by jkdavies
I am too weak and
you are too tempting, please
leave like a stormcloud.
Storm tossed reeds bounce back,
"you are strong, independent,
she needs me," he pleads.
My needs ploughed under
dark soil so yours can grow, forced
to my fallow time.
No coffin for this
love killed by your thoughtlessness;
naked mouldering.
Repeated goodbyes
touched to fiery sparks, puddled
blisters left to heal.
My essence pools,
slows to mirrored ice, blue sheened
to reflect you back.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Love Letter of a Cultured Courtesan to his Smutty Suitor
by Jay Coral
Please do not Petrarch me
with your lovely words
i won't shovel cheaply empty lines
your dirty poems especially
to impress on my silky lingerie
and your decadent gifts
like the hard-on that you cannot sustain
let the roses wither
and chocolates goo into slime that you are
read me something tasteless
perhaps i might be blindsided
but please don't romanticize.
Please do not Petrarch me
with your lovely words
i won't shovel cheaply empty lines
your dirty poems especially
to impress on my silky lingerie
and your decadent gifts
like the hard-on that you cannot sustain
let the roses wither
and chocolates goo into slime that you are
read me something tasteless
perhaps i might be blindsided
but please don't romanticize.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
I solace shun is what you make it
by Dan Wilterding
Though not often lonely
when I'm alone
the company of others I seek;
to share, for a while,
the lows and the highs
and the views that make us unique.
The crowd is alright
'til too crowded, or loud,
then loneliness sets in again.
I've got to retreat,
get to calm - get to neat,
get in touch with my own inner friend.
Though never so lonely
as when in a crowd
the company of others I seek;
to share for a while
the lows and the highs
and those things that make us unique.
Though not often lonely
when I'm alone
the company of others I seek;
to share, for a while,
the lows and the highs
and the views that make us unique.
The crowd is alright
'til too crowded, or loud,
then loneliness sets in again.
I've got to retreat,
get to calm - get to neat,
get in touch with my own inner friend.
Though never so lonely
as when in a crowd
the company of others I seek;
to share for a while
the lows and the highs
and those things that make us unique.
HOW MY TEETH CAME TO BE THIS WAY AND THE CHOICES I MADE BECAUSE OF THEM
by Michael H. Brownstein
Have little to do with my wife’s obsession with snakes.
She turns off the heat a few hours before bedtime waking me early with a tired rhythm
of cold blood.
Some mornings cold wipes the floor with Saran Wrap and she remains undercover till
noon.
Other times she unhinges herself from bed in a slow stretch of wills to let in the sun.
There is always enough stored here and there to fix everything broken, but there is also
school, a studio to make music, a need for a new boiler and a roof and my
promise to tuck point this summer.
When she finds her fingers are warm enough to bend, and her wrists, and her elbows, she
bends her long legs and tells me to add earthquake protection to our long list of
bills.
As frightened as she is of snakes, they are always around her—at the Katie Trail where
we walk, in the bushes near the restaurant where we eat, near the opening of our sub-basement.
Sometimes late at night, her warm body near, I know her heat as the grip of a constrictor.
She owns a python’s strength and sometimes a rattler’s sadness, and still she loves me
regardless of my teeth.
I try not to find myself in tooth loosening moments, but they find me, one loose tooth at a
time.
See this missing tooth? That happened when a gang of teenagers with one or more
guns jumped one of my students.
He is still alive and for his life, I donated that tooth.
I can explain what happened to the rest, but it is only more of the same.
Have you ever seen someone allergic to cats? Then you know how the cat always
welcomes them into its household.
That is the way of snakes and my teeth, my wife and my outrage, how sacrifice really
does describe all of us.
Have little to do with my wife’s obsession with snakes.
She turns off the heat a few hours before bedtime waking me early with a tired rhythm
of cold blood.
Some mornings cold wipes the floor with Saran Wrap and she remains undercover till
noon.
Other times she unhinges herself from bed in a slow stretch of wills to let in the sun.
There is always enough stored here and there to fix everything broken, but there is also
school, a studio to make music, a need for a new boiler and a roof and my
promise to tuck point this summer.
When she finds her fingers are warm enough to bend, and her wrists, and her elbows, she
bends her long legs and tells me to add earthquake protection to our long list of
bills.
As frightened as she is of snakes, they are always around her—at the Katie Trail where
we walk, in the bushes near the restaurant where we eat, near the opening of our sub-basement.
Sometimes late at night, her warm body near, I know her heat as the grip of a constrictor.
She owns a python’s strength and sometimes a rattler’s sadness, and still she loves me
regardless of my teeth.
I try not to find myself in tooth loosening moments, but they find me, one loose tooth at a
time.
See this missing tooth? That happened when a gang of teenagers with one or more
guns jumped one of my students.
He is still alive and for his life, I donated that tooth.
I can explain what happened to the rest, but it is only more of the same.
Have you ever seen someone allergic to cats? Then you know how the cat always
welcomes them into its household.
That is the way of snakes and my teeth, my wife and my outrage, how sacrifice really
does describe all of us.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Rain in L.A.
by Sean Pravica
a rain cloud over Los Angeles
brooded like a rebel
boasting a storm
and taunting the drivers
who are suddenly young children again
taking baby steps
not quite sure what to do
and a little scared
though they’d rather not admit that
except maybe to their mothers
depends on what kind of car they drive
what job they hold
and how much gas is in the tank of their gut
that is
how much of their lives
they can actually stomach
if we could run away forever
or drive on an endless highway
we might still fear we’d slip
and let up the ghost
of our vulnerability
before a sky that knows better
knows that already
in this hot place
a sun bright enough to illuminate the buildings
mirrors everywhere for smitten people
examining the objects of their affection
in passing glass surfaces
the sky can’t always hold back its tears
even though it’s tougher here
having seen the dreams lost
and others become
only to slip away
back into the reflective face of a bank
untouchable
and lost
behind the fake marble
while the rain begins to fall
and drizzle along the sidewalk
the smell of the street rising
time to go home
and face the traffic
a rain cloud over Los Angeles
brooded like a rebel
boasting a storm
and taunting the drivers
who are suddenly young children again
taking baby steps
not quite sure what to do
and a little scared
though they’d rather not admit that
except maybe to their mothers
depends on what kind of car they drive
what job they hold
and how much gas is in the tank of their gut
that is
how much of their lives
they can actually stomach
if we could run away forever
or drive on an endless highway
we might still fear we’d slip
and let up the ghost
of our vulnerability
before a sky that knows better
knows that already
in this hot place
a sun bright enough to illuminate the buildings
mirrors everywhere for smitten people
examining the objects of their affection
in passing glass surfaces
the sky can’t always hold back its tears
even though it’s tougher here
having seen the dreams lost
and others become
only to slip away
back into the reflective face of a bank
untouchable
and lost
behind the fake marble
while the rain begins to fall
and drizzle along the sidewalk
the smell of the street rising
time to go home
and face the traffic
Tangled Locks
by Carmen Taggart
Tangled auburn locks shroud your face
Your shoulders collapse around you
Pain thick through the cabin
Delicate fingers trace invisible words across the page
Your face lites up as I offer you a rainbow assortment of pens
Quickly you withdraw back into your shell
Purple ink forms the curvy letters of girlhood
Words tumble with tears onto the page
Suffering between youth and adulthood rage
You rail of a double life one good, one bad
What could such a young girl have done so wrong
Sidelong I read it was sex
Memories unbidden march forth
remembering the longing to lie in my lover’s arms
remembering the shame and fear for having lain there
Unable to allow you to suffer alone I ask where you are traveling?
You say you are going to become an adult
I chuckle, oh honey I know so very few of those!
Voice choked you hand me the journal
Quietly I read then look deep in your eyes
I brake the taboos! I tell you we all have sex!
You clutch my hand hoping I am telling you the truth
Your eyes searching for validation
that you could yet be a good person
We talk of wanting to do it again
of the importance of seeking out protection
The mature thing is to be safe
I channel my mother and give you my email address
I tell you to please write if you need to talk
I will think of you often
We start off the plane
You turn and look at me through tangled auburn locks with tear filled eyes
We exclaim together
New beginnings!
Tangled auburn locks shroud your face
Your shoulders collapse around you
Pain thick through the cabin
Delicate fingers trace invisible words across the page
Your face lites up as I offer you a rainbow assortment of pens
Quickly you withdraw back into your shell
Purple ink forms the curvy letters of girlhood
Words tumble with tears onto the page
Suffering between youth and adulthood rage
You rail of a double life one good, one bad
What could such a young girl have done so wrong
Sidelong I read it was sex
Memories unbidden march forth
remembering the longing to lie in my lover’s arms
remembering the shame and fear for having lain there
Unable to allow you to suffer alone I ask where you are traveling?
You say you are going to become an adult
I chuckle, oh honey I know so very few of those!
Voice choked you hand me the journal
Quietly I read then look deep in your eyes
I brake the taboos! I tell you we all have sex!
You clutch my hand hoping I am telling you the truth
Your eyes searching for validation
that you could yet be a good person
We talk of wanting to do it again
of the importance of seeking out protection
The mature thing is to be safe
I channel my mother and give you my email address
I tell you to please write if you need to talk
I will think of you often
We start off the plane
You turn and look at me through tangled auburn locks with tear filled eyes
We exclaim together
New beginnings!
For Michelle, Dead Now Three Years
by Glenn Cooper
In my dreams
you are still
heartbreakingly sick;
death and time
have not cured you.
I reach for you but my hand
passes through.
I caress
the empty space
that soon enough
shall caress us both.
In my dreams
you are still
heartbreakingly sick;
death and time
have not cured you.
I reach for you but my hand
passes through.
I caress
the empty space
that soon enough
shall caress us both.
A STOOD-UP KIND OF DAY
by Michael H. Brownstein
my dance card is not full,
arson laced lady
outside the rain has stopped,
the fog lifting.
pumpkin pie
a la mode.
Vancouver.
a soft lust to day
Do you not want to dance?
my dance card is not full,
arson laced lady
outside the rain has stopped,
the fog lifting.
pumpkin pie
a la mode.
Vancouver.
a soft lust to day
Do you not want to dance?
Sunday, August 15, 2010
BIRDSONG
by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
The day is crowded with birdsong
from the valley to the sea.
I follow the songs on my travels.
Walking alone, but not lonely.
The expansive sky smiles down on
me. A silhouette moon peeks
out. The songs bring me comfort.
I do not feel alone today.
I thank the world for the gift
of song. I would feel sad
without birdsong. I whistle my
approval. I walk along the shore.
The day is crowded with birdsong
from the valley to the sea.
I follow the songs on my travels.
Walking alone, but not lonely.
The expansive sky smiles down on
me. A silhouette moon peeks
out. The songs bring me comfort.
I do not feel alone today.
I thank the world for the gift
of song. I would feel sad
without birdsong. I whistle my
approval. I walk along the shore.
The Bryan-Darrow Bible Controversy
by Suchoon Mo
for corrupting Eve
God punished the snake
to crawl on stomach since
aha!
interesting
how did the snake move before then
hopping around on tail?
for corrupting Eve
God punished the snake
to crawl on stomach since
aha!
interesting
how did the snake move before then
hopping around on tail?
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Early August
by Cath Barton
The muggy days muddle me.
My mind and body drag
In sweaty discomfort.
Tomatoes droop their leaves,
Cats loll listlessly
And my skin prickles.
I stir, fetch water
From the butt
And revive the tomatoes.
The level is low,
Not enough
For many more waterings.
The swish of the traffic
Outside my window
Sounds like rain,
But we look for it in vain,
And away to the east
The harvested crops are dust.
The muggy days muddle me.
My mind and body drag
In sweaty discomfort.
Tomatoes droop their leaves,
Cats loll listlessly
And my skin prickles.
I stir, fetch water
From the butt
And revive the tomatoes.
The level is low,
Not enough
For many more waterings.
The swish of the traffic
Outside my window
Sounds like rain,
But we look for it in vain,
And away to the east
The harvested crops are dust.
Rescue
by Robert Vaughan
Rubbing last night’s escapades
from half-baked eyes he
sits, waiting for nothing
as if it will appear
Thoughts thick like car
exhaust choke back
emotions from Kandahar
frozen memories
of severed experiences
The sun could calm
him normally but
today is dark, diffused
so starkly gray like
the insides of a
coal miner’s daughter
an uzi shot
heard round the
world this propaganda
in the form of one’s
dizzying dilemma
Rubbing last night’s escapades
from half-baked eyes he
sits, waiting for nothing
as if it will appear
Thoughts thick like car
exhaust choke back
emotions from Kandahar
frozen memories
of severed experiences
The sun could calm
him normally but
today is dark, diffused
so starkly gray like
the insides of a
coal miner’s daughter
an uzi shot
heard round the
world this propaganda
in the form of one’s
dizzying dilemma
STRANGE COUNTRY
by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
I awoke in a strange country.
The wing of a blackbird blacked out
the sun. The dim country left me
pensive, pale, and melancholy.
A primitive race of cannibals
wanted to consume my sadness.
There was a terrible beauty
in this world. The giant black crows
warred with the giant blackbirds.
This place made me long for my death.
I awoke in a strange country.
The wing of a blackbird blacked out
the sun. The dim country left me
pensive, pale, and melancholy.
A primitive race of cannibals
wanted to consume my sadness.
There was a terrible beauty
in this world. The giant black crows
warred with the giant blackbirds.
This place made me long for my death.
GOD
by Chris Butler
I AM GOD
amongst the bugs.
Even outnumbered
by the annoyance
of storming swarms,
their exoskeletons
crunch beneath
eclipsing sneakers
without much notice,
then I intentionally
dismantle ant hills
just to observe
how slavery rebuilds
under magnifying
glass eyes;
by cremating my
children.
I AM GOD
amongst the bugs.
Even outnumbered
by the annoyance
of storming swarms,
their exoskeletons
crunch beneath
eclipsing sneakers
without much notice,
then I intentionally
dismantle ant hills
just to observe
how slavery rebuilds
under magnifying
glass eyes;
by cremating my
children.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Bob Dylan is Dead
by Melanie Browne
He got tangled
up
in truth
Folk Angels
wearing pink
hot pants
hitch rides
across the desert
The fuchsia flowers
drip from
their hair
Dead rock gods
fly over
the night sky,
sad & blue
while
palm trees
quiver
& beat
their tambourines
He got tangled
up
in truth
Folk Angels
wearing pink
hot pants
hitch rides
across the desert
The fuchsia flowers
drip from
their hair
Dead rock gods
fly over
the night sky,
sad & blue
while
palm trees
quiver
& beat
their tambourines
Bob Dylan is dead
by Ross Vassilev
that was the rumor I heard
turned out it wasn't true
not yet anyway
Bob's one helluva true spirit
like Johnny Cash was
(he really is dead)
and John Lennon (him too)
I think we true spirits
(and there ain't many of us)
all end up in the same
starry psychedelic Buddha
dynamo where we'll crank out
the cotton candy poetry
of the Gods till the end of
time or we'll end up in Hell
(even more fun)
and we'll be the demons
tying bankers and other
war criminals
to barber shop poles
and we get to shoot at their
genitals with BB guns
O whatever it is
and where-ever it is
let it come let it come
just don't make me
spend eternity
with the Mormons.
that was the rumor I heard
turned out it wasn't true
not yet anyway
Bob's one helluva true spirit
like Johnny Cash was
(he really is dead)
and John Lennon (him too)
I think we true spirits
(and there ain't many of us)
all end up in the same
starry psychedelic Buddha
dynamo where we'll crank out
the cotton candy poetry
of the Gods till the end of
time or we'll end up in Hell
(even more fun)
and we'll be the demons
tying bankers and other
war criminals
to barber shop poles
and we get to shoot at their
genitals with BB guns
O whatever it is
and where-ever it is
let it come let it come
just don't make me
spend eternity
with the Mormons.
Bob Dylan Is Dead Or Rage Into The Night Mr. Jones
by Catfish McDaris
I grew up in N.M. in
a small town noted
for musicians &
snooker hustlers
My best amigo was
a Dylan fanatic, he
studied his words,
guitar, & harmonica
Forget The Beatles,
Jimi, or The Doors
it was Minnesota
Zimmie 24/7
Wanting to put moves
on his beautiful
concrete blonde sister
after long pursuit we
consummated our infatuation
Their father came calling
& said I'd infested his
baby with fleas & ruined her
Deciding it might be time
to seek my fortune elsewhere
I took my hot sauce recipe
for Louisiana champagne east
Outside of Tucumcari I picked
up this dude that hummed
Ballad of a Thin Man for 3
states, when I got to Highway 61
He stepped in front of
a west bound semi full
of pigs, there wasn't
much left of him
I'm not sure if he was
Jewish or if going that
way was kosher, but at
least I hope he's knocking
on heaven's door.
I grew up in N.M. in
a small town noted
for musicians &
snooker hustlers
My best amigo was
a Dylan fanatic, he
studied his words,
guitar, & harmonica
Forget The Beatles,
Jimi, or The Doors
it was Minnesota
Zimmie 24/7
Wanting to put moves
on his beautiful
concrete blonde sister
after long pursuit we
consummated our infatuation
Their father came calling
& said I'd infested his
baby with fleas & ruined her
Deciding it might be time
to seek my fortune elsewhere
I took my hot sauce recipe
for Louisiana champagne east
Outside of Tucumcari I picked
up this dude that hummed
Ballad of a Thin Man for 3
states, when I got to Highway 61
He stepped in front of
a west bound semi full
of pigs, there wasn't
much left of him
I'm not sure if he was
Jewish or if going that
way was kosher, but at
least I hope he's knocking
on heaven's door.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
spiral
by Ross Vassilev
the Feds went after the hippies
cuz what good are young
Americans who
only want peace and love
instead of killing people
in Vietnam?
so they unleashed the FBI
pitbulls trained in state
terror, set them loose on
the flower children
and the pitbulls tore them
to shreds.
in the 70s the young people
were still getting stoned
but they didn’t care about
anything so it was OK.
in the 80s the citizens
were reduced to consumers
and if you were too stoned
to flip burgers at McDonald’s
they sent you off to prison
for 10 years, paroled
all the murderers and rapists
to make room for ya.
it’s been the same ever since
and the 60s will never happen
again. we’re just riding out
the spiral of America’s
broken wings.
the Feds went after the hippies
cuz what good are young
Americans who
only want peace and love
instead of killing people
in Vietnam?
so they unleashed the FBI
pitbulls trained in state
terror, set them loose on
the flower children
and the pitbulls tore them
to shreds.
in the 70s the young people
were still getting stoned
but they didn’t care about
anything so it was OK.
in the 80s the citizens
were reduced to consumers
and if you were too stoned
to flip burgers at McDonald’s
they sent you off to prison
for 10 years, paroled
all the murderers and rapists
to make room for ya.
it’s been the same ever since
and the 60s will never happen
again. we’re just riding out
the spiral of America’s
broken wings.
FOOTPRINTS
by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
I was looking at my footprints.
I was looking at my shoes.
The footprints did not seem to match.
They might have belonged to a fish
or a flamingo, a minotaur,
or a three legged dog.
I gazed at a cricket jumping in
my footprints. It seemed to
be wearing a tux. My footprints
filled with rain and the tender
cricket fled. A scream from a
nearby bush altered my senses.
A cow with a pair of shoes walked
out of the bush. A cow with a
little girl’s voice walked in
my footprints. It was a mad cow.
I was looking at my footprints.
I was looking at my shoes.
The footprints did not seem to match.
They might have belonged to a fish
or a flamingo, a minotaur,
or a three legged dog.
I gazed at a cricket jumping in
my footprints. It seemed to
be wearing a tux. My footprints
filled with rain and the tender
cricket fled. A scream from a
nearby bush altered my senses.
A cow with a pair of shoes walked
out of the bush. A cow with a
little girl’s voice walked in
my footprints. It was a mad cow.
Wet Tissue Through Wrinkled Fingers
by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
There was a scream from the water
and everyone
watched.
A young child
in orange water wings
ran out of the water
and began to turn purple.
First the hand puffed up to three times
the size
and then the arms
below the elbow.
Jellyfish,
some man yelled
as the panicked swimmers
trampled one another
on their way to the shore
and an empty lifeguard chair
nearby
sat without comment.
Wet tissue through
wrinkled fingers
as concerned parents ran into the water
to save their floundering
namesakes
and the world
turned purple as an eggplant
and
cried.
There was a scream from the water
and everyone
watched.
A young child
in orange water wings
ran out of the water
and began to turn purple.
First the hand puffed up to three times
the size
and then the arms
below the elbow.
Jellyfish,
some man yelled
as the panicked swimmers
trampled one another
on their way to the shore
and an empty lifeguard chair
nearby
sat without comment.
Wet tissue through
wrinkled fingers
as concerned parents ran into the water
to save their floundering
namesakes
and the world
turned purple as an eggplant
and
cried.
Al Gore Afterworld
by Chris Butler
In the year Twenty-Twelve,
our token topic of conversation
will still commence with the
appropriate weather tempering
our unemotional climate as
mother nature’s menstrual cycle causes
Eskimo igloos to extinguish the sun’s shine,
Great Plains tornadoes to evaporate trailer parks,
hurricanes to rain acid on an engulfed coast,
and earthquakes to shake water-birthed babies blue
in bloodied oil insoluble in inferno oceans;
as we breathe in an Al Gore afterworld.
In the year Twenty-Twelve,
our token topic of conversation
will still commence with the
appropriate weather tempering
our unemotional climate as
mother nature’s menstrual cycle causes
Eskimo igloos to extinguish the sun’s shine,
Great Plains tornadoes to evaporate trailer parks,
hurricanes to rain acid on an engulfed coast,
and earthquakes to shake water-birthed babies blue
in bloodied oil insoluble in inferno oceans;
as we breathe in an Al Gore afterworld.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Hotel Dusseldorf
by M.P. Powers
I feel like some lowly strip mall
with all
the windows barred up and half the lights
burnt out.
I FEEL LIKE ALL THE SLOP STUCK TO ALL THE PLATES
IN EVERY
FUCKING
CHOKE-AND-PUKE IN DEUTSCHLAND.
I feel normal
because
today is my last day
here, and tomorrow? My life will begin
to end
again. Or fail to begin again.
My fault, I know...
But either way
I wait,
listening to the beautiful German chambermaids
padding
down the hallway.
Dreaming of the one that knocked on my door
earlier
with the long amazonian
legs
and short powderblue
skirt.
She gave me soap & towels
and smiled at me
suggestively (I thought)
and that was enough...
I open a little bottle of Jagermeister.
I hate Jager
but seeing it downstairs in the hotel vending machine
proclaiming
itself
in all its coughsyrupy
glory
I couldn't resist.
Especially after weinerschnitzel and four large steins
of the local
lager
courtesy of my soon-to-be defunct
VISA.
I take a sip.
Rip open the curtain...
There's a factory out there.
Smokestacks.
A highway.
Trees.
The sky is completely overcast.
Uhhg.
Feels like I'm in
Jersey.
I feel like some lowly strip mall
with all
the windows barred up and half the lights
burnt out.
I FEEL LIKE ALL THE SLOP STUCK TO ALL THE PLATES
IN EVERY
FUCKING
CHOKE-AND-PUKE IN DEUTSCHLAND.
I feel normal
because
today is my last day
here, and tomorrow? My life will begin
to end
again. Or fail to begin again.
My fault, I know...
But either way
I wait,
listening to the beautiful German chambermaids
padding
down the hallway.
Dreaming of the one that knocked on my door
earlier
with the long amazonian
legs
and short powderblue
skirt.
She gave me soap & towels
and smiled at me
suggestively (I thought)
and that was enough...
I open a little bottle of Jagermeister.
I hate Jager
but seeing it downstairs in the hotel vending machine
proclaiming
itself
in all its coughsyrupy
glory
I couldn't resist.
Especially after weinerschnitzel and four large steins
of the local
lager
courtesy of my soon-to-be defunct
VISA.
I take a sip.
Rip open the curtain...
There's a factory out there.
Smokestacks.
A highway.
Trees.
The sky is completely overcast.
Uhhg.
Feels like I'm in
Jersey.
Four Poems
by Suchoon Mo
Awakening
a cat barks
a mouse farts
the sound of awakening
in silence
the buddha meditates
Sin
whenever she sings
she omits "g"
she sins
d
ever since she met david and married him
she has been stuttering at d
d-d-d-david
d-d-d-damn you!
d-d-d-
d-d-d-
Duet
together two women sing
one sings a serenade
the other sings an elegy
they sing a same song
they sing a requiem
Awakening
a cat barks
a mouse farts
the sound of awakening
in silence
the buddha meditates
Sin
whenever she sings
she omits "g"
she sins
d
ever since she met david and married him
she has been stuttering at d
d-d-d-david
d-d-d-damn you!
d-d-d-
d-d-d-
Duet
together two women sing
one sings a serenade
the other sings an elegy
they sing a same song
they sing a requiem
Soul Effort
by Brenda Blakey
His was a fool’s dream
To wish for her requited love.
He had failed before but
This time he would succeed.
One last whisper in prayer then,
While his body slept on goose down,
His spirit hovered over her house;
He wrenched out his heart completely.
It salted over her sleeping form.
Now she would return his love.
But, unfortunately, he would no
Longer have the heart for it.
His was a fool’s dream
To wish for her requited love.
He had failed before but
This time he would succeed.
One last whisper in prayer then,
While his body slept on goose down,
His spirit hovered over her house;
He wrenched out his heart completely.
It salted over her sleeping form.
Now she would return his love.
But, unfortunately, he would no
Longer have the heart for it.
Light Up
by Morgen Streur
I struggle with my thoughts, there's so much runnin' through me
Transformer in disguise I wonder if you knew me in a past life
Are you, confused by the new me? [Music is my duty]
I can't force anything and everything is mine but I'm just not satisfied.
[Passerbys pass me by] Am I sent to pacify? Was I meant for this life?
Or am I trippin' skippin' parties thinkin' they won't miss me anyway?
Every day I write new verses at work & then I come home but it doesn't feel so,
Back to my workflows... guess I'm Gung-ho, International-no not even local
Cuz I move too fast, my motives are loco, trained to be a locomotive
Leavin' trails of smoke wherever I go I'm solo [oh no I'm alone]
I been here before so much I almost prefer it
I use it as deterrence so I don't get close to anybody anymore
So I light up...
Monday, August 2, 2010
Three Haiku
by Dan Wilterding
Memories stirring,
each being a pearl once held.
Life is a necklace.
A stone, some water,
slight hesitation -- then throw.
A successful skip.
Dance to the season;
the dance becomes the purpose –
Shade, or what is real?
Memories stirring,
each being a pearl once held.
Life is a necklace.
A stone, some water,
slight hesitation -- then throw.
A successful skip.
Dance to the season;
the dance becomes the purpose –
Shade, or what is real?
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Nevertheless The Plan Was Not Implemented
by Peter Richter
Thomas Friedman was right when he said, “Much of this biodiversity in Indonesia is now under threat.”
It had been this way since gasoline became currency; I remember bartering with The Governance for the newest edition of The Guinness Book of World Records, which featured a scratch-and-sniff page of the world's worst smelling people. It starred Clint Eastwood. This explained the snarl of his face, as even he agreed at his disagreeable odor.
He is a hard-ass and I respect him for it. Being a hard-ass is what drew me to The Governance. She owns the police, a few million dollars in gasoline, and a jester. She is on her 15th jester.
This is all hearsay, but I believe the death of the first 14 jesters to be related to the illegal logging agreement The Governance made with westerners. I also believe the jesters now live in the most northern region of heaven. Like I said — it's all hearsay.
Thomas Friedman was right when he said “Indonesia exports raw labor, not brains.” The people had bad teeth and brown jeans. Things like lettermen jackets, cosmetics and votives didn't exist there.
I went to The Governance with luxury items and laid them at her feet. Kneeling, I said, “I made a mental note of how well traveled you could be and filed it away. I realize that the amount of gasoline you process does not weigh on your happiness. But Governance, have you ever smiled?”
She didn't answer but motioned for me to continue. I adjusted the volume on the ipod and played a clip from ER. I knew George Clooney could sell my argument; all salt-and-pepper and glaring into the part of the body that makes women love strangers.
She said, “I must have this.”
“But wait!” I said
I dimmed the lights, lit the votives and stripped her naked. I walked around her and bound her to a mink coat. She rubbed her cheek against her lush shoulder and purred.
“Governance. Have you ever felt so beautiful?”
She hadn't.
Thomas Friedman was right when he said, “Of course, a lot of people offer quick-fix plans for how to stem the tide of material degradation, but in countries like Indonesia, plans are rarely implemented as intended.”
It didn't take a week for the people of Indonesia to trade in their gasoline for portable DVD players, Lebron James jerseys and subwoofers.
Sitting on the corner of a dirt road was a child, homeless with an ipod. He tried to hunt with it, but he scared away the animals as distorted music played from the dangling earbuds. He tried to keep himself warm with it, but the tiny LCD screen only generated enough heat for one earlobe. Before it died he tried to cover himself from the rain with it. There were millions like him. And as the forests were purged for western greed, the true population of the tech-savvy-homeless left the naked woods and took to the streets.
I remember being a runaway in Patterson New Jersey. I remember my home made of tarps. The floor made of more tarps. In comparison I had it good. I remember smelling like Clint Eastwood. I remember finding a pocket knife and being amazed at its uses.
After a lunch rush, a restaurant dumped a bag full of clams out back. I sat on the pebbles and broken road and used the knife to pry open the clams.
That was the best lunch I ever had.
Thomas Friedman once said, “Imagine a world without coral.”
I visited The Governance. Her 15th jester had died from drinking the plasma leaking from the wall of TVs. The Governance was ill with worry and malnourished. She was pink and white. I came to her bed side. “Governance, the comprehensive strategy of technology is not just a one-off plan. We need to help them.”
She replied. “We need a million Noahs and a million arks.”
She passed away at that moment. I thought about how I had been drawn to her. I thought about the living energy inside of us, our unexplained machinery churning all the stuff that has sustained us all.
I looked up to the most eastern region of heaven and asked Thomas Friedman to allow me to redefine my relationship with the natural world.
He said, “Have you read Hot, Flat and Crowded? That is the whole point.”
Maybe The Governance had passed away from affixation from her obsession with gasoline. Maybe it was the forests and farms being purged by westerners. Maybe it was the pacifying media.
Nevertheless, inside me, it was all of these things swirling that led to my decision to burn her palace down.
As The Governance rose to the most medium region of purgatory, her palace fell. Most of society had ascended to various levels of heaven.
34% remained. I looked down on them and listened to their cheers as ascending melodies. Flat and crowded met hot and make it hotter, and that was the start of a whole new set of problems.
Thomas Friedman was right when he said, “Much of this biodiversity in Indonesia is now under threat.”
It had been this way since gasoline became currency; I remember bartering with The Governance for the newest edition of The Guinness Book of World Records, which featured a scratch-and-sniff page of the world's worst smelling people. It starred Clint Eastwood. This explained the snarl of his face, as even he agreed at his disagreeable odor.
He is a hard-ass and I respect him for it. Being a hard-ass is what drew me to The Governance. She owns the police, a few million dollars in gasoline, and a jester. She is on her 15th jester.
This is all hearsay, but I believe the death of the first 14 jesters to be related to the illegal logging agreement The Governance made with westerners. I also believe the jesters now live in the most northern region of heaven. Like I said — it's all hearsay.
Thomas Friedman was right when he said “Indonesia exports raw labor, not brains.” The people had bad teeth and brown jeans. Things like lettermen jackets, cosmetics and votives didn't exist there.
I went to The Governance with luxury items and laid them at her feet. Kneeling, I said, “I made a mental note of how well traveled you could be and filed it away. I realize that the amount of gasoline you process does not weigh on your happiness. But Governance, have you ever smiled?”
She didn't answer but motioned for me to continue. I adjusted the volume on the ipod and played a clip from ER. I knew George Clooney could sell my argument; all salt-and-pepper and glaring into the part of the body that makes women love strangers.
She said, “I must have this.”
“But wait!” I said
I dimmed the lights, lit the votives and stripped her naked. I walked around her and bound her to a mink coat. She rubbed her cheek against her lush shoulder and purred.
“Governance. Have you ever felt so beautiful?”
She hadn't.
Thomas Friedman was right when he said, “Of course, a lot of people offer quick-fix plans for how to stem the tide of material degradation, but in countries like Indonesia, plans are rarely implemented as intended.”
It didn't take a week for the people of Indonesia to trade in their gasoline for portable DVD players, Lebron James jerseys and subwoofers.
Sitting on the corner of a dirt road was a child, homeless with an ipod. He tried to hunt with it, but he scared away the animals as distorted music played from the dangling earbuds. He tried to keep himself warm with it, but the tiny LCD screen only generated enough heat for one earlobe. Before it died he tried to cover himself from the rain with it. There were millions like him. And as the forests were purged for western greed, the true population of the tech-savvy-homeless left the naked woods and took to the streets.
I remember being a runaway in Patterson New Jersey. I remember my home made of tarps. The floor made of more tarps. In comparison I had it good. I remember smelling like Clint Eastwood. I remember finding a pocket knife and being amazed at its uses.
After a lunch rush, a restaurant dumped a bag full of clams out back. I sat on the pebbles and broken road and used the knife to pry open the clams.
That was the best lunch I ever had.
Thomas Friedman once said, “Imagine a world without coral.”
I visited The Governance. Her 15th jester had died from drinking the plasma leaking from the wall of TVs. The Governance was ill with worry and malnourished. She was pink and white. I came to her bed side. “Governance, the comprehensive strategy of technology is not just a one-off plan. We need to help them.”
She replied. “We need a million Noahs and a million arks.”
She passed away at that moment. I thought about how I had been drawn to her. I thought about the living energy inside of us, our unexplained machinery churning all the stuff that has sustained us all.
I looked up to the most eastern region of heaven and asked Thomas Friedman to allow me to redefine my relationship with the natural world.
He said, “Have you read Hot, Flat and Crowded? That is the whole point.”
Maybe The Governance had passed away from affixation from her obsession with gasoline. Maybe it was the forests and farms being purged by westerners. Maybe it was the pacifying media.
Nevertheless, inside me, it was all of these things swirling that led to my decision to burn her palace down.
As The Governance rose to the most medium region of purgatory, her palace fell. Most of society had ascended to various levels of heaven.
34% remained. I looked down on them and listened to their cheers as ascending melodies. Flat and crowded met hot and make it hotter, and that was the start of a whole new set of problems.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Burren
by jkdavies
Stone dykes and stone grykes,
soil disappears down the cracks
along with the grey rain.
Plants scramble to get a hold
before the water trickles away;
running deep down the inside of the hills
and reappearing in lakes and turloughs
miles away, palely reflective.
A human sized landscape, it is barren
only from a distance, up close it is rich.
Turf patches, handfuls of sweet earth.
Men have been here a long time,
they take the stone and make stone things,
tombs, dolmens, crosses, walls and forts;
and yes, shelters for contemplative priests.
The seminarian contemplates, up here alone
he can imagine the sloughing off of sin,
an oyster being rinsed by the rain,
gnarled outside, with a wet pearly interior.
Thoughts of disappearing down the cracks;
a strange fish swimming underground
through the darkened pewter flow
and sudden silvery streams, brief sunlight
on a karst spring, then back down
into a dark sinkhole.
Swimming ahead of the strange salmon
that has eaten the hazelnuts, Father Dermot
had warned them against the burden
of knowledge that the flesh carries.
Oh, flesh, how could he not have tasted it,
tasted hers, ripe and freckled when the sun
danced the lake water to exuberant sparkles?
He swims with sinuous strokes,
racing the salmon, twisting and spiralling,
grey mercurial water and the Atlantic awaits.
He thinks of the water cycle, imagines
himself rising as droplets of moisture
to rain again on the stark hills.
Rain on him, contemplating, contemplating.
Father told him he should be here for weeks,
and that a priest who has never fallen
into temptation is a priest out of touch with the flock.
He thinks he could stay here, forever, thinking
on the bare bones of the world.
[Barkeeper's note: please view jkdavies' photograph of the Burren here:
http://camelsaloonpostcards.blogspot.com/2010/07/greetings-fromthe-burren-county-clare.html]
Stone dykes and stone grykes,
soil disappears down the cracks
along with the grey rain.
Plants scramble to get a hold
before the water trickles away;
running deep down the inside of the hills
and reappearing in lakes and turloughs
miles away, palely reflective.
A human sized landscape, it is barren
only from a distance, up close it is rich.
Turf patches, handfuls of sweet earth.
Men have been here a long time,
they take the stone and make stone things,
tombs, dolmens, crosses, walls and forts;
and yes, shelters for contemplative priests.
The seminarian contemplates, up here alone
he can imagine the sloughing off of sin,
an oyster being rinsed by the rain,
gnarled outside, with a wet pearly interior.
Thoughts of disappearing down the cracks;
a strange fish swimming underground
through the darkened pewter flow
and sudden silvery streams, brief sunlight
on a karst spring, then back down
into a dark sinkhole.
Swimming ahead of the strange salmon
that has eaten the hazelnuts, Father Dermot
had warned them against the burden
of knowledge that the flesh carries.
Oh, flesh, how could he not have tasted it,
tasted hers, ripe and freckled when the sun
danced the lake water to exuberant sparkles?
He swims with sinuous strokes,
racing the salmon, twisting and spiralling,
grey mercurial water and the Atlantic awaits.
He thinks of the water cycle, imagines
himself rising as droplets of moisture
to rain again on the stark hills.
Rain on him, contemplating, contemplating.
Father told him he should be here for weeks,
and that a priest who has never fallen
into temptation is a priest out of touch with the flock.
He thinks he could stay here, forever, thinking
on the bare bones of the world.
[Barkeeper's note: please view jkdavies' photograph of the Burren here:
http://camelsaloonpostcards.blogspot.com/2010/07/greetings-fromthe-burren-county-clare.html]
Names from Another War
by Barry Basden
For three days, the Traveling Wall--
half maybe three-quarter size--
stands on a windy hill
in a far corner of the fort,
away from the bustle of the main post.
Families of a certain age
and old-timers in boonie hats
file past shiny black panels
and leave medals, faded photos, flowers
beneath remembered names.
So many names. Choked-up weeping.
A few salutes. Silence.
Nothing else but the wind
and, in the distance,
the dust of young soldiers preparing.
For three days, the Traveling Wall--
half maybe three-quarter size--
stands on a windy hill
in a far corner of the fort,
away from the bustle of the main post.
Families of a certain age
and old-timers in boonie hats
file past shiny black panels
and leave medals, faded photos, flowers
beneath remembered names.
So many names. Choked-up weeping.
A few salutes. Silence.
Nothing else but the wind
and, in the distance,
the dust of young soldiers preparing.
Water Spouts
by Morgen Streur
Why do conversations evaporate so easily?
Is it because we’re made of water that words & ideas float so freely,
on top of ear drums and off of tongue tips?
Are we affected so deeply by the current of our own thought-streams,
that dreams, with friends and loved ones, cease to matter in the long run?
The strongest swimmers survive
Through tsunamis and in rip-tides, I know that I’ll be fine….
But are you wrapped up in that vortex?
Are you numb from all the pretense?
To sensation I say “Good riddance,” I’m severing this poem at my cortex.
Reality 101
by Lynne Hayes
Today’s post is real. The names are not changed because these people are, well, I’ll let you decide for yourself.
Backstory:
I had a rather stressful day yesterday, so decided to visit with a friend who is a marvelous cheerer-upper. She knows I do not date, has been on me for a year to date and I keep telling her no. I will date when I find someone worth dating. Her bright idea was to see what is out there in the sea of men for our area. These are the excerpts from the dashing single men looking for a girlfriend. (Taken from a dating website)
tampadawg :
searching for a good hot woman
looking for a LADY with brains, personality, loyality,and a good body.
(This man had a picture of himself in a ripped t-shirt and mirror shades and he puts the emphasis on LADY)
red captain
searching for a good hot woman
looking for a LADY with brains, personality, loyality,and a good body
(Ole Red wants a “hot” woman..sizzling..but first Red needs to learn how to use spell check)
Inneedoffun49
I don't care much for shopping, watching a lot of TV.I am chiseled ,like to ride bmx bicycles log distance
(another spell check non-user. A couch potato, yes, my kind of guy, or we can ride bikes your grand kids ride for fun)
damontampa
for good person&happy
HI I AM A FUN LOVING PERSON WHO WOULD LIKE TO FIND SOME ONE WHO WANTS TO HAVE FUN AND BE HAPPY .I WOULD LIKE TO FIND LADY THAT HAS NO DRAMA ABOUT THE PAST .WITH A GOOD SENSE OF HUMOR
(Jesus, all caps. He already scares me. I bet he’s like a hyper Chihuahua dog)
Looking for good heardted woman
Time permitting, I am up for most any activity that does not include something dangerous or reckless
(What, don’t want to make bombs or kill anyone? Nope, gotta move on)
Looking fir some one to have fun with
I am old fashion guy who enjoys having fun, hanging out talking. I'm up for dinner and conversation. Been married for 27 years, but got a dear John letter a while back so now separated
Work is all I know-I have a big empty spot in my soul that is about to burst because I've been packing love and lust there. I love the heavier side of Rock-n-Roll but keep a open ear to the New stuff
(Oh good grief, a Dear John letter after 27 yrs? Hello??The light bulb is not too bright here)
mjrogers1962
Will fill this in later. Will fill this in later. Will fill this in later. Will fill this in later. Will fill this in later. Will fill this in later. Will fill this in later. Will fill this in late
(Mister, you are dry as a bone in the humor dept..)
Various Headlines :
Clyde seeking Bonnie (Never too late to go to jail)
Are you ready for some football??????? (As a matter of fact, no, I am not)
Headline coming soon (I’m on the edge of my seat with suspense)
seeking woman who knows she is beautiful (huh?)
wanted a good looking pritty lean woman (Is pritty lean sort of like purty leen?)
I am told I tend to be a bit anal about certain things (we all have our peeves, right?) (Uh, no!!!)
My name is Dewayne Walker and I am 48 years old. I have 4 daughters by the names of Jennifer, Jessica, Melissa, and Julia. I also have 5 grandchildren by the names of Amber, Shanna, Davarian, Loren, a Lakeland Florida (Damn dude, ever heard of Identity theft. Nope, scratch. Next)
So dear bloggers, I will remain as I have been these past months. Single, sane and so not looking up any of these fine fellows.
But then again, Tampadawg is a snazzy name.
Today’s post is real. The names are not changed because these people are, well, I’ll let you decide for yourself.
Backstory:
I had a rather stressful day yesterday, so decided to visit with a friend who is a marvelous cheerer-upper. She knows I do not date, has been on me for a year to date and I keep telling her no. I will date when I find someone worth dating. Her bright idea was to see what is out there in the sea of men for our area. These are the excerpts from the dashing single men looking for a girlfriend. (Taken from a dating website)
tampadawg :
searching for a good hot woman
looking for a LADY with brains, personality, loyality,and a good body.
(This man had a picture of himself in a ripped t-shirt and mirror shades and he puts the emphasis on LADY)
red captain
searching for a good hot woman
looking for a LADY with brains, personality, loyality,and a good body
(Ole Red wants a “hot” woman..sizzling..but first Red needs to learn how to use spell check)
Inneedoffun49
I don't care much for shopping, watching a lot of TV.I am chiseled ,like to ride bmx bicycles log distance
(another spell check non-user. A couch potato, yes, my kind of guy, or we can ride bikes your grand kids ride for fun)
damontampa
for good person&happy
HI I AM A FUN LOVING PERSON WHO WOULD LIKE TO FIND SOME ONE WHO WANTS TO HAVE FUN AND BE HAPPY .I WOULD LIKE TO FIND LADY THAT HAS NO DRAMA ABOUT THE PAST .WITH A GOOD SENSE OF HUMOR
(Jesus, all caps. He already scares me. I bet he’s like a hyper Chihuahua dog)
Looking for good heardted woman
Time permitting, I am up for most any activity that does not include something dangerous or reckless
(What, don’t want to make bombs or kill anyone? Nope, gotta move on)
Looking fir some one to have fun with
I am old fashion guy who enjoys having fun, hanging out talking. I'm up for dinner and conversation. Been married for 27 years, but got a dear John letter a while back so now separated
Work is all I know-I have a big empty spot in my soul that is about to burst because I've been packing love and lust there. I love the heavier side of Rock-n-Roll but keep a open ear to the New stuff
(Oh good grief, a Dear John letter after 27 yrs? Hello??The light bulb is not too bright here)
mjrogers1962
Will fill this in later. Will fill this in later. Will fill this in later. Will fill this in later. Will fill this in later. Will fill this in later. Will fill this in later. Will fill this in late
(Mister, you are dry as a bone in the humor dept..)
Various Headlines :
Clyde seeking Bonnie (Never too late to go to jail)
Are you ready for some football??????? (As a matter of fact, no, I am not)
Headline coming soon (I’m on the edge of my seat with suspense)
seeking woman who knows she is beautiful (huh?)
wanted a good looking pritty lean woman (Is pritty lean sort of like purty leen?)
I am told I tend to be a bit anal about certain things (we all have our peeves, right?) (Uh, no!!!)
My name is Dewayne Walker and I am 48 years old. I have 4 daughters by the names of Jennifer, Jessica, Melissa, and Julia. I also have 5 grandchildren by the names of Amber, Shanna, Davarian, Loren, a Lakeland Florida (Damn dude, ever heard of Identity theft. Nope, scratch. Next)
So dear bloggers, I will remain as I have been these past months. Single, sane and so not looking up any of these fine fellows.
But then again, Tampadawg is a snazzy name.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
SUNDAY MORNING WITH BILL AND EVA
by John Grey
The bell was ringing loudly
when Bill and Eva scrambled up the
hillside path toward the church.
They were the very tail
of the throng pouring in.
Ahead of them were glances this way, that way,
quick summations of just how good
was everybody's else's Sunday best.
He was still tucking in his shirt front.
She was already panicked that
her petticoat would show.
Sure, they had to keep their date with God
but it didn't do to arrive dressed for the devil.
They sat just as chatter turned to prayer,
and the preacher climbed the dais
to his waiting Bible.
Beyond the window, pigeons cooed
to the sermon drone
or waddled clear of boisterous singing.
And then the bells rang once more,
and people left in various stages
of comfort with their judgment day.
Bill and Eve led the pack this time,
he still fidgeting with his shirt,
she glancing down as if a stray
lace seam was a doorway into hell.
What a sight they made,
the couple, then the crowd
and, at the rear, the preacher
closing the church door.
An hour before, religion inhaled.
Now, it exhaled.
The bell was ringing loudly
when Bill and Eva scrambled up the
hillside path toward the church.
They were the very tail
of the throng pouring in.
Ahead of them were glances this way, that way,
quick summations of just how good
was everybody's else's Sunday best.
He was still tucking in his shirt front.
She was already panicked that
her petticoat would show.
Sure, they had to keep their date with God
but it didn't do to arrive dressed for the devil.
They sat just as chatter turned to prayer,
and the preacher climbed the dais
to his waiting Bible.
Beyond the window, pigeons cooed
to the sermon drone
or waddled clear of boisterous singing.
And then the bells rang once more,
and people left in various stages
of comfort with their judgment day.
Bill and Eve led the pack this time,
he still fidgeting with his shirt,
she glancing down as if a stray
lace seam was a doorway into hell.
What a sight they made,
the couple, then the crowd
and, at the rear, the preacher
closing the church door.
An hour before, religion inhaled.
Now, it exhaled.
Tropical Dangers [jaguar 1, whiteman 0]
by Devin Streur
Things that eat whiteman
jaguar
piranhas
Things that whiteman eats
tapioca
cayenne
Things that leave whiteman alone
tapir
toucan
petunia
Meadow Madness
by Cheryl Zovich
It's genetic, this madness
and addiction to color,
to textures. Lusting for the
precise arrangement of
height and hue, I toil
to restrain nature, struggle
with forcing chaos to
conform to my idea
of beauty. But the meadow
presses in, unfettered by
limitations. No balance or
arrangement by color chips of
perfection, no agenda, conundrum
or rules. It doesn't waste
precious time wishing
portulaca might be blue.
It's genetic, this madness
and addiction to color,
to textures. Lusting for the
precise arrangement of
height and hue, I toil
to restrain nature, struggle
with forcing chaos to
conform to my idea
of beauty. But the meadow
presses in, unfettered by
limitations. No balance or
arrangement by color chips of
perfection, no agenda, conundrum
or rules. It doesn't waste
precious time wishing
portulaca might be blue.
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