line

the ding ended the round, then the sweep

of the cylinder like the cut-man

cleaning and sticking your wounds

so you could start another line.

The clack of the keys, hitting the speed bag,

enough in itself to add rhythm and sonics

the more inspired you became.

On your desk in the center of the ring,

a stout Remington or Smith Corona

taunted you to write that publishable poem.

You dreamed of the knockout that rarely came,

just grueling rounds of sparring,

split-decisions, and lonely girlfriends

jilted by your monk-like devotion--

battered and bruised, trying to be a contender.

Two Poems by Jack T. Marlowe

telephony

over a

month of

bittersweet

silence

thirty-six

days, to

be precise

and then

the princess

calls, says

that she

misses me

in spite of

her social

schedule

a perpetual

busy signal

so, she

misses me

she says

though my

answering

machine

tells me

otherwise

and after

more than

a month

on ice

i would

sooner be

drinking

hot bourbon

in hell

than be

just another

number

chilling in

her little

black book

transfusion

the broken

man opened

up the

main vein

of his life

and let his

sadness

bleed out

then he

filled the

emptiness

with

cheap

whiskey

and

cheaper

wine

it didn't

do any-

thing for

his soul

but it did

seem to

improve his

circulation.

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

turning the corner

I hadn’t expected to see

an agitated young man holding

a frightened old woman to his body

“get back, get back,”

he told the crowd that had gathered

I could see a few ‘have-a-go-heroes’

sizing the situation up

eager

to make their name in the local paper

“get back, get back”

I crept closer

I could see in his

bloodshot eyes that he meant it

he had a Noika pressed into

her skull

his finger on the send key

he’d obviously composed a

deadly message

a diatribe against the government

a rant about capitalism

a paean to socialism

“get back, get back.”

suddenly, a man, well-built, late forties

with a shaven head rushed forward

(he must have pictured himself in print)

he managed to wrestle

the old woman free

the assailant, backing away,

put his mobile phone

in his mouth

some of the crowd shouted “No”

but it was too late

he pressed send.

Two Poems by Suzy Devere

WIT HUMOR CUNNING

like a serrated knife

when you're under it

twisting

black handle like a mountain

crowding out the sun

but next to

or on top of

it glistens and shines.

it's a beautiful

modern day woman's

blessing and disguise.

still, underneath?

well, it's bloody down here.

WORDSMITHS ARE WAIT STAFF

the forever inarticulate

try desperately to use

demanding words with

syllables they can

hardly

control

the forever inarticulate

imagine themselves to be

beyond the rest of us

in word and deed

to them

we appear to scrape

their crumbs

if only they were learned

enough to realize

we are picking up

in earnest

meaning nearly

lost

through their misuse

meaning that

without

Wordsmiths

slides away

scatters

disappears

so we wait

for their

every

disastrous

next

turn

of

base

phrase

we are

waiters

indeed.

Three Poems by William Keckler

YOU LOOK NICE

You look like the sort of person

who gets fucked

in a pink motel

with a miniature golf course

in front

and swimming pool

out back

covered

by a scary tarp

since they found

the dead guy

floating in it

with a knife in his back.

And the water

has a pink tinge

all these weeks later,

oddly sweet

because it matches

the motel's pink,

your lipstick

and almost pretty bag.

VERY SHORT POEM

FILLED WITH HUGELY

HELPFUL PRACTICAL ADVICE

Never trust

a pink motel.

FUCK

This strange outline

of an animal's body.

Or just part of a body.

Why does it last forever?

It feels like my soul.

It looks like an animal.

Fossil fucks.

Eighty year olds

probably

hunt for them in dreams.

Archeologists.

We're all archeologists

of our own fucking.

all apologies by Ross Vassilev

well, bad things would happen

and I’d take it out on others

and there’s no righting past wrongs

and it’s no good saying I’m sorry

but I am

and there’s nothing I can do about it

but as Bukowski once said

someday, we’ll all go home together.

bob kaufman by Steve Calamars

wooden hearts

crawling with

termites

and wet cement

brains drying with

the footprints

left by a

jazz poet

who clogged

our ear-canals

with his poems

like pipe-bombs

and left our

souls smoking

in an implosion of

paper wasps and

piano keys—

Two Poems by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

PLEASED TO MEET ME

Are you pleased to meet me?

I certainly don't feel the same.

You come here with questions

I already answered again and

again. You don't bring me a

cup of coffee or a roll. You

don't offer me a cigarette or

bring me the morning paper.

I don't want to talk to you.

You could go on your way.

If you come over next time,

bring me a pack of cigarettes,

some hot coffee with cream,

no sugar, and a jelly roll.

THE SILENCE OF STARS

I marveled at the silence of

stars in the moist night air.

I counted all the stars in

the sky until I was sick and

tired. I heard crickets chirp.

I smiled and applauded. All

the stars in the sky winked

at me when I rubbed my eyes.

Two Poems by Jonathan Butcher

Time Is Money

I awake to hear radio news of yet more

empty pockets being emptied further, whilst

shop counter tills overflow with increases.

I rise and make tea with the last tea bag

in the packet, hold my breath full of morning

frost, and out stretch my fingers that creak

like kicked in doors.

And from the window I see failed faces that

linger in shop doorways, that seem to lean

closer than before, their breath as hot as lava

in couds of lie filled mist.

Their slavering drunken yells fail to evoke fear,

only annoyance, as they crawl through gutters,

as natural as scratching an itch, as breathing

congested air.

And the tiny patch of grass in the concrete yard

soaks up any tranquility left, absorbs it in the

hardened ground, converts it into steam.

Easy Shadow

Once again his head drops and offers that

mental shelter, and he prays at least today

will pass him by.

He has learnt to keep his mouth shut, his

tongue now redundant, a slab of dried meat,

that learnt it's lesson long ago.

And he sees them approaching, the grins

and gleaming eyes, ready to project their

package of misery (and they never seem

to take a day off).

And his voice and clothes and walk and

hair and eyes and teeth and nose are all

to blame now, a collective hindrance, that

only serve to fuel the ever glowing embers.

And to touch that green horizon, with fingers

that roam free from this shell, hardly seems

worth the bother.

Two Poems by Mike Meraz

Enough Cigarettes To Last A Week

the uselessness of the pen.

enough cigarettes to last a week.

the ability to go to the cafe

anytime I please.

I am a man of simple means.

I do not expect much.

I do not ask for much.

I find a universe of wonder

in the simple things,

like this blank piece of paper,

filling up,

giving meaning

to my life

and yours.

Workin’ For The Oldies

the oldies sit in the

highbrow restaurant

talking about

marvelous things.

I walk by in

old shorts,

Wal-Mart shoes

and uncut hair.

I am a writer

hoping one day

to be the subject

of their conversation.

Getting Old by Stephen Jarrell Williams

He thought

he would wear holey jeans and T-shirts

through the forever of his days,

walk barefoot

smoking cigarettes cockeyed,

charm women under a pastry of stars,

never getting tired and never going to die.

Now

staggering down the hall to his greasy apartment,

opening the unlocked door burping,

two neighbor gals

taking a steamy bath in his tub,

their best years down the drain...

He pees into the tub between them,

laughing, the party of the old continues...

The three of them in bed with lights off,

each remembering years ago,

drip of tears on soggy pillows.

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

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

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

of many angels.

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

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

Delighted to witness something else being dashed to bits.

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

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

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

sweetly agonizing

moments collapse.

Face down again, pal.

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

transfixed by the impossible

love your poems attest to.

The bright darkness, limitless depths.

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

the muse demanded your death,

I feel blessed by your burden.

september evening by Steve Calamars

raging bull muted on

the television set and

dostoyevsky screaming

in my brain

as i leave a tiny room

on the second floor of

an old apartment building

and run 6 miles

thru rich streets

with poor social skills and

worn sneakers

the miles fall beneath

my feet and i climb the

flight of stairs back to my room

my mind still racing and my

thoughts sprinting

across the page

malicious as

missiles and

molotov cocktails—

Necklace by Karime Limon

I'm in my bed

my chin pressed into my pillow,

my heart pounds against the mattress

and the glow of this window

lights up my hands and face.

I think about him out there,

I wonder where he is,

I pretend

he's on his way

to meet me

and I grow nervous

and scared.

I even plan my outfit

and hair

to look perfect for him,

like his doll.

I feel that pain inside,

of missing his presence,

how lonely it is without him,

and not knowing

if I'll hear from him tomorrow.

the tears flood and blur my vision,

dropping out like little pearls,

formed and compressed

between the heart and the soul

I'll collect these pearls,

and make a necklace

to wear

when he arrives

Table of Discontents #5 by Russell Streur

Systemic flaws

Landscape barren

Outlet mall

Fast forward

Fault lines

Mass starvation

Other targets

Cloaked in secrecy

Learning in the dark

“Seeking truth,”

the incendiary said,

“is completely futile.”

Not enough water

New laws.

A Romeo's Comeuppance by Donal Mahoney

Coming toward young Tony now

are the husband and his wife,

that older woman from last night,

the one he danced with New Year's Eve

while downing Heinekens and shots of Jack,

the one he didn't know was married.

She told him he was tall for just 16

and that he danced like Fred Astaire.

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

and the husband just whacked Tony

harder than the drummer

whacked his drums last night.

Falling backward like a slab,

Tony sees the golden halo of the sun

swirl until it disappears.

Later on the gurney, Tony almost hears

the doctor give the nurse his diagnosis,

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

White Girl by Stephen Jarrell Williams

fear

of never seeing

you again

hard

flat light

on your memory

overwhelming

mental explosion

you're all over

my hands

scarlet sunset

still manipulating

me like a hairy beast

in your field of naughty flowers

your long bare legs

calling me in for the squeeze

posing your breasts

skyward pink

ripe mouth

full of whispers and sucking

me into slavery

doom

shit

everything stinking

where are you

now?

Roaring out of Hell by Melanie Browne

I seek out your writing like

an insatiated sugar-cereal junkie,

a tired gambler at the last

Las Vegas flophouse,

sitting down with

whiskey I

read your poems

and I wonder about

your parents and your

siblings and, especially

the worthless X

did she bury your

heart in Siberia?

here, I'll take my

gold plated shovel,

we'll dig it

up for the bent

of it,

it's probably still

pumping underneath

all that frozen snow,

I'm sure it just needs

a slight dusting,

a nice toddy

and a shave,

a kick in the

O'l nucleus

Two Poems by Michael Ashley

Mortal

is the way I am nervous

around sharp points

and bare edges

the line of your form

the tips of your fingers

the rim of your tongue

it is the fact I know

the damage that can be done

by just the slightest slip

this shit isn't learnt

or taught

it's instinct.

This Abstinence

makes me

want to scrape

the base

of my bowel

tear out

that turning wheel

crush it

to the tightest

ball--

I see

your eyes

and want them

pressed against

my pubic bone

again

again

again

I eat

my finger ends

the nicotine

around my nails

to skin

to cuticle

to bloody mess

I need

a drink

a cig

an orifice

in any order.

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

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

as if English-Literature Bachelor is a title worthy

of shame; they almost cringe when they say it —

when I announce that I want to be a novelist they

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

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

worth following to begin with; I’m constantly

coddled and told that you should be a teacher —

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

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

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

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

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

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

stick to griping and grumbling about how most

of them act as if they walked straight of Digrassi,

and expect us to not want to punish their bratty little

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

is a better day of spending my day than being two

degrees separated from raging at children under my

care, expecting me to remember them something

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

being lonely or cat lady 101, nothing much worth

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

FOOD FOR A FAILED ROMANCE by Richard Quigley

That night the screeching telephone was some slack-lip

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

Over the birthmark you called your trademark. A fruit

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

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

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

Exhausted on fearing the one who could take the mirrored

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

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

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

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

Sweeter than you could have ever imagined.

Tribes Revisited by David S. Pointer

In Tribes, Jan Michael Vincent’s

Marine recruit character told his

drill instructor that he didn’t equate

militarism with patriotism, and in

the decades since, I’ve come to

equate patriotism with a quest for

sustainable economic/environmental

justice, your left, your left right left…

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

The first rays of sun illuminate a Fantin-Latour

Bouquet in the nurses station while forcing

Morning clouds to sing a coloratura extravaganza.

If I had friends, to heal me,

They would lower me through the roof

Of Peter's house in Capernaum

Into the lap of Christ.

Coontang by Catfish McDaris

On tv the Turtleman, America's

answer to the Croc Hunter sat next

to Eddie Murphy talking about

catching possums & coons

Eddie tried to keep cool with his

goofy grin, but every time the word

coon came out of the redneck's

mouth, you could see him pissed

The Skunk Whisperers dressed like

varmint Texas Rangers went up on

a roof with a garden hose & sprayed

a coon in the ass to get it from a tree

Reminded me of Magnolia, a sex

machine with chocolate cantaloupes

& a mojo watermelon smile, she was

a stinky wet dream come true

I'd scrub both her nasty places &

armpits, then after fake orange juice,

vodka & bongs, we'd wreak havoc

like Thelonius Monk & Max Roach.

Oil and Water by Sarah Gamutan

We walked in a wonderland

where beauty never slept. We

thudded like we ruled that time.

We were ambitious, we strolled

with high heels and an unimaginable

grin. No more meek faces. Oh, but we

missed something. Our shirts got muck

at the back while the front portion spelled

"Save water, Drink beer." Embarrassing.

My chap said, " If you bang into this

door, that means you're pissed. Drink

water instead!" Then, we went our

separate ways. I went to heaven.

T E N by Sarah Gamutan

Some notes gave me

memorable stories whether this

room was loved or not. In this

room, I shared memories with some

musicians, lovers. Some of them were

cheaters, weepers, losers and mostly,

they were my counterparts. I hated the

scenery of unfinished tones, how they

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

worst sound in my ears - monotonic, copied.

Once, my counterparts considered music as

one boring college class that they blamed

how it defined different kinds of people,

how it caught lives of my fellows which

they hid for a long time. We asked them

to sing, dance, play and strum it the way

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

looks, married rich men, got impregnated -

those who lived their own lives. I liked

the way they meant their own songs, far

better than Mozart or any classical men

who got stuck on my head when they

were pasted on the wooden walls. I

knew I'd be like them too - loved

and cared that I'd sing songs

on my wedding, that my mates

would sing with me too, that

after 10 years, hopefully,

I'd be married too.

life is fixed by Linda M. Crate

life spins backward

from the point of

origin from your

death which is as

certain as your birth —

just unknown by

human knowledge

which is limited

even in the most

wise words or

witty retorts, life

spirals backward

plunging us forward

into straights we much

rather avoid, sometimes,

but in the end are ways

we needed to take to

either grow or learn;

sometimes, both —

it’s a sojourn that

many take yet so few

take time to enjoy,

it has the brevity

of fog’s breath yet

many waste it chasing

after things that never

mattered anyway.

Black Seed by Black Seed by Donal Mahoney

Every day the same people

at the same table

at the rear of the cafeteria.

The maiden, 35 at least,

is gray at the temples,

sour at the mouth.

The widow, 55, waves

a cigarette like a wand.

Girdled and dyed,

she needs no one now;

She ministers to a dog

and has a new apartment.

The accountant, 65, wants to retire,

his years of intemperance

tempered by a stroke,

his anger at everything

suddenly gone. The janitor, 60,

explains over and over

how over the weekend

he snipped from his garden

husks of dead sunflowers

and drove them out of the city

and into the forest

and there in a clearing

spread the black cakes

for chipmunks to strip,

black seed by black seed.

I, a young editor,

“with your whole life

in front of you,” they insist,

sit through it all,

Monday through Friday,

spooning broth, buttering slices

of rye, and praying that after

pudding again for dessert,

the phone on my desk

will explode too late

with a call I’ll take anyway,

and that after that call, I’ll rise

and take from my sport coat

a speech I wrote years ago,

a speech I’ll discard for two lines

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

I have found a new job.”

A Cliché Letter to your Old Self by Jay Coral

congratulations

you are a reformed pessimist

you look at your friends in Facebook

and you say to yourself

you're not so bad afterall

you are unmarried

no pictures in your profile

of academically superior kids

and huggable pets in your sofa

you are successful

at being a floater and a survivor

not that it matters

you recently overcoming an insurmountable odd

and thanking the Lord God Almighty for being your rock

but in your cynical middle age brow

you venerate the impression

that you feel for their suffering

and that sorrow is an equation

you share in the world wide web

ah happiness

you don't have a thousand dollar showerhead

but you are innocently happy

walking eating breathing fucking

on inspired lyrics of pop songs

isn't that what you want others

to know/think about you?

you are almost forty

and you wonder if you are any wiser

you wonder if they understand your poem

you wonder what they'll say to you

the next time they see you.

my life by Steve Calamars

right now is

check-engine lights

and disappointed

parents

a lean muscular

physique and a

bearded face

i feel more like

a fighter than

a writer

pumping out pushups

over prose

6-mile morning runs

and shadow-boxing

in the park

kafka's death and

genius stretched out

across my brain like

the strings of a violin

my own pen touching

the page gentle as a bow

making a music that

never really escapes the

echo of his own . . .

Hate Department by Abigale Louise LeCavalier

Cringing in a corner

doesn’t suit her,

much.

She does it anyway.

Waiting

for the feelings to change,

in bold breaths

breathing.

Slipping her eyes;

something less formal.

She has that “stay away from me” look

down pat,

because she cares too much.

Always the problem.

Her emotions burn

like cheap cigarettes,

cold.

Almost surreal.

And she can feel the sand

in her teeth,

the heat of her skin,

steam.

She knew this moment was inevitable,

tried to wish it away

with small gestures.

But it came just the same.

Two Poems by Billy Howell-Sinnard

In The Smoke Room

glowing coil

in the wall

like an altar

a hole

big enough

to poke

a cigarette

Quasar paces

looks up

says cameras

and microphones

in the sky

follow him

i sit beside

the quiet girl

with sad eyes

who sees God

in the linoleum

she puts my hand

in the fire

between her legs

watches the door

for the devil

who prowls the halls

his keys jangling

Growing Older

Nothing seems so horrible

anymore in this new light

of waking up

on possibly our last day.

We learn to give ourselves

in ordinary ways

with what little we have left

like the fishes and loaves

when all is lost.

We've tired of looking,

content now with this

and nothing less.

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

I got drunk again

double fisting rum and cokes

at a strip club in a town

with a name I can’t pronounce.

They want my money, but I got none,

so some chit-chat

casual as warm breezes

will have to do.

you need to keep your wits,

keep the conversation quick.

ask questions.

don’t let them see

what’s inside of you

or what’s not.

play dumb,

make it so they don’t know

you came here alone -

your friends in the bathroom,

or got sick

and went home.

and this is your first time

in a place like this.

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

everything but them.

don’t ask them for a dance

and when they’re up on stage

look the other way.

distract yourself with the pinball machine.

don’t ever let them know

you could love them.

how you want nothing more

than to love them.

The Unbearable Solidarity of the Dead by Paul Hellweg

Day four in Paris, hungover,

food coma this time,

no alcohol involved,

just despair, angst,

Big Mac, fries, pizza margarita, and

the excruciating loneliness

that, for me, always accompanies

lack of creativity.

Slowly waking,

espresso and coffee,

reading “The Wasteland,”

hotel restaurant packed,

tourists clustered together

as if afraid of being alone,

morning chatter on autopilot,

no one looking into anyone’s eyes.

I’m comforted to witness

what Eliot knew,

I’m not the only one

death hath slowly undone.

Snack and Caffeine Free Soda Break by Kevin Ridgeway

The adult daycare sanitarium

for the full-time

and part-time adult insane

opened at eight o’clock each morning

A long line of glum faces

extending from the fleet of

white van trolleys to the front desk,

where you signed in

and they handed you

three loose stale cigarettes.

Two group sessions drooled on

in monotonous stupors until noon

when we dined on

Thanksgiving turkey

and imitation cranberry slivers

with a teeny weenie

2 percent milk Dixie cup wash-down

One more group—a choice between

substance abusers or finger paints

followed by

a snack and caffeine free soda break

all of us wearing

our broken people costumes

Our deflated hangdog face masks,

medicinal vapors

pouring out of them

on the outdoor picnic benches

drenched in bitter sun

sipping on what

amounted to bubbling sugar water

Stowing away our

meds in our cheeks

for a stoned winter

Some of us made it,

and some of us will be back

for another round

Two Poems by Jay Passer

DRAWING FROM LIFE

in the back room of the old shingle factory

they draw furiously

and the model keeps running to the bathroom

to puke

and someone points out how poor the light is

someone else complains that the pose is too rigid

and yet another artiste resents that the model

is constantly running off to puke:

fuckin’ junky!

there in the dusty back room

of the old factory building

where every Thursday night

they draw furiously

as if invoking

the wrecking ball.

NOT A MORNING PERSON

I always end up

stuck in some room

with the lights off

pondering the infinite

shades of darkness

cast in a skull.

the ease in which

prone on my back

I ignore the alarm

of simply being

is enough to blind

every bird alive.

daylight slinks

through drab curtains

as I clutch for reasons

to keep up the farce

the utter travail

and insidious yearning.

I always end up

waiting for the bus

on some dirty street

sun and clouds

like the rent

hanging over my head.

the love of a nihilist asshole by Martin Leonard Freebase

you are asking me meaningless questions

making me think of things that I would prefer to avoid

you go to work on me with an ax

having a wonderful time of it

singing or rather humming some forgotten tune

sometimes it comes out just like you want it

the mere mechanical business

greasing all of my gears

seeing to it properly

the discomfort is an aid

or a bit of a stimulant

an electric cattle prod up the ass

putting juice to your demonic nature

killing the thinking animal

it is bad to think

I would rather have you feel

I'm not selling hope anymore

it doesn't last

as soon as i open the door

out it runs down the street

and gets hit by a car

then I'm in the middle of the street

crying because hope is dead

eventually I stop buying the shit

and I rip out that part in me

where hope lived

at our feet is an underworld

the first light of the death angel

new ranks are thinning

a hungry tug of desire

your claim for broken substance

standing against the wall

dark whispers reaching down

different words from god

violated by the madness

the stain of a dream

that has always been

a good kind of crazy

one you can sink your teeth into

together again

like dogs and angels

two people across the street

filled with doubt and self-pity

a helpless blue

painted on your heart

it beats a sticky pink

like the gums of angels

before sin enters in

all up and down

deep into the creature

out of the bottom

without a name

hot shooting in a cold medium

out your eye

around the curves

sick with fear

we all know the sleep

in the cemetery of the soul

the curse of death is in the blood

no more locks on your doors

a strange sense of love

your prison is self-made

the truth is your rejection

half torn and numb

a lifetime of mutilation

fight the possibility

beat it out of you

like the raven's quarrel

everything possessed of searching

an unfamiliar turn

in the bitter celebration

an empty victory with spread legs

appearing as if by magic

pushed up so high

the bodies move as a miracle

grinding into each other

higher and high

a child of two continents

death weeps at noon

something real and impossible

the waste of a loaded laugh

here every morning

the people have words to say

but no one wants to hear

we only want to listen to the pretty

dancing images flickering on a screen

burning into our retinas

fabricating a lie in our brains

it is a hostile condition

in their little dresses

carried and deposited by ancient angels

we play upon the frozen rock

it fell from heaven

tiny paralel lives

caught under the massive weight

pinning us down

short and tiny breaths

huge depressions

free reign over your soul

we are weak and swept aside

it is a continual battle

so hard to separate

with see-through eyes

a lovely dance filled with horror

my slaughter house memory

a few more left-handed shoves

hammer beating brains

as true as your insides

the blues into your cup

nothing I could say

someone had stolen my tongue

and it was boiling in a pot of water

sitting on your stove of hate

me inside of everything

my shell shocked and wounded heart

sucking up all that is left

every little morsel

not a crumb for a mouse

trying to hide from my hunger

thinking like a witch or a devil

leaning out your window sill

utterly pressed and depressed

busted layers of angel dust

they come alive inside me

growing through me

reaching the outside world

reaching you

with vacant eyes

using their knives

down sidewalks with beautiful looks

ths is where you slumber

you look uneven

putting you on the floor

the lights are just right

accusing me of hypocrisy

someday you become a productive human being

just like superman

collecting all your gold stars

putting them in this feeling thing

a giver instead of a taker

you were invented

I was trying to be socially responsible

when I ignored you

and placed you in the straightjacket

pointing you towards the lie