we’re all drinking tequila/prob first time/prob only jose.
keep
ordering
rounds.
barmaid coming over tray with the salt and all that.
mostly empty in here.
blokes round the pool table start an argument/get lary and
one
grabs a
plastic spoon/threatens his mate brandishing it
brandishing a plastic spoon!
and
WE CANNOT BELIEVE IT/WE’RE LAUGHING/PLASTIC SPOON!
later
we’re all back in someone’s house/folks away/cheap lager.
we’re chucking fag butts down behind the sofa cos theres no ashtray about
and
no one likes him anyway and some go in the fish tank.
someone’s fucking someone in his bed and he’s pissed off.
his front door gets broken round the hinges
when
pizzas come and he paying pissed off.
and
i’m
spending some time on the roof/freaking out whoever’s upstairs fucking.
fish tank is getting turned off cos no one can sleep on the carpet and the sofa with all the noise and the tropical light.
so
we’re
walking home
across enormous empty car parks/bricked up flats/skirting the mall and out by the station/down the hospital hill
and we’re resting up
climbing in an abandoned Citroen/roofs been cut off
and
smoke cigarettes
watching the dawn come up on fire over the
Fivebells roundabout laughing about the guy
brandishing
a
plastic spoon.
I Swear to God by Murphy Clamrod
"Do you solemnly swear
or affirm that you will tell
the truth,
the whole truth,
and nothing but
the truth,
so
help
you
god?"
-my last beer cap was a king of clubs.
-I'm listening to Faith No More.
-I can't throw away receipts or bic lighters.
-Johnny Cash was always right, in my eyes.
-Once in a lifetime by Talking Heads is good.
-Cotton & Petroleum Jelly make great wicks.
-Fact is only commonly accepted opinion &
-Truth is based on fact or acts or I get so confused
after that last hit, then the just before the next, I
wonder if I could convince everyone on the planet.
-google, youtube, twitter, facebook are tracking you-twit-face; google it...
-History is told by the living and belongs to the dead.
-I'm listening to Johnny Cash.
-Art is subjective.
-vague statements are never statements.
-American means something.
-Being American means nothing.
-Caffeine was my gateway drug.
-Drinking can keep you from thinking.
-Everyone is going to die, its our thing.
-Finding time is impossible, it isn't a thing.
-Giving is best if you need for everything.
-Hope the rest of these lines don't need to end in g.
-I am still listening to Johnny Cash.
-Jealous of what it was like w/the 'highwaymen'!
-Kindness leads to less fights and bigger tips.
-Love is based solely on perspective.
-My muse never picks up a tab, we never 'go out'
-Never is that moment where you've given up.
-Oprah is rich.
-Poetry should have never taken a backseat to stand-up comedy.
-Questions that don't lead to more questions should be kept to yourself.
-Reality is less about love and more about conditioning.
-Some people take the fun out of everything.
-Take nothing you want and everything you need.
-Umbrella's are inconvenient accessories.
-Violence is always an option.
-Weekends depend on your calender or profession.
-My next beer cap was the ten of hearts.
-Smoking cigarettes will kill me, smoking pot will keep me from killing myself...
[fucked if I know]
or affirm that you will tell
the truth,
the whole truth,
and nothing but
the truth,
so
help
you
god?"
-my last beer cap was a king of clubs.
-I'm listening to Faith No More.
-I can't throw away receipts or bic lighters.
-Johnny Cash was always right, in my eyes.
-Once in a lifetime by Talking Heads is good.
-Cotton & Petroleum Jelly make great wicks.
-Fact is only commonly accepted opinion &
-Truth is based on fact or acts or I get so confused
after that last hit, then the just before the next, I
wonder if I could convince everyone on the planet.
-google, youtube, twitter, facebook are tracking you-twit-face; google it...
-History is told by the living and belongs to the dead.
-I'm listening to Johnny Cash.
-Art is subjective.
-vague statements are never statements.
-American means something.
-Being American means nothing.
-Caffeine was my gateway drug.
-Drinking can keep you from thinking.
-Everyone is going to die, its our thing.
-Finding time is impossible, it isn't a thing.
-Giving is best if you need for everything.
-Hope the rest of these lines don't need to end in g.
-I am still listening to Johnny Cash.
-Jealous of what it was like w/the 'highwaymen'!
-Kindness leads to less fights and bigger tips.
-Love is based solely on perspective.
-My muse never picks up a tab, we never 'go out'
-Never is that moment where you've given up.
-Oprah is rich.
-Poetry should have never taken a backseat to stand-up comedy.
-Questions that don't lead to more questions should be kept to yourself.
-Reality is less about love and more about conditioning.
-Some people take the fun out of everything.
-Take nothing you want and everything you need.
-Umbrella's are inconvenient accessories.
-Violence is always an option.
-Weekends depend on your calender or profession.
-My next beer cap was the ten of hearts.
-Smoking cigarettes will kill me, smoking pot will keep me from killing myself...
[fucked if I know]
S.O.S. by Catfish McDaris
My old man spoke of eating shit on a shingle
for breakfast in the army, “Yes sirree bob,
nothing better, it’ll put hair on your chest”
my sisters all made ugly faces
Visions of big hairy assed roofers crapping on
top of our house came to mind & then our dad
climbing up there & bringing down a steaming
platter of monstrous green greasy turds, all
curled around for a morning meal
When we found out S.O.S. was army talk for
chipped beef & gravy on toast, we all breathed
a sigh of relief, then he started singing a marching
song about Eskimo vaginas, we all thought war
must have warped his mind forever.
for breakfast in the army, “Yes sirree bob,
nothing better, it’ll put hair on your chest”
my sisters all made ugly faces
Visions of big hairy assed roofers crapping on
top of our house came to mind & then our dad
climbing up there & bringing down a steaming
platter of monstrous green greasy turds, all
curled around for a morning meal
When we found out S.O.S. was army talk for
chipped beef & gravy on toast, we all breathed
a sigh of relief, then he started singing a marching
song about Eskimo vaginas, we all thought war
must have warped his mind forever.
Filled with Birds by Ben John Smith
The drink
doesn't work sometimes.
It props you up,
keeps the ball rolling
but it doesn't work.
Not really.
She looks for villas
in bali
on the ipad
while
I pour another white
wine.
A pile of books at my feet.
Vegetable soup in the kitchen.
My garden
sits in the precise
night light.
Dark.
It's not a gamble.
It's a throw of dice
with out the spots mattering.
With out money on the board
the dice don't work,
the drink doesn't work
but some how,
she makes the wheels turn;
and I wake up
for work on a Sunday
to pay for our wedding
because she makes me work.
The morning
is filled with birds
and I don't worry bout things
I can't change
as the boys fall from a pub
or a woman's bed
or a park bench
and pile into our work truck
to smoke cigarettes
from a crack
in the window
and at this time in
the morning
I have nothing else to say.
doesn't work sometimes.
It props you up,
keeps the ball rolling
but it doesn't work.
Not really.
She looks for villas
in bali
on the ipad
while
I pour another white
wine.
A pile of books at my feet.
Vegetable soup in the kitchen.
My garden
sits in the precise
night light.
Dark.
It's not a gamble.
It's a throw of dice
with out the spots mattering.
With out money on the board
the dice don't work,
the drink doesn't work
but some how,
she makes the wheels turn;
and I wake up
for work on a Sunday
to pay for our wedding
because she makes me work.
The morning
is filled with birds
and I don't worry bout things
I can't change
as the boys fall from a pub
or a woman's bed
or a park bench
and pile into our work truck
to smoke cigarettes
from a crack
in the window
and at this time in
the morning
I have nothing else to say.
1,400 Degrees: Five Micros by Sheldon Lee Compton
Burnout
The room is empty
as scars without stories when Ben wakes.
It is a knocked about box
made of soot, and he tries again to swallow, as
if his lips aren’t burned away, as if in prayer.
Flag
That first
date. Ben saw her auburn hair illuminate
color each time she lit a match,
smiled when she smiled, stared at his feet
when she let the match burn to her fingertips.
Infatuation
Children were
drawn to her in the way sunlight seems drawn to still water. He watched,
and was drawn, too.
Measurements
When Ben spoke to
her, she studied him so closely. He
might have been in a hog pen,
not a man with cold, meaty hands in his pockets.
Hello
Lonely Ben. The dark lady. Friend of a friend, and then more. This dark lady who will
talk to him. And listen, mouth slightly open.
Past Life Regression Attempt #4 by Melanie Browne
There are Cloudless skies;
I am shoving cake in my own
mouth, faster and faster
Like a bulimic’s wet dream,
While in the distance,
An ocean of peasants
Laughs and jeers,
They want to
Use my head for
A piñata,
But then I realize,
They don’t
Play that game in France
I know I should say something
but I can’t,
I hang my head in quiet resignation,
It begins to rain,
My wig drips
Between my breasts,
The peasants head home,
Their amusement over,
I drift through the city
Dirty and alone
I am shoving cake in my own
mouth, faster and faster
Like a bulimic’s wet dream,
While in the distance,
An ocean of peasants
Laughs and jeers,
They want to
Use my head for
A piñata,
But then I realize,
They don’t
Play that game in France
I know I should say something
but I can’t,
I hang my head in quiet resignation,
It begins to rain,
My wig drips
Between my breasts,
The peasants head home,
Their amusement over,
I drift through the city
Dirty and alone
Two Poems by Joseph Ridgwell
The Sun Goes Down on Another Day
Wasted
The millions stuck in dead jobs
Dead people in a dead world
Ferried to and from joyless employment
By Automobile, plane and train
Boat and bicycle
To spend an allotted amount of time
Breathing bad air and staring at paperclips
Subjugated by processes and automatons
Harassed by insane men and women
The Yes people
To emerge finally
Like battle-scarred warriors of the mundane
Onto dusty, polluted streets
Hot with maddened traffic
Alongside millions of others
Just in time to witness
The sun go down on another day
The sun go down on their dreams
The sun go down on them
Watch for Me by Moonlight
When I’m gone
Watch for me on a starry night
Or a lonesome beach
Bottle in hand
One arm waving free
A trail of footprints in the sand
Beside an ocean's roar
Or street corners and cosy nooks
Shady corners and dirty dead ends
Propping up a ghostly bar
By a fire bright
And remember that I once lived
And loved
And sung rebel songs
Till the morning came
Caressing and cavorting
Seeking truth and beauty
And the shining path
That leads the way
To silent caves
And lonely rocks
And dark mountains
And green valleys
So watch for me by moonlight
And I’ll show you the way
Wasted
The millions stuck in dead jobs
Dead people in a dead world
Ferried to and from joyless employment
By Automobile, plane and train
Boat and bicycle
To spend an allotted amount of time
Breathing bad air and staring at paperclips
Subjugated by processes and automatons
Harassed by insane men and women
The Yes people
To emerge finally
Like battle-scarred warriors of the mundane
Onto dusty, polluted streets
Hot with maddened traffic
Alongside millions of others
Just in time to witness
The sun go down on another day
The sun go down on their dreams
The sun go down on them
Watch for Me by Moonlight
When I’m gone
Watch for me on a starry night
Or a lonesome beach
Bottle in hand
One arm waving free
A trail of footprints in the sand
Beside an ocean's roar
Or street corners and cosy nooks
Shady corners and dirty dead ends
Propping up a ghostly bar
By a fire bright
And remember that I once lived
And loved
And sung rebel songs
Till the morning came
Caressing and cavorting
Seeking truth and beauty
And the shining path
That leads the way
To silent caves
And lonely rocks
And dark mountains
And green valleys
So watch for me by moonlight
And I’ll show you the way
Nightlife by Stephen Jarrell Williams
On the street sticky wet
careful where you step
never turn your back
on dudes or women tattooed
here the dark has substance
whispering in your perked ears
memory mirages
around every corner
she teases you to follow
down the long alley
trashcans stuffed and dented
with how you use to be
she giggles
leaving her warped door open
silver beads and bullets
dangling from her unmade bed
she's in the bathroom gargling
her backside already bare
you step in stiff
knowing the price
daylight unable to heal you
when she spits you out.
careful where you step
never turn your back
on dudes or women tattooed
here the dark has substance
whispering in your perked ears
memory mirages
around every corner
she teases you to follow
down the long alley
trashcans stuffed and dented
with how you use to be
she giggles
leaving her warped door open
silver beads and bullets
dangling from her unmade bed
she's in the bathroom gargling
her backside already bare
you step in stiff
knowing the price
daylight unable to heal you
when she spits you out.
THE KNIFE by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Under the bed
he kept the knife.
It kept him safe
from the perils of
the world. The knife
would dream along
with him. The shiny
blade was like a mirror
when he looked into it.
His hair was out of place.
The knife was there
every night ready
for action in case
anything went down.
he kept the knife.
It kept him safe
from the perils of
the world. The knife
would dream along
with him. The shiny
blade was like a mirror
when he looked into it.
His hair was out of place.
The knife was there
every night ready
for action in case
anything went down.
Man at the Bus Stop on Halloween by Donal Mahoney
The others, of course,
are more rabid than he
but less apt to show it.
Whenever he strikes,
he never romps off.
He stands with the wrist
that he's snatched
from the lady
tight in his teeth
as he waits with a smile
for the wagon.
He's one of the few
wrist-snatchers still
on the streets of Chicago,
and he makes his rounds
in old tennies.
His technique is simple:
He dives for the purse hand,
gives it a whack, and severs
the wrist without slobber,
then stands like a Vatican Guard
with the wrist in his teeth
until he is certain
he has no pursuers.
At night in his dreams he sees
the women whose wrists
he has held in his teeth.
They stand at the bus stop
like Statues of Liberty,
shrieking and waving
their stumps like flares.
He prays their screams
will bring to a frieze
the patrol cars glowing
in the middle of the street.
are more rabid than he
but less apt to show it.
Whenever he strikes,
he never romps off.
He stands with the wrist
that he's snatched
from the lady
tight in his teeth
as he waits with a smile
for the wagon.
He's one of the few
wrist-snatchers still
on the streets of Chicago,
and he makes his rounds
in old tennies.
His technique is simple:
He dives for the purse hand,
gives it a whack, and severs
the wrist without slobber,
then stands like a Vatican Guard
with the wrist in his teeth
until he is certain
he has no pursuers.
At night in his dreams he sees
the women whose wrists
he has held in his teeth.
They stand at the bus stop
like Statues of Liberty,
shrieking and waving
their stumps like flares.
He prays their screams
will bring to a frieze
the patrol cars glowing
in the middle of the street.
On Hearing About a Possible Taliban Shooting of a 14 Year Old Girl by David S. Pointer
Unlikable Islamic extremists
fill the world with honor killings,
fill hospitals, morgues and midnight
shifts with dismembered bodies,
make it too easy for the blue suits
of elite economic complicity to
disappear into the deeper pockets
of designed perception, telling the
public it’s all good except for them
fill the world with honor killings,
fill hospitals, morgues and midnight
shifts with dismembered bodies,
make it too easy for the blue suits
of elite economic complicity to
disappear into the deeper pockets
of designed perception, telling the
public it’s all good except for them
Two Poems by David McLean
summer is
summer is the blind witch;
she is looking for the murderers
who took her mother,
or just a motor car driving in Paris
like Lucy Jordan might have wanted
once; warts and all the anxious
immeasurable, summer
was never yet heaven for them;
she is looking for her murderers
so she can be forgiven
stars
stars in the sky like cocaine
wasted,
and water to slake the thirst
of everything else forgotten -
a smear of time
over dried paper,
dead words and hungry ashtrays
and all these incessant “maybes”
are a face to peel off
over every empty pedestal,
and the night wants nothing -
especially not faces and babies
summer is the blind witch;
she is looking for the murderers
who took her mother,
or just a motor car driving in Paris
like Lucy Jordan might have wanted
once; warts and all the anxious
immeasurable, summer
was never yet heaven for them;
she is looking for her murderers
so she can be forgiven
stars
stars in the sky like cocaine
wasted,
and water to slake the thirst
of everything else forgotten -
a smear of time
over dried paper,
dead words and hungry ashtrays
and all these incessant “maybes”
are a face to peel off
over every empty pedestal,
and the night wants nothing -
especially not faces and babies
Two Poems by Justin Hyde
tasting the back of my teeth in a truck-stop booth
having been dumped
by the married copy-editor
and having dumped
the indonesian dipsomaniac
on the same day
a snub-nosed brunette
tapped me on the shoulder
at carl’s place last night
she asked:
are you justin hyde
from the class of 96
at ames high?
i told her
that was
factually accurate.
we calibrated nostalgia
over eighty dollars worth of
jameson and bud light.
back at my place
she asked:
where is your couch?
i told her:
i try to winnow
all superfluities
from the needle of my compass.
no really
where is your furniture?
i grabbed two metal chairs
from my closet
unfolded them
and palmed her right tit.
i can't stay here,
she said.
this is too weird.
indeed
as i thank the graces
for being blessed with
the constitution
to laugh about this
sitting here
tasting the back of my teeth
in a truck-stop booth.
ex wife calls
her grandfather
(winnowed
to a husk
by cancer)
finally passed.
and i think:
well
what was that worth?
seven decades and change
of useless hustle
yielding the same
foregone conclusion.
another filament
gone rot
in this cosmic
back alley
craps game.
turn
your ear
to the earth:
the sediment
holds our mortgage.
having been dumped
by the married copy-editor
and having dumped
the indonesian dipsomaniac
on the same day
a snub-nosed brunette
tapped me on the shoulder
at carl’s place last night
she asked:
are you justin hyde
from the class of 96
at ames high?
i told her
that was
factually accurate.
we calibrated nostalgia
over eighty dollars worth of
jameson and bud light.
back at my place
she asked:
where is your couch?
i told her:
i try to winnow
all superfluities
from the needle of my compass.
no really
where is your furniture?
i grabbed two metal chairs
from my closet
unfolded them
and palmed her right tit.
i can't stay here,
she said.
this is too weird.
indeed
as i thank the graces
for being blessed with
the constitution
to laugh about this
sitting here
tasting the back of my teeth
in a truck-stop booth.
ex wife calls
her grandfather
(winnowed
to a husk
by cancer)
finally passed.
and i think:
well
what was that worth?
seven decades and change
of useless hustle
yielding the same
foregone conclusion.
another filament
gone rot
in this cosmic
back alley
craps game.
turn
your ear
to the earth:
the sediment
holds our mortgage.
Two Poems by Rob Plath
OPEN
my scars
become skylights
most nights
the stars
shine thru
the wounds
their silvery milk
bathing any traces
of pain
LUCK
i have this
old mug of
brushes
& these
tubes of
primary colors
& these makeshift
canvases
but if everything
should suddenly
become terribly stale
then i have these two hands
to un-postpone my
suicide ....
my scars
become skylights
most nights
the stars
shine thru
the wounds
their silvery milk
bathing any traces
of pain
LUCK
i have this
old mug of
brushes
& these
tubes of
primary colors
& these makeshift
canvases
but if everything
should suddenly
become terribly stale
then i have these two hands
to un-postpone my
suicide ....
Exit by Jonathan Butcher
As I shuffle around street corners,
I feel their shadows, almost hear
the muscles in their faces contort
into frowns.
I hold back in fear, as the old
memories slide back like unwanted
presents, and the grime from the
pavement seems even greyer than
usual.
And this allows me to picture an alternative
back drop, if only for a few seconds, a back
drop that always seems far to much effort to
achieve.
They stand behind me, fists like rusted
shovels, grinning like fools, knowing
my one and only exit is now truly blocked.
I allow them this grace, to let them have
their crowning moment, let them think
they've left their mark.
I feel their shadows, almost hear
the muscles in their faces contort
into frowns.
I hold back in fear, as the old
memories slide back like unwanted
presents, and the grime from the
pavement seems even greyer than
usual.
And this allows me to picture an alternative
back drop, if only for a few seconds, a back
drop that always seems far to much effort to
achieve.
They stand behind me, fists like rusted
shovels, grinning like fools, knowing
my one and only exit is now truly blocked.
I allow them this grace, to let them have
their crowning moment, let them think
they've left their mark.
Two Poems by Kevin Ridgeway
Valley Transit
On a rickety local
evening bus passing
an endless parade
of boarded up strip malls
framed by power lines
decorated with
dirty pairs of shoes
and fields playing host
to burned out oil rigs
a senile old man
asks me if I
know about the
Octomom
the endless
stream of
aluminum,
concrete
and
broken glass
pass by
in fluttering
blinks
and he
yells
--she has
Fourteen
Children!
billboards
smile in
the darkness
above us--
a woman
clad in lingerie
with gangland
graffiti
tattoos
lining her
bronze figure,
another
depicting retirees
embracing
each other for
Rose Hills
mortuaries
we climb
the hills
and enter
the heart of
the valley,
the millions of
lights twinkling
from each tiny
suburb,
slowly dying
but still
breathing
Notes on a Law and Order Marathon
They happen almost daily
Formulaic plots, coffee and blood
Spilling into each other
As we nosh lazily on stale popcorn
And masturbate infrequently
To our favorite female assistant DA’s
There’s one we like to call Hot Lips,
Another we like to call Big Red,
And our favorite Mocha Delight
The male cops spout cornball zingers
At the unlucky perpetrators
And haul them to the meat factories
Where they’ll get cut deals
From our favorite ladies
In our favorite skirts
As we frolic through these
daydream doldrums
Hours of suspended reality
On a rickety local
evening bus passing
an endless parade
of boarded up strip malls
framed by power lines
decorated with
dirty pairs of shoes
and fields playing host
to burned out oil rigs
a senile old man
asks me if I
know about the
Octomom
the endless
stream of
aluminum,
concrete
and
broken glass
pass by
in fluttering
blinks
and he
yells
--she has
Fourteen
Children!
billboards
smile in
the darkness
above us--
a woman
clad in lingerie
with gangland
graffiti
tattoos
lining her
bronze figure,
another
depicting retirees
embracing
each other for
Rose Hills
mortuaries
we climb
the hills
and enter
the heart of
the valley,
the millions of
lights twinkling
from each tiny
suburb,
slowly dying
but still
breathing
Notes on a Law and Order Marathon
They happen almost daily
Formulaic plots, coffee and blood
Spilling into each other
As we nosh lazily on stale popcorn
And masturbate infrequently
To our favorite female assistant DA’s
There’s one we like to call Hot Lips,
Another we like to call Big Red,
And our favorite Mocha Delight
The male cops spout cornball zingers
At the unlucky perpetrators
And haul them to the meat factories
Where they’ll get cut deals
From our favorite ladies
In our favorite skirts
As we frolic through these
daydream doldrums
Hours of suspended reality
Two Poems by Ford Dagenham
TOO SANE
shall i attempt to describe
what over-pilled and hanging writers
already
written? - the filths black animal blanket
that
grips
your reason away?
no - i shall describe tuesday when time was still on dry gears,
when my voice shrank small as a mouse's,
when, too sane, all faces were intricately lined by artists,
when i touched the slow lumbering large things all around me
so conscious of being on the surface of a populated planet,
and i, too sane,
clearly knew and felt the earth’s solid girth and soil heft under my feet,
all sky's painted in
hollywood watercolours.
PULP POEM
well, up later than usual
modest place east of town
8 AM
read my detective novel in hot bath drawn from tank in the attic
heated overnight
cigarette smoke mixing with steam.
on green rusting washing pole
cord long gone to coil in the winter border
sits a white dove lit glowing by the low sun,
looks soft,
no hint
of his noisy oils
in the creamy feathers
he ruffles and smooths again. long shadow of his beak stretching along his back.
he
is
framed in the window perfectly like
in-laws on the mantelpiece.
well, at the back door i light another cigarette
i wear a damp towel pulled tight
in the draft. quiet/ one man mends his shed roof
bent over behind
the bare trees
higher than fences
hitting nails in threes.
on the bent aerials monochrome magpies impossibly bright against
the heavy grey storm clouds
nod and twitch and pace
smaller birds scattered
lost like seeds till shoots sprout
showing themselves again
in spring.
well, i'm not in west texas anymore . . . are these birds omens i wonder?
this year’s nearly done with me. its mistakes and endurance and drool tailing off
like dawn mist on the choppy lakes where the
small boats creak
waiting.
well, i decide to decide the birds are omens. why not?
and i stretch out
on the old bench picking at the weathered peel
and
looking at the churches.
shall i attempt to describe
what over-pilled and hanging writers
already
written? - the filths black animal blanket
that
grips
your reason away?
no - i shall describe tuesday when time was still on dry gears,
when my voice shrank small as a mouse's,
when, too sane, all faces were intricately lined by artists,
when i touched the slow lumbering large things all around me
so conscious of being on the surface of a populated planet,
and i, too sane,
clearly knew and felt the earth’s solid girth and soil heft under my feet,
all sky's painted in
hollywood watercolours.
PULP POEM
well, up later than usual
modest place east of town
8 AM
read my detective novel in hot bath drawn from tank in the attic
heated overnight
cigarette smoke mixing with steam.
on green rusting washing pole
cord long gone to coil in the winter border
sits a white dove lit glowing by the low sun,
looks soft,
no hint
of his noisy oils
in the creamy feathers
he ruffles and smooths again. long shadow of his beak stretching along his back.
he
is
framed in the window perfectly like
in-laws on the mantelpiece.
well, at the back door i light another cigarette
i wear a damp towel pulled tight
in the draft. quiet/ one man mends his shed roof
bent over behind
the bare trees
higher than fences
hitting nails in threes.
on the bent aerials monochrome magpies impossibly bright against
the heavy grey storm clouds
nod and twitch and pace
smaller birds scattered
lost like seeds till shoots sprout
showing themselves again
in spring.
well, i'm not in west texas anymore . . . are these birds omens i wonder?
this year’s nearly done with me. its mistakes and endurance and drool tailing off
like dawn mist on the choppy lakes where the
small boats creak
waiting.
well, i decide to decide the birds are omens. why not?
and i stretch out
on the old bench picking at the weathered peel
and
looking at the churches.
Two Poems by H.L. Nelson
Undeveloped
She ran between
coffee shop mornings
and coitus interruptus nights.
Which was between
3rd and 6th streets.
Gluten-free coffee biscuits
and congealed-cum ass cheeks
were her markers.
Begin race, run, end race,
ad infinitum.
The days blurred together,
a photograph of movement
taken with a cheap camera.
She was the cheap camera.
Used once on vacation
by him, dozens of hims,
the tourists.
Clicking her button,
getting her wet,
then tossing her away
in the morning,
undeveloped.
Daddy
I fear holes
punched in drywall,
the anger
that lived and breathed,
seethed,
within his house.
The cigarette smoke
that curled around his fist,
which was ready
to strike
at the slightest provocation,
that yellowed the walls
and stained the ceiling
the color of sickness.
Ashes smeared
on every surface,
ashtrays filled
to overflowing,
dropping their contents
onto the dismal,
dark brown carpet
where they would lay,
until he yelled at me
to pick them up.
Glasses flung and shattered,
shards not near
as sharp
as his words and hands.
Linoleum cracked and peeling,
gathering West Texas dirt
in its abundant crevices,
which stepmom scrubbed,
on her knees,
madly
and in vain,
with a toothbrush
in the dark hours
of the morning.
She ran between
coffee shop mornings
and coitus interruptus nights.
Which was between
3rd and 6th streets.
Gluten-free coffee biscuits
and congealed-cum ass cheeks
were her markers.
Begin race, run, end race,
ad infinitum.
The days blurred together,
a photograph of movement
taken with a cheap camera.
She was the cheap camera.
Used once on vacation
by him, dozens of hims,
the tourists.
Clicking her button,
getting her wet,
then tossing her away
in the morning,
undeveloped.
Daddy
I fear holes
punched in drywall,
the anger
that lived and breathed,
seethed,
within his house.
The cigarette smoke
that curled around his fist,
which was ready
to strike
at the slightest provocation,
that yellowed the walls
and stained the ceiling
the color of sickness.
Ashes smeared
on every surface,
ashtrays filled
to overflowing,
dropping their contents
onto the dismal,
dark brown carpet
where they would lay,
until he yelled at me
to pick them up.
Glasses flung and shattered,
shards not near
as sharp
as his words and hands.
Linoleum cracked and peeling,
gathering West Texas dirt
in its abundant crevices,
which stepmom scrubbed,
on her knees,
madly
and in vain,
with a toothbrush
in the dark hours
of the morning.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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—
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
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."
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!”
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?
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