by Jerrold Yam
Tell them the orange ocean. Make fear
a nude woman. Two characters are more
likely competitors than companions. Or
the cautionary tale with shadows?
Nothing is uglier than an angle struggling
under the weight of mismatched colours.
Lanterns are exaggerated faces. Be quick
to judge but slow in remonstrance. See
the fruit bowl stepping into a trompe l’oeil?
Follow its lead. Stub your pencil out.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Cash
by Tom Hatch
We want to die but stay alive to weep
But then the angels sing Johnny taught
Them something walking in his shoes
A million miles away but I'm still alive
I'll be back again, I walk the line
The man in black I keep a close watch
On this heart of mine rivers of tears
So let me die on a night of thunder
storms kicking legs towards cry, cry, cry
The beer I had for breakfast didn't hurt
So I had another for dessert
A sidewalk sunday morning walk a,carpenter and a lady
Giving you his only ness of holy Cash
osculation of the dragon
by Linda M. Crate
flames of the dragon
blow across your face
a golden echo that
reminds you of better
days, and of all the
sunsets that are yet to
come; borrow his wings,
and soar through azure
skies dancing their balm
against your youthful soul.
Forgetting to Breathe
by Chris Butler
BREATHE!
AIR!
Gasping inhales,
exasperated exhales.
PANIC!
Quaking chest,
muscular tremors.
ATTACK!
Fade to black.
AIR!
Gasping inhales,
exasperated exhales.
PANIC!
Quaking chest,
muscular tremors.
ATTACK!
Fade to black.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Reaping Imaginary Riches
by A.J. Huffman
Even in the darkest room
more than your shadow
finds me. Cloaked in nothing
more than simple
subservient sin. I am
shaded and layered
to your hands' liking.
Together they/we are
a puzzle game dream. In this
midnight's holding:
Turn one: our every piece is a step.
Flop two: our every step is a gamble.
Fold three: our every gamble is a touch.
Set point match: Connection is complete
ly irrelevant as we raise
everything but our minds. Temperament
al misogyny is our latest god.
We worship on our knees.
Our needs soaking the floor
of this make-shift temple
that no longer resembles
any form[al/of] bed.
Analysis of Diverse Perversities
(after the painting by Paul Klee)
by Neil Ellman
They are perverse, not us,
we the straight and narrow
in the marrow of our bones
they corrupted mulish miscreants
contrary to the body politic
they play at politics and war
feign ecstasy and empathy
and ride on irregular tracks
they the heretical renegades
we the righteous
and the pure.
by Neil Ellman
They are perverse, not us,
we the straight and narrow
in the marrow of our bones
they corrupted mulish miscreants
contrary to the body politic
they play at politics and war
feign ecstasy and empathy
and ride on irregular tracks
they the heretical renegades
we the righteous
and the pure.
cheap thrill
by Linda M. Crate
you're sex in a bottle just waiting for
release; already you've ravaged me with
your eyes - as if you know all the secrets
and contours of my body effortlessly as if
that were something you could calculate in
your sleep, and i wonder if you see past your
lust enough to love me the way i've fallen
head over heels for you; or if i'm just another
day and another dollar spent for your cheap
thrills, an entertainment you couldn't afford.
Cavity
by Chris Butler
She’s so sweet
her kiss gives me
cavities,
but I don’t need
Novocain to
kill the pain.
I want to feel
everything.
She’s so sweet
her kiss gives me
cavities,
but I don’t need
Novocain to
kill the pain.
I want to feel
everything.
SUMP
by Paul Tristram
What was I thinking?
Up to 20 tall cans a day,
just pouring them down my throat.
Trying to drown something
inside of me or wash it away.
The pain and the aching,
the longing for help and rescue
from something without a name
chewing upon your heart
like a beast with a bone.
The more I drank the tighter it clung,
the weaker I got the stronger it got
and the more ferocious the torture
that came along with it.
You cannot drown the monster
but you can quell it.
It takes a different sort of strength
and determination.
A forging of character
out of the ruins that you have made.
You can build again
bigger and brighter and stronger
than before.
Faith is a weapon
(And I’m not talking about religion!)
far stronger than brute force,
it lasts a Hell of a lot longer, aswell.
What was I thinking?
Up to 20 tall cans a day,
just pouring them down my throat.
Trying to drown something
inside of me or wash it away.
The pain and the aching,
the longing for help and rescue
from something without a name
chewing upon your heart
like a beast with a bone.
The more I drank the tighter it clung,
the weaker I got the stronger it got
and the more ferocious the torture
that came along with it.
You cannot drown the monster
but you can quell it.
It takes a different sort of strength
and determination.
A forging of character
out of the ruins that you have made.
You can build again
bigger and brighter and stronger
than before.
Faith is a weapon
(And I’m not talking about religion!)
far stronger than brute force,
it lasts a Hell of a lot longer, aswell.
BURN BABY BURN
by Marc Carver
I looked out the window
the sun was out
the next minute i looked
a howl of snow was going through the air
I took another good look
just to make sure
they weren't cleaning out the furnaces
down at the crematorium
but no
it was snow alright
but still the sun shone
i looked again at the schizo weather
and sure enough the snow had stopped
and the sun shone again.
what a country
and don't even get me started on the people
I looked out the window
the sun was out
the next minute i looked
a howl of snow was going through the air
I took another good look
just to make sure
they weren't cleaning out the furnaces
down at the crematorium
but no
it was snow alright
but still the sun shone
i looked again at the schizo weather
and sure enough the snow had stopped
and the sun shone again.
what a country
and don't even get me started on the people
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Triptych
Everything you can imagine is real.
--Picasso
by Jerrold Yam
I. Bird
They gather in the park but
are gone by morning, grass
abandoned to its patchwork
of leaves. No aging couples
to entertain. If I wish hard
enough I can imagine roofs
hiding their earnest bodies,
the way winter hides its own
undoing. Come back, when
sun weighs down the earth,
come and see what remains
of the square, the chestnut
and bare oak, the moving on.
II. Tree
What does it feel like to feel
nothing, stranded between a
seed and its grander purpose,
the constant race for warmth
and devotion? Where I come
from, a hollow in the world's
bleak mansion, disappearing
is imperfect surrender. Here
there is existence, soil, rain.
Your snow-dusted branches
tell me happiness is greater
than the sum of fears. Shrug
off your bark and confront
the wind. Then feed me the
same insolent words again.
III. Wind
I cannot accept who you are,
stranger, or speak a language
of invisible omens. I do not
pretend to matter. Knowing
you is knowing the planet’s
exhalations, how one talks
winter into spring. At least
be indifferent to my longing
and intolerant walks home,
my feet bound, fastened to
the ground. Promise to care,
bless, love me the same as
what you give everyone else.
--Picasso
by Jerrold Yam
I. Bird
They gather in the park but
are gone by morning, grass
abandoned to its patchwork
of leaves. No aging couples
to entertain. If I wish hard
enough I can imagine roofs
hiding their earnest bodies,
the way winter hides its own
undoing. Come back, when
sun weighs down the earth,
come and see what remains
of the square, the chestnut
and bare oak, the moving on.
II. Tree
What does it feel like to feel
nothing, stranded between a
seed and its grander purpose,
the constant race for warmth
and devotion? Where I come
from, a hollow in the world's
bleak mansion, disappearing
is imperfect surrender. Here
there is existence, soil, rain.
Your snow-dusted branches
tell me happiness is greater
than the sum of fears. Shrug
off your bark and confront
the wind. Then feed me the
same insolent words again.
III. Wind
I cannot accept who you are,
stranger, or speak a language
of invisible omens. I do not
pretend to matter. Knowing
you is knowing the planet’s
exhalations, how one talks
winter into spring. At least
be indifferent to my longing
and intolerant walks home,
my feet bound, fastened to
the ground. Promise to care,
bless, love me the same as
what you give everyone else.
The Middle of the Night
by Tom Hatch
After the years have past
Love is the way of their being
Appearing into the darkness of night
His faint silhouette leads to a deception
Clarified only by reason of what she knows
Of him his features harkened highlighted in her mind
Seen not by sight in dark and shady age
Black and frozen letting her mind exposing
Him much younger than he is, is a cowardly
Thought in the dark not disclosing age
A short pause as the furnace starts
Chimes in shouts hollers flowing
Hot air settling down to a whisper
Again, darkness and remembrance working together
Glancing back into those old memories eyes
Memory that is orchestrated hard staring
Not stopping for a pause because
Control is unwanted as her memory takes over
Dancing around the room with him in the dark
On second thought this is not a coward's way
She knew they were young once and what of it
And are still in the nights darkness
Old lovers in the middle of the night
In the darkness is the young aglow
Flowers
by Subhankar Das
Those are our flowers
This is our bedroom
and this could have been a study.
But never mind
time is always more powerful than
a wish.
Those are our flowers
This is our bedroom
and this could have been a study.
But never mind
time is always more powerful than
a wish.
Concert at Bernie's
by Donal Mahoney
When Bernie wakes at 6 a.m.
there's a piano on his chest
and Erroll Garner's playing "Misty."
Sinatra's on the headboard
Sinatra's on the headboard
improvising lyrics
and Krupa's in the corner
painting on the drums.
The music is magnificent.
Once the song is over
Once the song is over
Bernie chants his morning prayers,
shaves and showers and limps to work
for another day at the gherkin factory.
The foreman, Mr. Simpkins, is an ogre
The foreman, Mr. Simpkins, is an ogre
nonpareil, a sumbitch unsurpassed,
who stalks the catwalk all day long
with megaphone and stopwatch.
At 5 p.m. the factory spits Bernie
At 5 p.m. the factory spits Bernie
and his cohorts out the door
so Bernie limps to the Hot Wok Shack
and buys a carton of Egg Fu Yung
and heads back home to wait for dawn
so he can hear Erroll play "Night and Day"
while Sinatra does the vocal and
Krupa punctuates the piece
softly on the drums.
Bernie spends each day in hell but dawn
is always a concert from heaven.
Hard Time Singing
by Allison Grayhurst
The ground that grows
the wasteful blight and
estranges the kiss and hiss of wildlife
is in me like a slaughtered tribe
that has no face that doesn't bite.
I am in the nightmare cloud, wrapped
in tar and rotted wood. I hide
beneath the blanket, undone.
Sickness has walked around me, mile
around mile and names me this stone chiselled
in two. It is the beginning, but it is midnight
and I am marked to be unmoved.
The ground that grows
the wasteful blight and
estranges the kiss and hiss of wildlife
is in me like a slaughtered tribe
that has no face that doesn't bite.
I am in the nightmare cloud, wrapped
in tar and rotted wood. I hide
beneath the blanket, undone.
Sickness has walked around me, mile
around mile and names me this stone chiselled
in two. It is the beginning, but it is midnight
and I am marked to be unmoved.
Song of My Collective Self
by Séamas Carraher
With my self who he knows not,
me! most mother of a storm,
(under stones and hard ground
and relative to the dead).
All this tearing and grinding
that claws in your softness
for these dictators and time,
all christens in my birthing
with airraids and allies; and
no rest in these exploding bones,
this city of the self
like a mask shapeless in carbombs.
My brain here beats its heart
into shreds.
i exclude in
my circumference
both beast and child
with no legs to multiply in crippling
our illegible history.
(This scholar sinking in speeches
and disowns with books this burning child!)
And all
the swallowing lights of a town
long ago
gone out, and out
(O all my cheapness in mealtimes and sex,)
that not in my nothing-birth, this i! and
all my collective selves
of air and dust and debris
and all our simple journeys
to the stomach,
my groaning workman and my love
all ghettoed between these empty faces.
O you're shy,
with touching time, with body
disembodied
and all this whispering spirit.
Then save me, too late, in my softness,
commissar-with-your-gun
who punctuates my freedom in noughts,
and who, now, i celebrate in collisions,
in grief, and shells and echo.
As if in both battlehour and conversation
we have not lost all greater part.
This coming in our waves,
like a people unfit into being.
Here are the dead still singing.
Our dead, like a scattering,
buried deep in their difference,
unrepentant!
Here is life in an endless loudness.
Here's a self that sings in its travelling
all blessing in our being, a miracle!
still bending in the rain.
But then this pitiful face.
Him pleading in our unravelling
that both our hunger erects in its barricades
his spirit bursting into storms
in all this cold fathering weather,
to call me a home and hands, and all,
now estimated, my poverty,
in this savage way
of war, and debt and dying.
It is better, love, in this downward time,
it is better,
and our hollowness of heart,
to own nothing.
Comrade, it is better,
that all the world,
this mighty with their machines,
(their grinding and tearing in
my simple selves)
be born another time in coming.
On this day in hours,
my self unlocks the sun,
her softness sprinkles in its showers of skin
and all these lights unwind
in their wandering dead.
We ache this much, forward!
our future convulses in reverse
and in this working weather
like a tree encircles my armless self,
that at the closing of that time, surprised,
this we and me, all stillness still,
at life, and O, (despite all)
our endless
surge
and
hallowing.
With my self who he knows not,
me! most mother of a storm,
(under stones and hard ground
and relative to the dead).
All this tearing and grinding
that claws in your softness
for these dictators and time,
all christens in my birthing
with airraids and allies; and
no rest in these exploding bones,
this city of the self
like a mask shapeless in carbombs.
My brain here beats its heart
into shreds.
i exclude in
my circumference
both beast and child
with no legs to multiply in crippling
our illegible history.
(This scholar sinking in speeches
and disowns with books this burning child!)
And all
the swallowing lights of a town
long ago
gone out, and out
(O all my cheapness in mealtimes and sex,)
that not in my nothing-birth, this i! and
all my collective selves
of air and dust and debris
and all our simple journeys
to the stomach,
my groaning workman and my love
all ghettoed between these empty faces.
O you're shy,
with touching time, with body
disembodied
and all this whispering spirit.
Then save me, too late, in my softness,
commissar-with-your-gun
who punctuates my freedom in noughts,
and who, now, i celebrate in collisions,
in grief, and shells and echo.
As if in both battlehour and conversation
we have not lost all greater part.
This coming in our waves,
like a people unfit into being.
Here are the dead still singing.
Our dead, like a scattering,
buried deep in their difference,
unrepentant!
Here is life in an endless loudness.
Here's a self that sings in its travelling
all blessing in our being, a miracle!
still bending in the rain.
But then this pitiful face.
Him pleading in our unravelling
that both our hunger erects in its barricades
his spirit bursting into storms
in all this cold fathering weather,
to call me a home and hands, and all,
now estimated, my poverty,
in this savage way
of war, and debt and dying.
It is better, love, in this downward time,
it is better,
and our hollowness of heart,
to own nothing.
Comrade, it is better,
that all the world,
this mighty with their machines,
(their grinding and tearing in
my simple selves)
be born another time in coming.
On this day in hours,
my self unlocks the sun,
her softness sprinkles in its showers of skin
and all these lights unwind
in their wandering dead.
We ache this much, forward!
our future convulses in reverse
and in this working weather
like a tree encircles my armless self,
that at the closing of that time, surprised,
this we and me, all stillness still,
at life, and O, (despite all)
our endless
surge
and
hallowing.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Old City
by Stephen Jarrell Williams
Too many walls,
baloney smell
damp.
Our minds infiltrated,
radiated
with bogus facts.
Confusion
slicing us
into stumps.
Fruit
bloodied,
roots dangling...
We're mashed
potatoes
heaped on their golden plates.
They're laughing
at us
spooning us down.
Closing us in
cardboard boxes
against the elements.
But when our babies weep,
we sprout thorns
engorged.
Our old city shaking,
a thousand cities quaking,
dust rising to the sky.
Stones coming their way.
Too many walls,
baloney smell
damp.
Our minds infiltrated,
radiated
with bogus facts.
Confusion
slicing us
into stumps.
Fruit
bloodied,
roots dangling...
We're mashed
potatoes
heaped on their golden plates.
They're laughing
at us
spooning us down.
Closing us in
cardboard boxes
against the elements.
But when our babies weep,
we sprout thorns
engorged.
Our old city shaking,
a thousand cities quaking,
dust rising to the sky.
Stones coming their way.
The Cake Is A Lie
by A.J. Huffman
These makeshift bloodprints scream at me
from all sides as I fight, unsighted, through the maze
I believe to be your mind. Sidestepping emotion-
al boobytraps designed to destruct us both,
I am your willing guinea pig. Pre-programmed,
I am following. The sound of your promised touch
is enough to drive me forward through each level’s devastation . . .
Are you/they designed to test me or destroy me?
That conception turns me inside. Out
That conception turns me inside. Out
is a concept I abandoned eons ago, before I began
dodging the precariously balanced bullets
spinning on ice I will never be able to see
even as I direct its flow (or so I’ve been taught).
It blankets my view in void
space, begging for a [port]hole: an escape
hatch to actualization. I try to vocalize
this new ideology, but you have not granted me a voice. Over
night I simmer in the cold eye of [ac]knowledge-
Meant to tax my understanding of what is . . .
True: extraction is both feasible and attainable.
I allow my conscience to ascend. A lever
is broached. Green lights follow
me . . . spanning the fray
Coltrane
by Ryan Bermuda
The psalmist speaks
The psalmist speaks
Avant
Altissimo
Raised by miles and monks, fashioning
giant steps
toward Birdland
Good Bye Naima
Chops the track
to the wheel
Black bellows blow, the gospel of
Saint John-
A Love Supreme
1962 Baby Blue Chevrolet Impala
by Amy Soricelli
My brother remembers my father by the cars he used to drive.
The dusty blues with ringing horns –
he would see the hopeful face of it as it turned the corner-
its headlights giant cartoon eyes the fender with its simple smile.
Years later it was red - bigger- 65 Ford Mustang/Candy Apple.
His girlfriend sat in the front seat blue eye-shadow smiles
pouty painted/red lips.
Us kids in the back first the movies then Chinese.
I would stare at her half-face in the side-view mirror…
Looking for what could love my father strong enough for him to leave us.
Her eyebrows in pencil thin-black- hands like braided chains tight in her lap.
Like a nervous bird I would sing all the songs I learned in school –
Each of us had a window.
He drove up once in a brand-new 1967 forest green Camaro -
his dry-cleaned bags of suits hung like soldiers sticking to my bare knees in the middle of July.
My brother remembers my father by the cars he used to drive.
He’d stare out the window while he drove us around our block my mother would ask
why he didn’t take us somewhere real.
Around the block was okay sometimes – it was enough for my brother.
He remembers mostly the cars.
My brother remembers my father by the cars he used to drive.
The dusty blues with ringing horns –
he would see the hopeful face of it as it turned the corner-
its headlights giant cartoon eyes the fender with its simple smile.
Years later it was red - bigger- 65 Ford Mustang/Candy Apple.
His girlfriend sat in the front seat blue eye-shadow smiles
pouty painted/red lips.
Us kids in the back first the movies then Chinese.
I would stare at her half-face in the side-view mirror…
Looking for what could love my father strong enough for him to leave us.
Her eyebrows in pencil thin-black- hands like braided chains tight in her lap.
Like a nervous bird I would sing all the songs I learned in school –
Each of us had a window.
He drove up once in a brand-new 1967 forest green Camaro -
his dry-cleaned bags of suits hung like soldiers sticking to my bare knees in the middle of July.
My brother remembers my father by the cars he used to drive.
He’d stare out the window while he drove us around our block my mother would ask
why he didn’t take us somewhere real.
Around the block was okay sometimes – it was enough for my brother.
He remembers mostly the cars.
Facing the World
by Anthony Ward
Lying supine and couchant,
Shadows denote a presence
Through the transubstantiation of night.
The sound of car engines churning over,
Their head-lights shining through the window,
Illuminating branches, wavering against walls,
The luminosity of light emitting diodes,
Entrancing stratospheric reflections,
Embracing hypnogenic catatonic paralysis
With introspective rainwater
Racing down culverts
Into depths of consciousness.
The vast ocean of thought evaporating
Into multitudinous clocks,
Elapsing at different intervals-
Retaining time.
Lying supine and couchant,
Shadows denote a presence
Through the transubstantiation of night.
The sound of car engines churning over,
Their head-lights shining through the window,
Illuminating branches, wavering against walls,
The luminosity of light emitting diodes,
Entrancing stratospheric reflections,
Embracing hypnogenic catatonic paralysis
With introspective rainwater
Racing down culverts
Into depths of consciousness.
The vast ocean of thought evaporating
Into multitudinous clocks,
Elapsing at different intervals-
Retaining time.
All or nothing
by Marc Carver
How i love
to use all their hate
they think i don't want it
but i do
i want all they can give me
and more
it is my fuel
The more i see the hatred in their eyes
the more i know i am doing the right thing.
Don't hate me a little
give it all you got
suckers.
How i love
to use all their hate
they think i don't want it
but i do
i want all they can give me
and more
it is my fuel
The more i see the hatred in their eyes
the more i know i am doing the right thing.
Don't hate me a little
give it all you got
suckers.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Love, (Rubbish)
by Amy Soricelli
My closet is filled with you.
Your books with random thoughts underlined
with your yellow/ (very yellow) marker.
You underlined the most random lines and nothing -
(no, nothing)
was quoted anywhere else. It fell on deaf ears your underlined musings -
I could care less how much you cared.
It was less of less - those boots you walked in.
They're in the back buried, like nobody worth remembering; their shiny tips curled-up
in a bad 'stick out your tongue' sort of way.
Single socks are stuffed deep into the right one -
(or the wrong one.)
Your boots are here, you left them.
I came across your hat it sung to me -
its lousy off/key 'down on its luck love me till I die' tune.
It fell at my feet like a broken bird snapping its neglected song into my air
or chirping like they do - when they're stuck in a cage in some poorly ventilated Bronx apartment
under the El -
(and not near any good food.)
I found your notebooks on the left side deep-in by my winter coat.
You wrote in code (you wrote in code -)
and it didn't make me shake my head and fall down on bended knees...
I did not sit down and think.
How funny to find you so filled in my places-
and how easy you fit into one box. All of you-
just the one.
My closet is filled with you.
Your books with random thoughts underlined
with your yellow/ (very yellow) marker.
You underlined the most random lines and nothing -
(no, nothing)
was quoted anywhere else. It fell on deaf ears your underlined musings -
I could care less how much you cared.
It was less of less - those boots you walked in.
They're in the back buried, like nobody worth remembering; their shiny tips curled-up
in a bad 'stick out your tongue' sort of way.
Single socks are stuffed deep into the right one -
(or the wrong one.)
Your boots are here, you left them.
I came across your hat it sung to me -
its lousy off/key 'down on its luck love me till I die' tune.
It fell at my feet like a broken bird snapping its neglected song into my air
or chirping like they do - when they're stuck in a cage in some poorly ventilated Bronx apartment
under the El -
(and not near any good food.)
I found your notebooks on the left side deep-in by my winter coat.
You wrote in code (you wrote in code -)
and it didn't make me shake my head and fall down on bended knees...
I did not sit down and think.
How funny to find you so filled in my places-
and how easy you fit into one box. All of you-
just the one.
Drought
by J. K. Durick
We pray for buckets
and buckets coming down
cats and dogs out there
cellars full and gardens afloat
ornamental bark down the sidewalks
and driveways heading
for a street’s worth
of puddles and gutters
so deep we splash
amazed we remember the games
like kids sailing paper boats
near the curb
pirates after a Spanish galleon
rounding the Cape of Good Hope
with a cargo full of diamonds
as clear and as precious as rain.
We pray for buckets
and buckets coming down
cats and dogs out there
cellars full and gardens afloat
ornamental bark down the sidewalks
and driveways heading
for a street’s worth
of puddles and gutters
so deep we splash
amazed we remember the games
like kids sailing paper boats
near the curb
pirates after a Spanish galleon
rounding the Cape of Good Hope
with a cargo full of diamonds
as clear and as precious as rain.
ode to Hugo Chavez
by Ross Vassilev
Bulgarians
are now
immolating themselves
to protest the poverty
their post-communist rulers
have thrown them into.
they weren't doing that under communism.
I live in the U.S. of A.
the nation that is the greatest enemy of socialism
since the Red Army destroyed Nazi Germnay.
in the U. S. of A.
there is the cult of the soldier
we're supposed to honor the troops
worship them as heroes and demi-gods
let me tell you something:
the troops can go fuck themselves
and the fascist government they fight for
and the corporations that own that government.
let me tell you something else:
in the 21st century
socialism is gonna liberate the world
from you white Anglo pigs
so that the people of the world
will finally live in peace and prosperity and decency
and if you don't believe me
remember what Uncle Ho said:
we'll fight one day longer than you will.
Bulgarians
are now
immolating themselves
to protest the poverty
their post-communist rulers
have thrown them into.
they weren't doing that under communism.
I live in the U.S. of A.
the nation that is the greatest enemy of socialism
since the Red Army destroyed Nazi Germnay.
in the U. S. of A.
there is the cult of the soldier
we're supposed to honor the troops
worship them as heroes and demi-gods
let me tell you something:
the troops can go fuck themselves
and the fascist government they fight for
and the corporations that own that government.
let me tell you something else:
in the 21st century
socialism is gonna liberate the world
from you white Anglo pigs
so that the people of the world
will finally live in peace and prosperity and decency
and if you don't believe me
remember what Uncle Ho said:
we'll fight one day longer than you will.
Sorry
by Conrad Ridgestone
There are only so many things you can be sorry about
until your sorries seep out of you like sap out of a tree
I’m sorry
I’m sorry
I’m sorry
Everyone is sorry in their own way
Everyday
They’re sorry to their kids, to their lovers and to their friends
Sorry they didn’t come, didn’t leave and didn’t stay.
Sorry they didn’t have enough time, gave too much time. They’re sorry.
It’s pouring out all over the place and if you don’t bring your cup there won’t be any sorries left for the rest of us.
There are only so many things you can be sorry about
until your sorries seep out of you like sap out of a tree
I’m sorry
I’m sorry
I’m sorry
Everyone is sorry in their own way
Everyday
They’re sorry to their kids, to their lovers and to their friends
Sorry they didn’t come, didn’t leave and didn’t stay.
Sorry they didn’t have enough time, gave too much time. They’re sorry.
It’s pouring out all over the place and if you don’t bring your cup there won’t be any sorries left for the rest of us.
An Apology
by Tom Hatch
The nurse’s outfit
Well you are definitely the nurse
I was wrong to say you were not
I am the bum in the clouds
Which is my eh, bed I feel the
Sheets that you made for me
with military hospital corners to lay
Upon that I have to stop
Shadow boxing
The foreshadows
She offered me a lie detector test
Because she didn't believe me ok then I'll do it
Upon receipt of my sincere apology
The Apology:
The sounding horns of Gabriel
Because I need him there for my support
You my girlfriend in nurses outfit
That you wore on the
Float in our main street parade
In home town Texas drawl (this lays me flat on mercy)
But it becomes a river of mercy
Tears streaming down my cheeks
Clear and cold your shoulder
As I see the shore disappear to see
A new shore of heaven or hell
Yet to be determined until you and I arrive
But she is there happy in that sexy
Nurses outfit that I love so much thinking
The secret screams of holy whippets
A sound bite that really hurts
That I know will heal feeling a little small
Even-though I am tall 6'4" but
My heart is the same size as yours
but yours I hope is a little bigger to accept
My apology
Sorry I said “you were not my nurse”
The garter belts and white stockings are the
dead giveaway to me anyway
You really are my
Nurse that takes good care of me
The nurse’s outfit
Well you are definitely the nurse
I was wrong to say you were not
I am the bum in the clouds
Which is my eh, bed I feel the
Sheets that you made for me
with military hospital corners to lay
Upon that I have to stop
Shadow boxing
The foreshadows
She offered me a lie detector test
Because she didn't believe me ok then I'll do it
Upon receipt of my sincere apology
The Apology:
The sounding horns of Gabriel
Because I need him there for my support
You my girlfriend in nurses outfit
That you wore on the
Float in our main street parade
In home town Texas drawl (this lays me flat on mercy)
But it becomes a river of mercy
Tears streaming down my cheeks
Clear and cold your shoulder
As I see the shore disappear to see
A new shore of heaven or hell
Yet to be determined until you and I arrive
But she is there happy in that sexy
Nurses outfit that I love so much thinking
The secret screams of holy whippets
A sound bite that really hurts
That I know will heal feeling a little small
Even-though I am tall 6'4" but
My heart is the same size as yours
but yours I hope is a little bigger to accept
My apology
Sorry I said “you were not my nurse”
The garter belts and white stockings are the
dead giveaway to me anyway
You really are my
Nurse that takes good care of me
Thank you
by Subhankar Das
We do not have a Thanksgiving Day here
In this part of the world
And it was not the second Monday of October
Or the fourth Thursday of November
But still I thought I should say thank you
For the smell you kept locked in my cupboard
Thank you for the three beautiful mornings
Thank you for the waves that moved back to the sea
Thank you for the reality that never existed
Thank you for the dream where kisses were still alive
Thank you for the mad days, thank you, thank you.
We do not have a Thanksgiving Day here
In this part of the world
And it was not the second Monday of October
Or the fourth Thursday of November
But still I thought I should say thank you
For the smell you kept locked in my cupboard
Thank you for the three beautiful mornings
Thank you for the waves that moved back to the sea
Thank you for the reality that never existed
Thank you for the dream where kisses were still alive
Thank you for the mad days, thank you, thank you.
Rainy Season
by Lauren Tivey
There’s a sick part of you
that looks forward to it
every season, these weeks
of rain, their long romance,
their sodden caress, as if
you were a sad character
in an existential film, moving
through the vapors of a gray city
in your fedora, contemplating
some unrequited love, some
quiet angst. You smoke,
haunt cafés, a Billie Holiday
soundtrack in your head,
and you sink in deeper
by the day, as it never stops.
It’s the danger of succumbing
that attracts you, of approaching
the edge and peering into that hole
you fought so hard to escape.
You watch it filling further
with each storm, a lovely bath
of depression, and you’re so
tired, wet, beaten; so susceptible.
But that’s too easy, and you’re
still, after all, a fighter.
There’s a sick part of you
that looks forward to it
every season, these weeks
of rain, their long romance,
their sodden caress, as if
you were a sad character
in an existential film, moving
through the vapors of a gray city
in your fedora, contemplating
some unrequited love, some
quiet angst. You smoke,
haunt cafés, a Billie Holiday
soundtrack in your head,
and you sink in deeper
by the day, as it never stops.
It’s the danger of succumbing
that attracts you, of approaching
the edge and peering into that hole
you fought so hard to escape.
You watch it filling further
with each storm, a lovely bath
of depression, and you’re so
tired, wet, beaten; so susceptible.
But that’s too easy, and you’re
still, after all, a fighter.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Rail Road Crossing
by Lauren Bennett
There was a dull throb at my temples and a clench in my jaw. I hurled four bodies down the road alongside me. Seventy miles per hour, aiming toward train tracks obscured by a charcoal blur. I stepped on the gas. No sound but tires crumbling asphalt. I ground my teeth down then asked “How much do you all value your lives?” A pair of slow-moving chapped lips answered “Enough.” Enough. One hundred fifteen miles per hour toward those glimmering tracks. Air whipping by punctured with “slow down!’s” On impact, I swear I heard my own neck break.
Summer Mathematics
by Kelley Jean White
The Ice Cream Truck, its too familiar
tune, tumbled, troubled, that edge
of danger, that edge of what can be
understood, known, pushed to sharp
stick simplicity, in the narrow
and extreme night.
The Ice Cream Truck, its too familiar
tune, tumbled, troubled, that edge
of danger, that edge of what can be
understood, known, pushed to sharp
stick simplicity, in the narrow
and extreme night.
Vortex
by Jeremiah Walton
Woodshift helix burn holes
plushy pink mind landscape aflame
Shoe in the head
coherent thought stomped
Weak cohesive glue psyche together
Only for Now, but this Now is much too eternal!
Self induced seizures, rattling subjective beads of group
moral
Who's bad trip is tripping up who?
Sleep sleep sleep
Sheep bark stripping naked refusing their numbers
Rearing the farmer's sheers in revolution
Revolt! Revolt! Revolt!
Cut and twist brain cells into knots of understanding
Misunderstanding! Our God-head is beheaded!
Guillotined shoulders bleed cries of eternity, farts of
existence, sputter of the asshole mouth
Teenagers deep in perception Armageddon
"Please, dear writer, write my final thoughts...
I know what is happening... This is our end..."
I feel the Great Sleep riding in from Edge-City
Driven by spiritual spinal chord
We've stayed too long
The end will never end
When was the beginning?
The room spliced in Red and Blue
Contrary counterparts
Red TV senses bombardment, gushing inwards
background thought’s vocal chords warn of calamity
Light or dark? heavy light switch pendulum flicks
bbbbaaaccckkk aaannnddd !fooorrrttthh
lost in the updown bounce of lunatic laughter
Why is he rolling along the carpet’s erect hair? Cutting
patterns, laughing laughing laughing
Who's looking in the mirror now?
Make sure they leave the knife upstairs
"DO NOT GO OUTSIDE THE WORLD IS HUNGRY"
Fire of breath couples up within our lungs
We are burning alive, gasoline baking dough expecting
sweet bread
Every Thought born panics into death
Chairs wiggle wobble dance
showing unity of what?
Unity of new reality and old, space and time perception
stretched before in white holes vomiting existence
upon our outstretched tongues and cheeks
We are dying in the basement of Existence
Mother upstairs unAware
Broke ‘n’ Down
by Anthony Ward
I’m broke ‘n’ down on the road of life.
In need of service ’so I can get some fuel
That’ll see me on my way,
While slowing people down
So they can take a look
At the accident they’re expecting to see.
Watching me stumble-
All giddy like
-unable to focus;
Too much thinking making me trip over my thoughts
Until I’m left standing horizontally-
Holding on for dear life.
I’m broke ‘n’ down on the road of life.
In need of service ’so I can get some fuel
That’ll see me on my way,
While slowing people down
So they can take a look
At the accident they’re expecting to see.
Watching me stumble-
All giddy like
-unable to focus;
Too much thinking making me trip over my thoughts
Until I’m left standing horizontally-
Holding on for dear life.
Lucky Girl
by Ian Mullins
Stay out in the cold
Elizabeth, rain running down
your bare legs
eyes angry and sad
dreaming
of a long straight road
where you never scoot
to the scrublands to let cars
barrel by; jazz-walking
mute-trumpet style,
one foot tripping the other
the way one wave tumbles the next,
keep walking Elizabeth;
I don’t want to know
you married an architect
or a lawyer, moved to sweet suburbia
had three kids one dog
and told everyone who cared
how ‘lucky’ you were:
stay here in the rain,
the bare-legged mute-trumpet
rain; walk away and dream
of never looking back.
Stay out in the cold
Elizabeth, rain running down
your bare legs
eyes angry and sad
dreaming
of a long straight road
where you never scoot
to the scrublands to let cars
barrel by; jazz-walking
mute-trumpet style,
one foot tripping the other
the way one wave tumbles the next,
keep walking Elizabeth;
I don’t want to know
you married an architect
or a lawyer, moved to sweet suburbia
had three kids one dog
and told everyone who cared
how ‘lucky’ you were:
stay here in the rain,
the bare-legged mute-trumpet
rain; walk away and dream
of never looking back.
MIKE
by Marc Carver
A man got right in my face and started to ask me questions.
I let him ask his questions and told him nothing
after five minutes he got it all out of his system
then i finished what i was doing and went up to him.
I had seen the look in his eyes before
someone looking for trouble.
"Hey Mike, take it easy there. I recommend a few whiskeys before you come down."
"You do, do you."
I looked into his eyes again but the fight had left him.
"I sure do Mike, i sure do and besides that
avoid work."
A man got right in my face and started to ask me questions.
I let him ask his questions and told him nothing
after five minutes he got it all out of his system
then i finished what i was doing and went up to him.
I had seen the look in his eyes before
someone looking for trouble.
"Hey Mike, take it easy there. I recommend a few whiskeys before you come down."
"You do, do you."
I looked into his eyes again but the fight had left him.
"I sure do Mike, i sure do and besides that
avoid work."
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