by Randall Rogers
OF ONE THING I AM SURE
NEVERMORE
WILL I ALLOW A DRUNKEN
CROW TO FLY AROUND MY
HOME
NOR AGAIN WILL THEY FIND ME
BLOODY AND PUKING
CURBSIDE IN THE GUTTER
DYING, THEN DEAD
SAYING AMONG THE CRITICAL ACCLAIM
HE WAS A GREAT WRITER
AND YOU KNOW THEY THINK AND ARE ALONE
SO MUCH
WELL,
THEY ALMOST HAVE TO DRINK
OR SMOKE
TO STOKE THE CREATIVE FIRES
INSPIRATION
GET IT DOWN FAST FLOWING
THE PROSE WRITING THE AUTHOR
MUSIC PLAYING YOUR WRITING OR TYPING HAND(S)
HEMINGWAY DRANK WHILE HE WROTE
SO DID BUKOWSKI
AND ALL THOSE ALCOHOLICS LIKE CHEEVER
KEROUAC
SINCLAIR (MIRACLE HE MADE IT TO SIXTY SIX THEY SAY) LEWIS
FITZGERALD
RIMBAUD
DYLAN THOMAS
CHRISTOPHER HITTCENS?
ALL NOTORIOUS DRUNKS
HOW MANY OF THEM ACTUALLY
WROTE DRUNK OR LIKE CHEEVER I THINK
HE WOKE UP EARLY AND CLOCK WATCHED WRITING
UNTIL TWELVE NOON THEN THE SQUEAK OF THE LIQOUR CABINET OPENING
WOULD SING ALL AFTERNOON AND INTO THE NIGHT
I THINK HE STOPPED WRITING TO DRINK
THESE OTHER ALCOHOLICS I WOULD THINK WOULD HAVE TO BE
DRUNK OR HUNG OVER WHILE WRITING SOME OF THEIR WORKS
EVEN IF THIS WAS NOT THEIR ESTABLISHED WRITING ROUTINE
LIKE ME RETURNING HOME DRUNK FROM THE BAR AND WHIPPING OUT
SEVEN TO TEN POEMS
THE IDEAS WORD SOUND SING TRUE OR ODD
COOL
NAILING THE POEM
LIKE A TEENAGE CHINESE DIVER
OR GYMNAST
LIKE A GANDY DANCER HAMMERS A RAILROAD TIE SPIKE
LIKE THE NAILS THROUGH JESUS’ WRISTS AND ANKLES
THE BLULLETS FIRED INTO GHANDI’S SLIM FRAME
THE GRENADES AND FULSADE LET LOOSE ON SADAT
BOOTH BLASTING LINCOLN’S NOGGIN
AND KENNEDY’S LURCHING ABOUT LOSING HIS HEAD
(AND WHAT ABOUT THAT LOYAL WIFE SCAMPERING OUT OF THE CAR IN SUCH A FRENETIC HIS-HEAD’S-GONE-AND-I’M-OUT-OF-HERE UNLADYLIKE CLAMBERING OUT THE BACK OF THE CONVERTIBLE, ‘A PUSHING SECRET SERVICE GUYS OUT OF HER WAY AS SHE SELFISHLY LIKE A CORNERED CAT SHE CLAWED HER WAY TO WHAT SHE THOUGHT MIGHT BE SAFETY. HOW UNSEEMLY TO FIGHT SO DESPERATELY FOR LIFE? SHE COULD HAVE “STOOD BY HER MAN” AND OFFERED UP HER CRANIUM FOR BLASTING TOO. HER SELFISH SCAMPER TO PRESERVE HER LIFE AFTER HER HUSBAND’S HEAD EXPLODED LIKE A SMASHED WATERMELON INTO PIECES WAS JUST DOWNRIGHT UN FIRST LADY LIKE!)
ARRANGED WORDS
AS DEADLY AND DANGEROUS
ENLIGHTENING AND FUN
AS THE AUTO BIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X
OR JOEY: PORTAIT OF A HIT MAN
THE BOOK AND MOVIE THE GODFATHER
THE ANARCHIST'S COOKBOOK
AND ALL THE METH AND HOW TO MAKE HOMEMADE DRUGS
SITES NOW ON THE INTERNET
COMBINED WITH THE GREAT FOR FREE PORN
TIME AND PRIVACY ENOUGH FOR A SMOKE AND
A GOOD INTERNET KINK DRIVEN WANK
TO SUM, SHORT POEMS, INAPPROPRIATE OR TABOO
SUBJECT MATTER, MADE SEMI PALATABLE
INTERESTINGLY PUT
AND EASY TO UNDERSTAND
FOR IDIOTS WHO ACTUALLY GO
FOR BUKOWSKI’S DRIVEL
LIKE ME
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Autumn is an introvert
by Melanie Browne
Autumn is an introvert,
and tries to be
ninja, using
crisp leaves
as throwing stars,
practicing day and night
Autumn hides
behind a giant
Cornucopia and listens
as people talk excitedly
about pumpkins,
hay rides,
and hot chocolate,
but Autumn is bored
by this gross display
of seasonal nostalgia,
he hates watching
squirrels gnaw
on pine cones,
and knows deer are
not adorable
autumn is an introvert,
he smokes clove cigarettes,
and makes his demon-
shadow-puppet dance
in the moonlight,
happy to be alone
Autumn is an introvert,
and tries to be
ninja, using
crisp leaves
as throwing stars,
practicing day and night
Autumn hides
behind a giant
Cornucopia and listens
as people talk excitedly
about pumpkins,
hay rides,
and hot chocolate,
but Autumn is bored
by this gross display
of seasonal nostalgia,
he hates watching
squirrels gnaw
on pine cones,
and knows deer are
not adorable
autumn is an introvert,
he smokes clove cigarettes,
and makes his demon-
shadow-puppet dance
in the moonlight,
happy to be alone
Sound
by Felino A. Soriano
Impulsion
untangles
hair of winding meaning (metals’ metallic mustering aboriginal luster)
miracles birth
consecrated
scents of the ratified versions priorly
held by hoping
creatures
outside of man’s mode of tonal royalty. Listen:
seared violent wisdom
creating recreated translations
trail and lead
those willing to provoke
within skeletal profile
an
element of dust against
hope of
exacerbated bones of barest
recognition.
Afterward
by Len Kuntz
She claims she does not brood.
I have a view here,
now of her on the dock
kicking heels of water
with a sluggish motion.
The rowboat man is a toy image so far away
yet she tries to sight him,
waves.
The smell of her in the morning
always makes me want to dance,
even when I’ve had insomnia
or black dreams about
days that should have turned out different.
I crack my window open,
quiet as I can.
The lake gurgles from her kicks,
everything in our sad world
sounding like a baby.
An infant.
What should have been ours.
She claims she does not brood.
I have a view here,
now of her on the dock
kicking heels of water
with a sluggish motion.
The rowboat man is a toy image so far away
yet she tries to sight him,
waves.
The smell of her in the morning
always makes me want to dance,
even when I’ve had insomnia
or black dreams about
days that should have turned out different.
I crack my window open,
quiet as I can.
The lake gurgles from her kicks,
everything in our sad world
sounding like a baby.
An infant.
What should have been ours.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Ignition
or Algebraic Sequencing of
Double-Helix Nightmares Told in Real-Time
Minus the "Whole Truth & Nothing But the Truth"
All the While Dreaming of a Future in Astroscience
by J. R. Pearson
“To be young, to have a thirst for society,
to be hungry for a woman” Balzac in “Le Père Goriot.”
1.
You have two fingers & a wall socket
full of lightning. Insert. Repeat
until an unexplainable thirst for iron holds.
Take a short break. Get to know yourself a little.
Body image fading down corridors of television night.
Bright ghosts burning blue haze thru the sky's broken bones.
Welcome back!.. to your muted mouth glittered in hot gold.
To liquid sand from a poisoned silver skin.
You must believe this can all be summed up by the deaf
immensity of snow & your hatred of anything dead-white.
Instead, imagine a new body. A whole new you
plus no additional charge nocturnal cinema!
Dreams that come on in desert night like live-wire voodoo.
Think: braille bred in the bone
the texture of flowers that open tombs of suspect sentences.
Picture: sky tablecloths into 9 volt verbs
pressed to taste-buds.
Speak: this feels so unbelievable
without some kind of chemical dependency!
Wonder: do you have to sell skin to the sunrise?
Answer: no fine print written on the underside of eyelids.
Promise: as a fact all that's possible is a hard blink.
A tongue contorts into your arms
just the right distance apart.
Your heart is an eyelid curled with fingers.
Your heart is a snow-bright cataract.
Your heart is opening a large wet eye.
Your heart is an oven. You're ignition.
2.
Just think of it as the blind bandwidth
of tongue touching tongue.
The riddled rain in bubble casting of innocent falling light.
Thru an open iris the desert swims into mind
& unseen hands prepare volcanoes
for a distinct country's recasting.
It's serious. Thoughts full of august shade,
you forget that black boils
into moons rising beneath fingernails
into spoons over an open flame
into an addict's wish-sharpened needle
into ignitable veins clawed up arms
into this whole thing that keeps gibbering
a voice in my head and if I focus
on its mouth I can change the words
but they never never stop coming out
so I just form syllables into smoke rings.
Do you remember what mountains felt like as a child?
Do you remember what the skies were like as a child?
Wait! The moon's shade just arrived, watch starlight fall
like rhythm behind the eye for missing breath.
Don't worry, this can all be healed
with a scalpel's width & lungs spread like wings.
We're talking genetics honey.
Double-helix cash money.
Pain-pink pills & the cotton-crawl of a quasar
thru your chest. Put the universe to your mouth.
It's ignition. Decapitate your cybernetic girlfriend
with riffs from a lightningaxe. Ignition.
Maybe a sigh of the times?
That was rhetorical.
How many Richters will it take to raise the dead:
you're two adjectives away from the great American Killer.
3.
Born gutter smoke, wing welt & dance done,
nothing left on the dream hill leaves you felt washed.
Be whatever you have.
Harp-fisted angel of naked death for one.
Ephemeral scream fleshed to a golden
brown velocity for two. Open your mouth: a nation
of fireflies lift off from teeth bleemed to a smolder.
It was then I knew you would eat me alive.
It was then I knew the pleasure of drowning.
My burial plans include evaporation.
My burial plans include doppelgängers.
My burial plans include space-time.
My burial is the "blind crease in the song."
This poem has a pulse, proud as a spine.
Hold it! I remember you clear as an ice-age sold into sunlight
:whisp of c4 unfolded thru the flick of an eye
:nitro rubbed into lipstick a shade higher than plasma
:tar-dark loadstone in eyeliner: left a phrase in my head
:bones are a beach-blank canvas dreaming a still life;
tell me the sweet taste of twilight won't hold
in the second coming of your last breath.
Don't kid yourself honey. I know the temperature
that turns ice to fractured femurs.
Anger swims clear under its own weight.
Smoke flowers in your mind.
Brain full of bush flame. A dance detonates down limbs.
Seamless as a held breath that pulls fingers into fists.
Your iris blooms rivers.
It was at this time I knew you as the sharpened wind
in my chest. It was at this time we both saw this leading
to an event of perfect negative motion....
like nightmares without all the drama.
I have an irrational fear of dying kindly.
Promise: you'll shoot me into the sun.
4.
One by one a year of nights flash thru your face.
One by one I am a thousand untouched pages.
One by one syllables creep from your mouth in socks,
careful not to wake the brick of shade
with eyes like snow-drowned caves in the corner
of your mind. Volcano behind the hairline.
It's the lifting laughter that seeds the feral storm.
Glacial grift of the desert's slow advance
ripens in us like a haloed anger & heat stammers
into memory. This encrypted silence between us
is troubled with sun. For a moment, let's examine the topography
washed up on the corners of your mouth.
All opulence reduce to surf.
It cannot shake tomorrow; we are just recently a pattern!
Let's cycle thru this sequencing
& become the sole survivors of inertia's mistaken verve.
We're talking planetary erasure here.
Sol finally turns off its megaphone, we can sleep.
We've shaken the dice together.
It's all written before the advent of thought:
Pre-prophetic post-apocalypse melody-strung notes
by hoofbeat, heartboat, & heft that won't float
plus (for the first 30 callers) a sing-sung muffle
of prayer beads abstracted
from winged deified, mummified, exemplified
curious corpse that resists eyesight.
The cicadas are building in my spine
to heaven
to madness.
5.
Cure me honey & recant your favorite speech:
I, anonymous uterus of the universe
gave birth to you.
Four score & 15 minutes ago
(I am talking universal minutes!)
you were nothing without me:
a brilliant paper cut
a bloom in the blank between dreams
a vertigo curled around my cortex
a polyphonic thought passed into cloud
a S dash O dash S spelled in blind need
That not withstanding, there you were.
All choking wet & focus of light.
Arithmetic or arrhythmia? Doesn't matter.
After that I couldn't stop talking
about your unbelievable torso.
After that your exhale hit
me right between the eyes.
After that you were leftovers blown to bones.
After that you were banked
evangelical particle chances of ascension:
a placid face dropped in ripe ponds:
floods gushed thru the gate
left unlocked in your chest.
For now. Sleep. Beautiful, sleep.
Rumor acts like a mirror.
When we k ss your eyes d sappear.
When you walk that swing
my abdomen turns to mud. Again.
Your flesh, the last isthmus.
Your flesh, the last desert.
Your flesh, the last fossilized footprint.
Your flesh, the last ripe peach.
Your flesh, the final blackbird.
Copper sands crawl hand-pressed cliffs;
boulders never roll uphill
so let's trade minds & talk about me:
there he is blind lips in midnight shade.
Said he wants to feel your skull
on his fingertips. When lips meet
he whispers to his hands
that know your spine like a memory.
Says when you touch his ears fill with surf.
Wants your fingers to pound him into ivory
like an old-fashioned pianola...
& that's just about everything you'll ever need.
“To be young, to have a thirst for society,
to be hungry for a woman” Balzac in “Le Père Goriot.”
1.
You have two fingers & a wall socket
full of lightning. Insert. Repeat
until an unexplainable thirst for iron holds.
Take a short break. Get to know yourself a little.
Body image fading down corridors of television night.
Bright ghosts burning blue haze thru the sky's broken bones.
Welcome back!.. to your muted mouth glittered in hot gold.
To liquid sand from a poisoned silver skin.
You must believe this can all be summed up by the deaf
immensity of snow & your hatred of anything dead-white.
Instead, imagine a new body. A whole new you
plus no additional charge nocturnal cinema!
Dreams that come on in desert night like live-wire voodoo.
Think: braille bred in the bone
the texture of flowers that open tombs of suspect sentences.
Picture: sky tablecloths into 9 volt verbs
pressed to taste-buds.
Speak: this feels so unbelievable
without some kind of chemical dependency!
Wonder: do you have to sell skin to the sunrise?
Answer: no fine print written on the underside of eyelids.
Promise: as a fact all that's possible is a hard blink.
A tongue contorts into your arms
just the right distance apart.
Your heart is an eyelid curled with fingers.
Your heart is a snow-bright cataract.
Your heart is opening a large wet eye.
Your heart is an oven. You're ignition.
2.
Just think of it as the blind bandwidth
of tongue touching tongue.
The riddled rain in bubble casting of innocent falling light.
Thru an open iris the desert swims into mind
& unseen hands prepare volcanoes
for a distinct country's recasting.
It's serious. Thoughts full of august shade,
you forget that black boils
into moons rising beneath fingernails
into spoons over an open flame
into an addict's wish-sharpened needle
into ignitable veins clawed up arms
into this whole thing that keeps gibbering
a voice in my head and if I focus
on its mouth I can change the words
but they never never stop coming out
so I just form syllables into smoke rings.
Do you remember what mountains felt like as a child?
Do you remember what the skies were like as a child?
Wait! The moon's shade just arrived, watch starlight fall
like rhythm behind the eye for missing breath.
Don't worry, this can all be healed
with a scalpel's width & lungs spread like wings.
We're talking genetics honey.
Double-helix cash money.
Pain-pink pills & the cotton-crawl of a quasar
thru your chest. Put the universe to your mouth.
It's ignition. Decapitate your cybernetic girlfriend
with riffs from a lightningaxe. Ignition.
Maybe a sigh of the times?
That was rhetorical.
How many Richters will it take to raise the dead:
you're two adjectives away from the great American Killer.
3.
Born gutter smoke, wing welt & dance done,
nothing left on the dream hill leaves you felt washed.
Be whatever you have.
Harp-fisted angel of naked death for one.
Ephemeral scream fleshed to a golden
brown velocity for two. Open your mouth: a nation
of fireflies lift off from teeth bleemed to a smolder.
It was then I knew you would eat me alive.
It was then I knew the pleasure of drowning.
My burial plans include evaporation.
My burial plans include doppelgängers.
My burial plans include space-time.
My burial is the "blind crease in the song."
This poem has a pulse, proud as a spine.
Hold it! I remember you clear as an ice-age sold into sunlight
:whisp of c4 unfolded thru the flick of an eye
:nitro rubbed into lipstick a shade higher than plasma
:tar-dark loadstone in eyeliner: left a phrase in my head
:bones are a beach-blank canvas dreaming a still life;
tell me the sweet taste of twilight won't hold
in the second coming of your last breath.
Don't kid yourself honey. I know the temperature
that turns ice to fractured femurs.
Anger swims clear under its own weight.
Smoke flowers in your mind.
Brain full of bush flame. A dance detonates down limbs.
Seamless as a held breath that pulls fingers into fists.
Your iris blooms rivers.
It was at this time I knew you as the sharpened wind
in my chest. It was at this time we both saw this leading
to an event of perfect negative motion....
like nightmares without all the drama.
I have an irrational fear of dying kindly.
Promise: you'll shoot me into the sun.
4.
One by one a year of nights flash thru your face.
One by one I am a thousand untouched pages.
One by one syllables creep from your mouth in socks,
careful not to wake the brick of shade
with eyes like snow-drowned caves in the corner
of your mind. Volcano behind the hairline.
It's the lifting laughter that seeds the feral storm.
Glacial grift of the desert's slow advance
ripens in us like a haloed anger & heat stammers
into memory. This encrypted silence between us
is troubled with sun. For a moment, let's examine the topography
washed up on the corners of your mouth.
All opulence reduce to surf.
It cannot shake tomorrow; we are just recently a pattern!
Let's cycle thru this sequencing
& become the sole survivors of inertia's mistaken verve.
We're talking planetary erasure here.
Sol finally turns off its megaphone, we can sleep.
We've shaken the dice together.
It's all written before the advent of thought:
Pre-prophetic post-apocalypse melody-strung notes
by hoofbeat, heartboat, & heft that won't float
plus (for the first 30 callers) a sing-sung muffle
of prayer beads abstracted
from winged deified, mummified, exemplified
curious corpse that resists eyesight.
The cicadas are building in my spine
to heaven
to madness.
5.
Cure me honey & recant your favorite speech:
I, anonymous uterus of the universe
gave birth to you.
Four score & 15 minutes ago
(I am talking universal minutes!)
you were nothing without me:
a brilliant paper cut
a bloom in the blank between dreams
a vertigo curled around my cortex
a polyphonic thought passed into cloud
a S dash O dash S spelled in blind need
That not withstanding, there you were.
All choking wet & focus of light.
Arithmetic or arrhythmia? Doesn't matter.
After that I couldn't stop talking
about your unbelievable torso.
After that your exhale hit
me right between the eyes.
After that you were leftovers blown to bones.
After that you were banked
evangelical particle chances of ascension:
a placid face dropped in ripe ponds:
floods gushed thru the gate
left unlocked in your chest.
For now. Sleep. Beautiful, sleep.
Rumor acts like a mirror.
When we k ss your eyes d sappear.
When you walk that swing
my abdomen turns to mud. Again.
Your flesh, the last isthmus.
Your flesh, the last desert.
Your flesh, the last fossilized footprint.
Your flesh, the last ripe peach.
Your flesh, the final blackbird.
Copper sands crawl hand-pressed cliffs;
boulders never roll uphill
so let's trade minds & talk about me:
there he is blind lips in midnight shade.
Said he wants to feel your skull
on his fingertips. When lips meet
he whispers to his hands
that know your spine like a memory.
Says when you touch his ears fill with surf.
Wants your fingers to pound him into ivory
like an old-fashioned pianola...
& that's just about everything you'll ever need.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
H1N1
by Chris Butler
This infectious feeling
is disease,
inducing influenza
without placebo vaccines,
causing recirculation
of ash storms sneezed
from the nostrils of
crematoriums,
sticking to the Purell-
soaked skin of white
masked zombies
standing in line
with their dead
next of kin,
as the obvious solution
to purify an unsanitized
planet.
This infectious feeling
is disease,
inducing influenza
without placebo vaccines,
causing recirculation
of ash storms sneezed
from the nostrils of
crematoriums,
sticking to the Purell-
soaked skin of white
masked zombies
standing in line
with their dead
next of kin,
as the obvious solution
to purify an unsanitized
planet.
Eighteen - for Kirsten
by Lisa Zaran
She wants to leave, and now
how can I, on this early morning, before
the sun has broken through, before
the alarm clock goes off assailing,
find a nice, quiet place
to tuck my failures so I can vaguely
tell her not to go. How can I?
She kicks up all I had left to settle.
Years of dust, my past looks more
hopeless than ever. Still, I have
one hundred inner reasons for wanting
her to stay. Though many are mistaken.
Reasons, nonetheless. Thoughtless
thoughts that bounce around inside
my head at night when I should be sleeping.
She too suffers from her position, not unlike
mine but not the same either. That is why
I make a suggestion. The world really isn't
that big. It's us that are enormous. The world
is just a tiny room we fill beyond completion.
Really, darling, there isn't anywhere else to go.
She wants to leave, and now
how can I, on this early morning, before
the sun has broken through, before
the alarm clock goes off assailing,
find a nice, quiet place
to tuck my failures so I can vaguely
tell her not to go. How can I?
She kicks up all I had left to settle.
Years of dust, my past looks more
hopeless than ever. Still, I have
one hundred inner reasons for wanting
her to stay. Though many are mistaken.
Reasons, nonetheless. Thoughtless
thoughts that bounce around inside
my head at night when I should be sleeping.
She too suffers from her position, not unlike
mine but not the same either. That is why
I make a suggestion. The world really isn't
that big. It's us that are enormous. The world
is just a tiny room we fill beyond completion.
Really, darling, there isn't anywhere else to go.
THE CHARLATAN HAPPINESS
by Randall Rogers
LEARN TO LIVE WITH THIS
AND LESS.
THAT IS THE WHOLE OF THE LAW.
IN THE HERE, NOW, PRESENT, PAST
AND FUTURE (CONTINUOUS?)
WHICH JUST MAY NOT TOO EXACTLY
NOR NOT
THOUGH MAYBE
MIGHT BE
YOU
OR WHOM YOU SHOULD OR COULD HAVE BEEN OR WILL BE
THOUGH AGAIN MAYBE TOO
YOU
NOR NOT YOU
WILL FOREVER
BE?
WHATEVER.
LEARN TO LIVE WITH THIS
AND LESS.
THAT IS THE WHOLE OF THE LAW.
IN THE HERE, NOW, PRESENT, PAST
AND FUTURE (CONTINUOUS?)
WHICH JUST MAY NOT TOO EXACTLY
NOR NOT
THOUGH MAYBE
MIGHT BE
YOU
OR WHOM YOU SHOULD OR COULD HAVE BEEN OR WILL BE
THOUGH AGAIN MAYBE TOO
YOU
NOR NOT YOU
WILL FOREVER
BE?
WHATEVER.
It's Sunday
by Joan McNerney
Your laughter
comes in cascades when
I toss your curly hair
tickling those big ears
with long blades of grass.
We stop at the lake startling
frogs just before they leap
away. Listen to squirrels brush
over carpets of crunchy leaves.
You turn to hold me hold me
hurry it's late. O Michael
pink clouds ribbon heaven and
I want your arms around me forever
Your laughter
comes in cascades when
I toss your curly hair
tickling those big ears
with long blades of grass.
We stop at the lake startling
frogs just before they leap
away. Listen to squirrels brush
over carpets of crunchy leaves.
You turn to hold me hold me
hurry it's late. O Michael
pink clouds ribbon heaven and
I want your arms around me forever
Friday, September 24, 2010
Il Piacere (Pleasure)
The Camel Saloon invites its friends to view Il Piacere (Pleasure), a work of words and art by Leila A. Fortier at:
http://camelsaloongallery.blogspot.com/2010/09/il-piacere.html
http://camelsaloongallery.blogspot.com/2010/09/il-piacere.html
Marked
The Camel Saloon invites its friends to view Marked, a work of words and art by Leila A. Fortier at:
Thursday, September 23, 2010
THERE ARE
by Randall Rogers
SATAN STREETS,
TO GUIDE YOU
SATIN STREETS
MANHATTAN SHEETS
AND
ALLEYS PAVED
WITH FOOL’S GOLD
-THAT’S AMERICA,
THE USA.
JUST TO INFORM
YOU DREAMING WOULD-BE
IMMIGRANTS – OR SHIT HELP US YOU TERRORISTAS
IF YOU’SE ALL IS STILL
GOT THE NOTION
ALREADY DONE PAID THE SMUGGLERS
TO GET YOU AND YOURS
ILLEGALLY OR, HELL, LEGALLY,
INTO THIS FINE
ALWAYS BEEN
ALWAYS WILL BE
FLAWED BUT GREATEST
NATION - AND PEOPLE –
ON THIS PRISON-PLANET
HELL
Y’ALL CALL EARTH.
BECAUSE NOWADAYS,
AS THE SOCIAL PHILOSOPHER TYPES
TENURED OR NOT,
ARM-CHAIR
OR ACTUALLY READ A BOOK
AND – LORDY, LORDY - ACTUALLY FINISHED IT
LAST YEAR
IF YOU IS
THIS PERSON YOU ARE
NOT,
I REPEAT NOT
DEFINITELY OUT
NOR IN
THE CLUB.
C’MON
JUST PUT A LITTLE
VAPOR
IN YOUR GAS/ASS
AND KEEP LOOKING
AND THINGS STILL
IN THE END
AND ON
THE WAY
MOST OR ALL, REALLY,
WILL DEFINITELY
NOT BE ALRIGHT.
NOR EVEN NEAR SO.
WHY?
BECAUSE YOU LIE!
AS YOU HAVE BEEN TOLD – NO - FORCED,
HAD IT CRAMMED
THE DAMN TRUTH
OR WHAT THEN NOR NOW OR FUTURE PAST
WHAT PASSED AS IT
AND WAS
IN TURN
PASSED ON TO,
DEVELOPING THE WHOM YOU THINK IS THE FAKE
AND SPURIOUS REAL
YOU,
OF THE WHO WHAT WHERE WHEN HOW AND HOW MUCH/MANY
ANSWERS
TO DEFINE POOR LITTLE OLD YOU.
BOO-HOO-HOO.
AH SHIT AGAIN?
HELP! DINGOS, AH...NO...
-- VAPOUROUS GASES RAPED MY DAUGHTER(S)!!!
NAME?
WHY THE NAME’S MARY
THE VIRGIN MARY
JOE TOLD THE DETECTIVES.
REPEATEDLY.
UNTIL THEY BELIEVED.
SATAN STREETS,
TO GUIDE YOU
SATIN STREETS
MANHATTAN SHEETS
AND
ALLEYS PAVED
WITH FOOL’S GOLD
-THAT’S AMERICA,
THE USA.
JUST TO INFORM
YOU DREAMING WOULD-BE
IMMIGRANTS – OR SHIT HELP US YOU TERRORISTAS
IF YOU’SE ALL IS STILL
GOT THE NOTION
ALREADY DONE PAID THE SMUGGLERS
TO GET YOU AND YOURS
ILLEGALLY OR, HELL, LEGALLY,
INTO THIS FINE
ALWAYS BEEN
ALWAYS WILL BE
FLAWED BUT GREATEST
NATION - AND PEOPLE –
ON THIS PRISON-PLANET
HELL
Y’ALL CALL EARTH.
BECAUSE NOWADAYS,
AS THE SOCIAL PHILOSOPHER TYPES
TENURED OR NOT,
ARM-CHAIR
OR ACTUALLY READ A BOOK
AND – LORDY, LORDY - ACTUALLY FINISHED IT
LAST YEAR
IF YOU IS
THIS PERSON YOU ARE
NOT,
I REPEAT NOT
DEFINITELY OUT
NOR IN
THE CLUB.
C’MON
JUST PUT A LITTLE
VAPOR
IN YOUR GAS/ASS
AND KEEP LOOKING
AND THINGS STILL
IN THE END
AND ON
THE WAY
MOST OR ALL, REALLY,
WILL DEFINITELY
NOT BE ALRIGHT.
NOR EVEN NEAR SO.
WHY?
BECAUSE YOU LIE!
AS YOU HAVE BEEN TOLD – NO - FORCED,
HAD IT CRAMMED
THE DAMN TRUTH
OR WHAT THEN NOR NOW OR FUTURE PAST
WHAT PASSED AS IT
AND WAS
IN TURN
PASSED ON TO,
DEVELOPING THE WHOM YOU THINK IS THE FAKE
AND SPURIOUS REAL
YOU,
OF THE WHO WHAT WHERE WHEN HOW AND HOW MUCH/MANY
ANSWERS
TO DEFINE POOR LITTLE OLD YOU.
BOO-HOO-HOO.
AH SHIT AGAIN?
HELP! DINGOS, AH...NO...
-- VAPOUROUS GASES RAPED MY DAUGHTER(S)!!!
NAME?
WHY THE NAME’S MARY
THE VIRGIN MARY
JOE TOLD THE DETECTIVES.
REPEATEDLY.
UNTIL THEY BELIEVED.
Just Before They Closed the Capital Beltway
by Ben Rasnic
Through a glass darkly
the flaming wings of a Harley
motoring oval pavement,
precariously weaving between lanes;
sleeveless shirt of an Angel
billowing in the wind
like a parachute, yet even that
will not cushion the descent
when the unforgiving
fabric of asphalt
unfurls to greet
the inevitable fall.
Through a glass darkly
the flaming wings of a Harley
motoring oval pavement,
precariously weaving between lanes;
sleeveless shirt of an Angel
billowing in the wind
like a parachute, yet even that
will not cushion the descent
when the unforgiving
fabric of asphalt
unfurls to greet
the inevitable fall.
Zasu Pitts
by Robert Vaughan
A Brooklyn girl
I never really
screwed had a
damaged Dad who
loved Zasu Pitts. Well,
I stink, and it’s
my pits. They
pool when nervous
make me wonder
what I didn’t
do to her
so I blow the
kazoo while I’m
on the lam.
A Brooklyn girl
I never really
screwed had a
damaged Dad who
loved Zasu Pitts. Well,
I stink, and it’s
my pits. They
pool when nervous
make me wonder
what I didn’t
do to her
so I blow the
kazoo while I’m
on the lam.
Front Porch
by Len Kuntz
She has a breeze in her eyes
shifting like sheer fog.
We lay on the porch,
our chins collected.
We take turns staring.
If not for her I would be somewhere else,
my words weaker,
too pliant.
Her laughter lifts light to the sooty clouds.
They don’t part.
Instead they send down winged angels,
one taking residence on her shoulder,
looking so pleased to be there,
as am I,
all of us in desperate need of each other’s sustenance.
She has a breeze in her eyes
shifting like sheer fog.
We lay on the porch,
our chins collected.
We take turns staring.
If not for her I would be somewhere else,
my words weaker,
too pliant.
Her laughter lifts light to the sooty clouds.
They don’t part.
Instead they send down winged angels,
one taking residence on her shoulder,
looking so pleased to be there,
as am I,
all of us in desperate need of each other’s sustenance.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
A Conversation With A Boyfriend
by Danny Johnson
Surprised, Laci answered the knock at her door. She stood for a moment, not believing her eyes.
“Why are you here? She moved to shut the door, resisting the urge to spit in his face.
Kevin blocked the door jam, and smiled as if the world owed him.
“Came to see you... Thought maybe you'd wanna talk.”
“Why would you think that?” she asked, reluctantly noting the charm in his smile.
“Because we haven’t talked in a long time.”
“So? Six months of not hearing a word from you and now you want to talk? Did you suddenly grow balls or something?”
“Don’t be such a bitch.”
“Fuck you. You show up at my door after all this time, no phone calls, nothing. Now you want to have a conversation?” Laci’s fingers tightened on the doorknob.
“I missed you.” He stepped forward, his dark eyes challenging her.
“I’m so glad to hear it. I haven’t missed you one damn bit.” Things had been wonderful since he’d left… two dates, no sex, and trying to drown his image with Grey Goose. Laci tried to stare him down.
“Sure you have.” Kevin reached out to take her arm.
“Get the hell out of here.” Two years together, and he just walks out? Nah, there’s no sympathy here. She pulled her arm back.
“Can’t do it.” He took another step.
“Why not, baby?” He was closer. Close enough for the red in her cheeks to betray the scowl on her face. He reached out to touch her again. Gently this time.
“I know you’ve missed me.”
“Why aren’t you with that slut you dumped me for?” She didn’t move away.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
“She probably kicked you out... Found out what a fucking asshole you are.”
“However you wanna look at sweetheart...”
"Fuck you."
“Speaking of which, why don't get past all this drama and get in bed.”
“You really think I’m going to have sex with you?”
“Yes.”
Surprised, Laci answered the knock at her door. She stood for a moment, not believing her eyes.
“Why are you here? She moved to shut the door, resisting the urge to spit in his face.
Kevin blocked the door jam, and smiled as if the world owed him.
“Came to see you... Thought maybe you'd wanna talk.”
“Why would you think that?” she asked, reluctantly noting the charm in his smile.
“Because we haven’t talked in a long time.”
“So? Six months of not hearing a word from you and now you want to talk? Did you suddenly grow balls or something?”
“Don’t be such a bitch.”
“Fuck you. You show up at my door after all this time, no phone calls, nothing. Now you want to have a conversation?” Laci’s fingers tightened on the doorknob.
“I missed you.” He stepped forward, his dark eyes challenging her.
“I’m so glad to hear it. I haven’t missed you one damn bit.” Things had been wonderful since he’d left… two dates, no sex, and trying to drown his image with Grey Goose. Laci tried to stare him down.
“Sure you have.” Kevin reached out to take her arm.
“Get the hell out of here.” Two years together, and he just walks out? Nah, there’s no sympathy here. She pulled her arm back.
“Can’t do it.” He took another step.
“Why not, baby?” He was closer. Close enough for the red in her cheeks to betray the scowl on her face. He reached out to touch her again. Gently this time.
“I know you’ve missed me.”
“Why aren’t you with that slut you dumped me for?” She didn’t move away.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
“She probably kicked you out... Found out what a fucking asshole you are.”
“However you wanna look at sweetheart...”
"Fuck you."
“Speaking of which, why don't get past all this drama and get in bed.”
“You really think I’m going to have sex with you?”
“Yes.”
Masks
by Mike Berger
Life is a charade;
we hide behind masks.
Pasted on smiles
and nervous laughs.
Masks to charm;
masks to seduce;
masks to sooth and
masks to hide pain.
Cruel masks of anger;
ugly masks of hate.
Cunning masks hiding deceit.
Masks of rape.
Gentle masks of compassion;
masks of work and sweat.
Masks of piety.
Masks of goodwill to men.
Subtle dangers lie in masks.
They hide the true self.
The danger comes when
we take the masks for real.
Life is a charade;
we hide behind masks.
Pasted on smiles
and nervous laughs.
Masks to charm;
masks to seduce;
masks to sooth and
masks to hide pain.
Cruel masks of anger;
ugly masks of hate.
Cunning masks hiding deceit.
Masks of rape.
Gentle masks of compassion;
masks of work and sweat.
Masks of piety.
Masks of goodwill to men.
Subtle dangers lie in masks.
They hide the true self.
The danger comes when
we take the masks for real.
Panther
by Cath Barton
Cat prowls in the savanna.
Her blue eyes glint and flash in the sun,
Her black coat gleams, as sleekly she slinks
After her prey that darts and jumps.
Who is the smarter?
Who will win?
Cat shakes the morning dew from her velvet paws.
Carefully she places each one between jewelled grass stalks.
Silence. A swoosh of air.
A slow trickle of sticky, sickly red warmth.
The prey had no chance.
Not a chance.
Not a chance.
In midday heat Cat lies lean and long...
Replete, asleep, her chest rising and falling,
As vultures flap down and tear fiercely
At suppurating remains of Cat’s repast.
Savanna life is hard,
bloody
and cruel.
Savanna life is sweet for the panther,
Queen of the rippling expanse of grassland.
Cat prowls in the savanna.
Her blue eyes glint and flash in the sun,
Her black coat gleams, as sleekly she slinks
After her prey that darts and jumps.
Who is the smarter?
Who will win?
Cat shakes the morning dew from her velvet paws.
Carefully she places each one between jewelled grass stalks.
Silence. A swoosh of air.
A slow trickle of sticky, sickly red warmth.
The prey had no chance.
Not a chance.
Not a chance.
In midday heat Cat lies lean and long...
Replete, asleep, her chest rising and falling,
As vultures flap down and tear fiercely
At suppurating remains of Cat’s repast.
Savanna life is hard,
bloody
and cruel.
Savanna life is sweet for the panther,
Queen of the rippling expanse of grassland.
Whites of Their Eyes
by Chris Butler
Deer fear freezes us
before the whistling shrapnel
pierce of snapping twigs.
Deer fear freezes us
before the whistling shrapnel
pierce of snapping twigs.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
A Sharing Life
by Lisa Zaran
Sometimes when I love you,
the energy it takes,
the thoughts which consume me,
I feel destroyed.
My days and nights,
both of which mean very little,
are all encompassed by you.
By the very idea
of your existence.
I am such a fool.
I know this. It's hardly
a judgment.
I actually feel destroyed.
I've never been
the independent type.
I used to think
I liked to be alone.
I think I like to be left alone.
As long as there is someone
waiting just outside the door.
Sometimes when I love you,
the energy it takes,
the thoughts which consume me,
I feel destroyed.
My days and nights,
both of which mean very little,
are all encompassed by you.
By the very idea
of your existence.
I am such a fool.
I know this. It's hardly
a judgment.
I actually feel destroyed.
I've never been
the independent type.
I used to think
I liked to be alone.
I think I like to be left alone.
As long as there is someone
waiting just outside the door.
WINDOW TREATMENTS
by Ben Rasnic
Second-hand furniture, the finest
draped in clear vinyl
crowds the parlor
cloaked in cobwebs.
Dried blood trails commemorate
carpet like roadside wreathes.
Mildew and mothballs mask dead
air, thick with secrets.
Hallways hold
no echo
when one swallows speech
at an early age.
Venetian blinds shroud
windows painted shut,
double set of curtains
to keep out the light.
Second-hand furniture, the finest
draped in clear vinyl
crowds the parlor
cloaked in cobwebs.
Dried blood trails commemorate
carpet like roadside wreathes.
Mildew and mothballs mask dead
air, thick with secrets.
Hallways hold
no echo
when one swallows speech
at an early age.
Venetian blinds shroud
windows painted shut,
double set of curtains
to keep out the light.
Buck Owens Blues
by Catfish McDaris
Outside of Fresno
I noticed a woman
with a flat tire
I asked her if
she needed help
but she replied no
I went ahead
& changed it
anyway
Following her back
to her place we
passed near a grove
of ripe oranges
Later I asked her
about them & she
mumbled something
About Henry Miller
& Big Sur, but I
couldn't exactly
comprehend what
she said
We finally got around
to introducing ourselves
& I found out her
name was Bianca
She put on "Arms
Full of Empty" &
got into bed
I went to clean my
hands & fucked up
her fluffy white towels.
Outside of Fresno
I noticed a woman
with a flat tire
I asked her if
she needed help
but she replied no
I went ahead
& changed it
anyway
Following her back
to her place we
passed near a grove
of ripe oranges
Later I asked her
about them & she
mumbled something
About Henry Miller
& Big Sur, but I
couldn't exactly
comprehend what
she said
We finally got around
to introducing ourselves
& I found out her
name was Bianca
She put on "Arms
Full of Empty" &
got into bed
I went to clean my
hands & fucked up
her fluffy white towels.
County exhibition
by Tyler Bigney
It took a lot of convincing on your part,
but eventually, I gave in, and accompanied you
to the county exhibition, where we walked around
and saw cows, pigs, goats, horses and chickens
that the farmer dyed hot pink.
Stopped at the beer gardens and shared
a pint of Heineken and left to go find out
where the smell of sausages was coming from.
When the sun went down and darkness
enveloped the city, people scurried to their cars
to kiss and caress and to fuck. We walked to the tent
where the old ladies gambled their pension on Bingo.
On the way, I spotted a three legged dog.
I stopped to pick up a stick. I held it in front of me
and tossed it as far as I could.
“Go fetch,” I said, pointing in direction of the stick.
We watched him disappear into the night.
We waited ten minutes, and when he didn’t return
we went to the car.
It took a lot of convincing on your part,
but eventually, I gave in, and accompanied you
to the county exhibition, where we walked around
and saw cows, pigs, goats, horses and chickens
that the farmer dyed hot pink.
Stopped at the beer gardens and shared
a pint of Heineken and left to go find out
where the smell of sausages was coming from.
When the sun went down and darkness
enveloped the city, people scurried to their cars
to kiss and caress and to fuck. We walked to the tent
where the old ladies gambled their pension on Bingo.
On the way, I spotted a three legged dog.
I stopped to pick up a stick. I held it in front of me
and tossed it as far as I could.
“Go fetch,” I said, pointing in direction of the stick.
We watched him disappear into the night.
We waited ten minutes, and when he didn’t return
we went to the car.
A Cheer for the Dwarf Clown
by Jay Coral
thank you dwarf clown
if i were a child again
i will invite you on my birthday party
and you will be playing man-child with us
you and your man's body and short limbs
will be dolls and toy soldiers to our delight
you will be a walking sphinx to gape-struck mothers
haha imagine the circus of confusion in their faces
your face will be covered by a mascara
but us children will not see through your bulging eyes
the ugliness you hide nor your soul's lacerations
after i blow the candle and make a wish
i will tell you you are a clean shapen creature
then i will smash the cake in your face
you will growl and show us your pointy incisors
but it will be a happy growl.
thank you dwarf clown
if i were a child again
i will invite you on my birthday party
and you will be playing man-child with us
you and your man's body and short limbs
will be dolls and toy soldiers to our delight
you will be a walking sphinx to gape-struck mothers
haha imagine the circus of confusion in their faces
your face will be covered by a mascara
but us children will not see through your bulging eyes
the ugliness you hide nor your soul's lacerations
after i blow the candle and make a wish
i will tell you you are a clean shapen creature
then i will smash the cake in your face
you will growl and show us your pointy incisors
but it will be a happy growl.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Brick Room
by Len Kuntz
She says, “But I’m a bleeder.”
Her eyes are alarm clocks blinking.
Her knees bounce.
These places are so white and wide open.
The woman coming up to us
is not a nurse but her voice is soft.
She says they’re ready for my daughter now.
Walking down the white-walled hall I hear her
tell Amy not to worry, that there’s still time, that she made the right choice.
Amy lifts her rag doll head at that,
a thin smile parting open
turns to me and says over her shoulder,
“See Dad, I'm not a murderer after all.”
She says, “But I’m a bleeder.”
Her eyes are alarm clocks blinking.
Her knees bounce.
These places are so white and wide open.
The woman coming up to us
is not a nurse but her voice is soft.
She says they’re ready for my daughter now.
Walking down the white-walled hall I hear her
tell Amy not to worry, that there’s still time, that she made the right choice.
Amy lifts her rag doll head at that,
a thin smile parting open
turns to me and says over her shoulder,
“See Dad, I'm not a murderer after all.”
Untitled
by Carmen Taggart
I told you never
I told you not forever
I told you always
~~~~~~~
Crisp autumn air filled our lungs
Leaves crunched under foot
Pines sang their ghostly tales
Milky way danced in your eyes
Day’s dramas unwound into darkness
Random thoughts spilled forth
Fears were banished to Never-land
Our souls came home to one another
~~~~~~~
I told you never
I told you not forever
I told you always
I told you never
I told you not forever
I told you always
~~~~~~~
Crisp autumn air filled our lungs
Leaves crunched under foot
Pines sang their ghostly tales
Milky way danced in your eyes
Day’s dramas unwound into darkness
Random thoughts spilled forth
Fears were banished to Never-land
Our souls came home to one another
~~~~~~~
I told you never
I told you not forever
I told you always
SPECIAL K
by Randall Rogers
SPECIAL K KREATES
BLOATED
DIMENSION DRIFTS
AND PERSONALLY INFLICTED BLOOD BATH-LIKE
PERSONAL WOUNDS
WHEN YOU DO THAT FIRST - OR THOSE AFTER
THAT FIRST -
ONE (OR MANY,MANYMORE) TOO BIG A SHOT.
AND OFF YOU
-OR WHAT WAS YOU-
GOES.
CAREFUL, KIDS, AND ADULT OLD WOMEN AND MEN
TRANSVESTITE AND TRANSSEXUAL
PSYCHONAUT CURIOUS-IN-YOUR-CHAIR-AT-HOME
OR WITH GOOD FOLKS, SLOW NOW YOU RISK-TAKER JOURNEYING, LEARNING, GROWING,
OLD HIPPIE OR ‘’THE RECEPTORS ARE THERE!!!’’
MIGHT AS WELL
TYPE
THINKERS & ACTORS
WIDE WORLD OVER
AND BEYOND.
TO ONE AND ALL
ALIKE,
I SAY THIS;
BE CAREFUL,
THAT’S SOME POWERFUL SHIT.
SPECIAL K KREATES
BLOATED
DIMENSION DRIFTS
AND PERSONALLY INFLICTED BLOOD BATH-LIKE
PERSONAL WOUNDS
WHEN YOU DO THAT FIRST - OR THOSE AFTER
THAT FIRST -
ONE (OR MANY,MANYMORE) TOO BIG A SHOT.
AND OFF YOU
-OR WHAT WAS YOU-
GOES.
CAREFUL, KIDS, AND ADULT OLD WOMEN AND MEN
TRANSVESTITE AND TRANSSEXUAL
PSYCHONAUT CURIOUS-IN-YOUR-CHAIR-AT-HOME
OR WITH GOOD FOLKS, SLOW NOW YOU RISK-TAKER JOURNEYING, LEARNING, GROWING,
OLD HIPPIE OR ‘’THE RECEPTORS ARE THERE!!!’’
MIGHT AS WELL
TYPE
THINKERS & ACTORS
WIDE WORLD OVER
AND BEYOND.
TO ONE AND ALL
ALIKE,
I SAY THIS;
BE CAREFUL,
THAT’S SOME POWERFUL SHIT.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
My Blood
by Jenny Picciotto
My blood runs
thick and red
between my legs.
Wolf,
teeth bared,
eyes flashing.
Red fear,
Red anger
Red Danger.
I place my red
heart,
beating,
bare,
into your hands.
My heart, exposed,
bloody,
vulnerable.
My blood flows,
recirculating in my
body.
No Where
for the anger
to go.
An image.
A woman:
eyes glazed
in the
stupid
seductive
pose of the harlot.
Why do you love
me
this way. Not myself.
The image of self effacement.
What is the harm
of acting out
your fantasy?
Your precious fantasy.
This
is the way
you
imagine
me...
Stripped of self awareness
out of touch with my own
strength
feeling.
A puppet of your desire.
My heart cries out
against the invisible
chains
you place around me.
My sexuality
The mindlessness of a
possessed
girl
without self determination.
Her moods
posture
dictated by the man.
Why is this an attractive image to you?
Do you so enjoy me
stripped
of my strength,
stripped
of my sense of self.
Sex with my body
only
is not
making love.
For there is no
recognition
of the individual
to love.
Fucking my body
is an unconscious act
of
animal passion. But
I
am not there
with you.
My blood flows red,
into my eyes,
down my thighs.
Crucified,
this body,
by the rhythms of nature.
Sacrificed,
this body,
for the development of my children.
Used,
this body,
for your pleasure.
Alone.
You leave me to bleed-
the anger of my heart
silent
in the ecstacy
of your orgasm.
My blood runs
thick and red
between my legs.
Wolf,
teeth bared,
eyes flashing.
Red fear,
Red anger
Red Danger.
I place my red
heart,
beating,
bare,
into your hands.
My heart, exposed,
bloody,
vulnerable.
My blood flows,
recirculating in my
body.
No Where
for the anger
to go.
An image.
A woman:
eyes glazed
in the
stupid
seductive
pose of the harlot.
Why do you love
me
this way. Not myself.
The image of self effacement.
What is the harm
of acting out
your fantasy?
Your precious fantasy.
This
is the way
you
imagine
me...
Stripped of self awareness
out of touch with my own
strength
feeling.
A puppet of your desire.
My heart cries out
against the invisible
chains
you place around me.
My sexuality
The mindlessness of a
possessed
girl
without self determination.
Her moods
posture
dictated by the man.
Why is this an attractive image to you?
Do you so enjoy me
stripped
of my strength,
stripped
of my sense of self.
Sex with my body
only
is not
making love.
For there is no
recognition
of the individual
to love.
Fucking my body
is an unconscious act
of
animal passion. But
I
am not there
with you.
My blood flows red,
into my eyes,
down my thighs.
Crucified,
this body,
by the rhythms of nature.
Sacrificed,
this body,
for the development of my children.
Used,
this body,
for your pleasure.
Alone.
You leave me to bleed-
the anger of my heart
silent
in the ecstacy
of your orgasm.
Girl of Interest
by Jay Coral
i hate her for being in her shoes
moreso i hate myself for being on the same shoes
after approaching the girl only to find out
we are both a mismatch in group chemistry
she reminds me of my own sparkle
a figure shining aloof in the keyhole
a perspective bridged without camera obscura
it is a glorious peepshow
i can see my sweet target
the vindication of my sweet revenge
pumping my wounded pride
i am mad
and scared to meet my body-double
i want to clobber myself and her
and be this unspeakable monster
but then i would be unrelateable - again
no one to share promises of looming clouds
and doses of healthy and hinging laughs
i leave her unscathed
my sympathy unavowed
my hubris in my stomach
burning.
i hate her for being in her shoes
moreso i hate myself for being on the same shoes
after approaching the girl only to find out
we are both a mismatch in group chemistry
she reminds me of my own sparkle
a figure shining aloof in the keyhole
a perspective bridged without camera obscura
it is a glorious peepshow
i can see my sweet target
the vindication of my sweet revenge
pumping my wounded pride
i am mad
and scared to meet my body-double
i want to clobber myself and her
and be this unspeakable monster
but then i would be unrelateable - again
no one to share promises of looming clouds
and doses of healthy and hinging laughs
i leave her unscathed
my sympathy unavowed
my hubris in my stomach
burning.
I was five
by Tyler Bigney
My mother taught me about death
when I was five. I was hiding in the long grass
watching her, as she hoed the garden and picked out
the rocks that strewed the ground.
I stood studying a long green snake
that lay at my feet. It had
bright yellow eyes and
a shiny red tongue that lashed furiously
when I ran my finger along its back.
I picked it up, and holding it in my hands,
I walked over to my mother.
“Look,” I said, dropping the snake
at her feet. “I found it in the grass over there.”
She screamed and she raised the hoe
high above her head, bringing it down
on the snake, chopping him in half.
I cried out, picking up the pieces and running
over to the long grass. I threw away the tail
and shoved the head in my pocket.
I placed it inside the top drawer of my dresser,
next to the hockey cards and my sister’s crayons,
staring at it, unable to believe that my mother
could do such a thing.
Twenty two years later, I can still feel
the long grass against my bare legs
and the sun as it blistered the back of my neck.
And the chill that traversed
down the length of my spine that day
remains.
My mother taught me about death
when I was five. I was hiding in the long grass
watching her, as she hoed the garden and picked out
the rocks that strewed the ground.
I stood studying a long green snake
that lay at my feet. It had
bright yellow eyes and
a shiny red tongue that lashed furiously
when I ran my finger along its back.
I picked it up, and holding it in my hands,
I walked over to my mother.
“Look,” I said, dropping the snake
at her feet. “I found it in the grass over there.”
She screamed and she raised the hoe
high above her head, bringing it down
on the snake, chopping him in half.
I cried out, picking up the pieces and running
over to the long grass. I threw away the tail
and shoved the head in my pocket.
I placed it inside the top drawer of my dresser,
next to the hockey cards and my sister’s crayons,
staring at it, unable to believe that my mother
could do such a thing.
Twenty two years later, I can still feel
the long grass against my bare legs
and the sun as it blistered the back of my neck.
And the chill that traversed
down the length of my spine that day
remains.
Devil In A Blue Dress
by Catfish McDaris
I was tight with the blacks
they knew color didn't
mean jack shit to me
We were all in the same
throes of anguish &
intimidation by a seriously
blinded form of management
Laughter was our solution
to the incredible stupidity
we were forced to endure
for green paper of existence
Sitting with Leroy Hubcaps
in the cafeteria, he bit into
a sausage, grease squirted
All over Big Molly Bankhead
her blue dress had 2 big
2 bit sized buttons, her
breasts swelled in indignation
The buttons took off like
unfriendly Scud missiles
Hubcaps got one in the eye
The other hit me in the back
of the throat between bites
of turkey sandwich
That devil's left titty escaped
like a punctured zeppelin, we
fell out in hysterics, rolling
away from her attacking kicks.
I was tight with the blacks
they knew color didn't
mean jack shit to me
We were all in the same
throes of anguish &
intimidation by a seriously
blinded form of management
Laughter was our solution
to the incredible stupidity
we were forced to endure
for green paper of existence
Sitting with Leroy Hubcaps
in the cafeteria, he bit into
a sausage, grease squirted
All over Big Molly Bankhead
her blue dress had 2 big
2 bit sized buttons, her
breasts swelled in indignation
The buttons took off like
unfriendly Scud missiles
Hubcaps got one in the eye
The other hit me in the back
of the throat between bites
of turkey sandwich
That devil's left titty escaped
like a punctured zeppelin, we
fell out in hysterics, rolling
away from her attacking kicks.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Svetlana
by Tyler Bigney
I had just laid my head down
when the phone rang.
It rang three times
before I picked it up.
I had a feeling
it was my daughter, and between
silently cursing the time difference
between Nova Scotia
and Moscow,
and clearing the sleep from my throat,
I said hello.
She was calling to ask
when she would see me again.
If she would see me again.
I could hear her mother in the background.
"Tell him that your voice
will haunt his dreams forever."
I drew a deep breath and waited for it.
I thought about riding horses
with my father
through the fields
behind my grandmother's house,
and stopping by the river
where he taught me
how to drink the water
by cupping my hands together.
Memories I would never have
with my daughter.
"Dad," she said. "When will I see you?"
"Soon," I answered. "You'll see me soon."
And like that,
she was gone and I was left
with dial tone
and a night full of sleep
to dream
that my daughter was in my arms
and that her mother and I
were in love.
I had just laid my head down
when the phone rang.
It rang three times
before I picked it up.
I had a feeling
it was my daughter, and between
silently cursing the time difference
between Nova Scotia
and Moscow,
and clearing the sleep from my throat,
I said hello.
She was calling to ask
when she would see me again.
If she would see me again.
I could hear her mother in the background.
"Tell him that your voice
will haunt his dreams forever."
I drew a deep breath and waited for it.
I thought about riding horses
with my father
through the fields
behind my grandmother's house,
and stopping by the river
where he taught me
how to drink the water
by cupping my hands together.
Memories I would never have
with my daughter.
"Dad," she said. "When will I see you?"
"Soon," I answered. "You'll see me soon."
And like that,
she was gone and I was left
with dial tone
and a night full of sleep
to dream
that my daughter was in my arms
and that her mother and I
were in love.
AFTER THE WILL IS READ, I AM GIVEN CUSTODY OF THE OLD MOP
by Michael H. Brownstein
I want to get regenerated into whoever I am supposed to be.
A clam perhaps.
A sea lion.
The beginning curl of a great wave stretching itself across the ocean.
Maybe just a unicorn.
These are the things I have learned:
Reflective noise,
Protein maladjustment,
Everything double sided except for the palm of my hand.
Outside the grey moon almost blue has a Spanish hue,
Olive and bran,
Strong willed and intent,
Muscle bound weather permitting.
If by some chance I fall on my head and die,
What happens to everything I never did before?
I want to get regenerated into whoever I am supposed to be.
A clam perhaps.
A sea lion.
The beginning curl of a great wave stretching itself across the ocean.
Maybe just a unicorn.
These are the things I have learned:
Reflective noise,
Protein maladjustment,
Everything double sided except for the palm of my hand.
Outside the grey moon almost blue has a Spanish hue,
Olive and bran,
Strong willed and intent,
Muscle bound weather permitting.
If by some chance I fall on my head and die,
What happens to everything I never did before?
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