by Charles Watts
The woman was in black, hair and clothing italicized with grey
We met beside the photo of a concrete silo rigid in the sun
At the Art Opening. Both agreed that this was the photog’s
Finest work so far, that the thrust and shadow were pure examples of
The golden mean, a vision from a master. Her eyes were an ancient sea
A burial ground of lost ships, of amphora sealed, still filled with olive oil
And sweet Shirazi wine. Her lips were feather pillows plump and bold
And fluffed up for my comfort. I was as casual as a sighing man can be
As we descended the stairs and made for the Ceramics lab below the gallery.
There, amongst the potters wheels and clay, I fiddled with her bra strap
And she with my button fly and down she slid as I exploded into
Wakefulness, tumescent phallus throbbing in the poster bed
That rowed me lonely through the stormy Adirondack night.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Night: January 15th 2010
by Mike Meraz
the cops pull me over.
the cops ask my name.
the cops take me out of my car.
the cops frisk me up and down.
the cops put me into their squad car.
the cops ask me questions.
they hand cuff me.
they take me to their jail.
they sit me down.
they say I have 3 phone calls.
I call my sister
my aunt
and my lawyer.
I walk out of jail
and into the cold night air.
with no car.
and 100 dollars in my pocket..
I ask a man,
"which way is Heaven?"
he says, "that way."
I head “that way” thinking,
"I have to change."
the cops pull me over.
the cops ask my name.
the cops take me out of my car.
the cops frisk me up and down.
the cops put me into their squad car.
the cops ask me questions.
they hand cuff me.
they take me to their jail.
they sit me down.
they say I have 3 phone calls.
I call my sister
my aunt
and my lawyer.
I walk out of jail
and into the cold night air.
with no car.
and 100 dollars in my pocket..
I ask a man,
"which way is Heaven?"
he says, "that way."
I head “that way” thinking,
"I have to change."
DARK HARBINGERS
by Clyde L. Borg
Ere the dawn
An equine neighs,
An awkward bird
Strikes a pane,
A cock crows,
And a leafless tree
Succumbs and falls,
All foretokens of death.
Ere the dawn
An equine neighs,
An awkward bird
Strikes a pane,
A cock crows,
And a leafless tree
Succumbs and falls,
All foretokens of death.
High Floaters’ Hardship
by KJ Hannah Greenberg
Eyrie height, cliffs, trees
Satisfied hunters, except
Those twins sibling-snuffed.
Eyrie height, cliffs, trees
Satisfied hunters, except
Those twins sibling-snuffed.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Siren Song of Swan Lake
by Ailill
Inside the magical underwater kingdom
of the lake, night world dimensions
of Hades, where the clouds roll backwards,
dreaming up, trees branch downwards,
reality ripples inward, and everything appears
as if seen through a rearview mirror,
there lives a lonely old crone,
howling out of the pit of despair.
From the surface we see her bone
exposed skin, moss covered hair,
rotten sulfur egg stink, smoked ghosts,
and the musk of crusty old fish guts.
But is it only the shadow
of our own reflections,
seen through the doors
of misperception?
Does the magic of her mystery
contain an elusive beauty?
Shy of this world,
could she really be
a mind-blowing
mermaid girl?
At first I dreamed of visiting
her lair through the versing
of a poem,
but growing scared,
I thought better of this affair,
because if you draw near,
she likes to nibble at your ear,
whisper sweet nothings
no one else can hear,
hold you in her embrace,
never letting go.
Yet, seeking out her secret gold,
didn’t heroes of old dare to defy
her tests?
Taking the plunge into
the deathly chill
of the waters still,
Perseus fell to the depths
of her forbidden well.
Finding her so seductive
he thought she was his wife,
for her he was willing
to sacrifice his own life.
Allured by the forces of the unknown,
maybe king Polydectes enjoyed
being turned into stone.
After all, how else could he stay
within her sight?
Dante thought he had found a key
to the portal of heaven.
Beowulf,
northern bard and knight,
Izanagi,
of Japanese legend,
Sindbad,
sailor of a 1001 nights,
only through the yarn of myths
can I glean clues to her gifts.
But dear sleeper, this queen
of Thanatos finds us at night,
in the coma induced dreams
of Morpheus, her images entice.
On the count of three
the two worlds interweave,
dressed in her evening best
ready for the banquet,
thoughts turn cold,
dream windows
take hold.
Fear turns into acceptance
In silences peaceful.
Her presence
A reminder
In
Out
In
Drumbeat rhythms
Sooner or later,
We will all find her.
Inside the magical underwater kingdom
of the lake, night world dimensions
of Hades, where the clouds roll backwards,
dreaming up, trees branch downwards,
reality ripples inward, and everything appears
as if seen through a rearview mirror,
there lives a lonely old crone,
howling out of the pit of despair.
From the surface we see her bone
exposed skin, moss covered hair,
rotten sulfur egg stink, smoked ghosts,
and the musk of crusty old fish guts.
But is it only the shadow
of our own reflections,
seen through the doors
of misperception?
Does the magic of her mystery
contain an elusive beauty?
Shy of this world,
could she really be
a mind-blowing
mermaid girl?
At first I dreamed of visiting
her lair through the versing
of a poem,
but growing scared,
I thought better of this affair,
because if you draw near,
she likes to nibble at your ear,
whisper sweet nothings
no one else can hear,
hold you in her embrace,
never letting go.
Yet, seeking out her secret gold,
didn’t heroes of old dare to defy
her tests?
Taking the plunge into
the deathly chill
of the waters still,
Perseus fell to the depths
of her forbidden well.
Finding her so seductive
he thought she was his wife,
for her he was willing
to sacrifice his own life.
Allured by the forces of the unknown,
maybe king Polydectes enjoyed
being turned into stone.
After all, how else could he stay
within her sight?
Dante thought he had found a key
to the portal of heaven.
Beowulf,
northern bard and knight,
Izanagi,
of Japanese legend,
Sindbad,
sailor of a 1001 nights,
only through the yarn of myths
can I glean clues to her gifts.
But dear sleeper, this queen
of Thanatos finds us at night,
in the coma induced dreams
of Morpheus, her images entice.
On the count of three
the two worlds interweave,
dressed in her evening best
ready for the banquet,
thoughts turn cold,
dream windows
take hold.
Fear turns into acceptance
In silences peaceful.
Her presence
A reminder
In
Out
In
Drumbeat rhythms
Sooner or later,
We will all find her.
Rapscallion
by Mike Berger
I've been down this ugly road a dozen
times or more. I've done some damage
along the way; leaving a string of broken
hearts. Striking up torrid love affairs, then
leaving without a word.
Always able to find a job and make a
little money. Dollars were made to be
spent and I rarely have cent to my name.
I drink only good scotch and I know how
to romance a woman.
Driving a new Porsche, I'm six months
behind on my payments. I don't fear the
repo boys, I'm gone before the can
track me down. It's a perpetual game
of hide and seek where the repo boys
are always it.
I'm getting old and not as quick as I
once was, but I still have my mojo.
I hold to the principle that good die
young; that way I will live another
thirty years.
I've been down this ugly road a dozen
times or more. I've done some damage
along the way; leaving a string of broken
hearts. Striking up torrid love affairs, then
leaving without a word.
Always able to find a job and make a
little money. Dollars were made to be
spent and I rarely have cent to my name.
I drink only good scotch and I know how
to romance a woman.
Driving a new Porsche, I'm six months
behind on my payments. I don't fear the
repo boys, I'm gone before the can
track me down. It's a perpetual game
of hide and seek where the repo boys
are always it.
I'm getting old and not as quick as I
once was, but I still have my mojo.
I hold to the principle that good die
young; that way I will live another
thirty years.
Soul Star
by Raymond Keen
Why would I
not sing to you
in tears of
vermillion fire?
Sing the fires of blue flame,
sing the rage of form.
For these words
no location,
in the blood-red
depths of an apple-green
paradise.
Yes, yes your azure eyes
speak mine.
You breathe Bordeaux.
Your body is a rainbow
in this gunmetal world.
Heather me, feather me
in this gunmetal world.
Your seraphic soul
a star sapphire,
your roots a verdant green.
Awaken me
you do
in this
most pale night.
You cry out in me.
Why would I
not sing to you
in tears of
vermillion fire?
Sing the fires of blue flame,
sing the rage of form.
For these words
no location,
in the blood-red
depths of an apple-green
paradise.
Yes, yes your azure eyes
speak mine.
You breathe Bordeaux.
Your body is a rainbow
in this gunmetal world.
Heather me, feather me
in this gunmetal world.
Your seraphic soul
a star sapphire,
your roots a verdant green.
Awaken me
you do
in this
most pale night.
You cry out in me.
The Incident at Communion Service
by Don Jennings
Coleman Hawkins came back to church today. He hadn't attended in a while. I don't know where he'd been, though I'd wondered about him. When we passed each other in the doorway of the vestibule, he smiled, held the door for me, and said “Good Morning, Ma'am.” I think I actually smiled back at him as I passed. That was how comfortable I felt. I guess time really does heal all.
The first time I saw him watching me, let me tell you, that was another matter. I was in line to take Communion, listening to the pastor repeat the familiar words about the body and the blood of the Savior to the person in front, when I felt his eyes on me. Coleman's eyes, I mean. They touched me, like a stranger had reached out and wrapped his hand around my hip.
I turned to look, to see who it was, and there he sat in the middle pew, all dark eyes and hair and that intent stare. Taking me in, all at once. Not just gawking at my figure, or forcing eye contact like some guys will do, but absorbing me from head to toe. For a moment it was just me and him. And I was naked.
I mean, other people were still in the church, too, I guess. But I lost awareness of them. And I suppose I still had my clothes on, in the literal sense. But I felt bare.
I don't mean I felt naked like in a dream where everyone else is clothed, but you're not, so you're all embarrassed. I mean I felt “nude”. Like I was a classical statue in a museum, or maybe a model in a swimsuit shot who got caught up in the moment and showed too much skin. Or like I was posing for one of those girlie magazines. Which, of course, is something I would never do. Though I have thought about
it, once or twice. Late at night.
Anyway, there I stood, exposed, alone in the sanctuary with this man whose I name I did not even know at the time, when I heard the pastor's voice. He was summoning me. Not to follow Jesus, I mean I guess that too, but he was telling me the line had moved and it was my turn to take Communion. So I swallowed the wafer, sipped the juice, and hurried back to my place beside Jack in the pew.
Jack is a wonderful husband. He likes to talk about his “wild” days back in the army, but as far as I can tell, the worst thing he ever did was stayed up late playing poker and drinking beer. He's real predictable, and that's a good thing in a husband. We make love twice a week. Usually once on a weekday evening, then again on Saturday. He likes to see me naked in the afternoon sunshine, with the rays coming through the window above the curtains, bathing my skin in daylight.
I would never do anything to hurt Jack. For weeks after it happened--after the indiscretion with Coleman, I mean--I prayed for forgiveness every night. Well, maybe not every night, but definitely on the nights I made love with Jack, I prayed. I begged God not to let my secret get out and hurt my husband. I asked that Coleman Hawkins be struck mute, or something like that, so that no one could ever know what took place between us. I took my case to The Father, confessed, repented... and then just went on about my business. I bought groceries. Picked up the kids from school. I acted as if nothing had ever happened, and after a while, it almost seemed as if it hadn't.
Now, I rarely ever think about it. Just sometimes late at night, when Jack is snoring gently beside me, and I am alone with my thoughts. Or sometimes, just every once in a long while, when I close my eyes and turn inward, towards my secrets, on our sunlit bed of a Saturday afternoon.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
The Digital Clock Hotel
South of Hartford, Connecticut
by Noel J. Hadley
I kid you not. Pain and agony – there
is no healthier way to put it.
To say my bones ache, ha! I think my spine
just exploded. All night iron
fists pulsate my back. And then, reaching for
pain killers, a land mine detonates!
That is about the extent of my night –
In bed, cold, swallowed in agony.
I shall never forget the sting of death,
as though all my youth had been bested,
beaten in one final blow to the bone.
That is the full degree of the night.
Except I have failed to cite the length of
the slow drive through a despondent blizzard,
and how, when pulling off the interstate
I spilled charred coffee across my lap.
The only hotel was blistered in heaps.
True, but everyone swore it wasn’t.
The gas station attendant, the Waffle
House hostess – they pointed me in this
direction. Five times – Yes, I say five times
I spun my car down the icy hill,
crossing ghost paths with a charcoaled hotel.
Then, on my sixth try, I kid you not,
I stumbled upon this place, VACANCY
sign aglow – the V and N darkened.
That is about the extent of the night.
Now I am in bed passing the time.
Cold, broken, alone – Death molested me.
Where are you youth? We were together
for a moment, it seems, or perhaps two.
A moment, a day, a week, decades,
what does it matter? Everything before
perdition is a childhood dream. Now
seconds tick as minutes – hours as days.
Please, grant me the breath to kiss the flesh
of youth, if only in a lucid dream.
To grace, let me sleep, fashion a beard.
I fear I shall never leave this place – that
the sun shall never rise – that this
bed should always plague my bones – this hotel,
that it would descend into ashy
embers, plowed by an eternal blizzard,
that I should be a covetous ghost
in winter, always alone, – craving youth.
So, that is the extent of the night.
Still, the part that I will not soon forget
isn’t the blizzard, coffee, hostess,
burnt down hotel in heaps, nor corpse groans.
The greatest torments of hell rest not
in those, but in the damned digital
timepiece taunting me from the in-table.
Yes, taunt! That miserable device,
inching ever so slowly through the night.
I kid you not. Pain and agony – there
is no healthier way to put it.
To say my bones ache, ha! I think my spine
just exploded. All night iron
fists pulsate my back. And then, reaching for
pain killers, a land mine detonates!
That is about the extent of my night –
In bed, cold, swallowed in agony.
I shall never forget the sting of death,
as though all my youth had been bested,
beaten in one final blow to the bone.
That is the full degree of the night.
Except I have failed to cite the length of
the slow drive through a despondent blizzard,
and how, when pulling off the interstate
I spilled charred coffee across my lap.
The only hotel was blistered in heaps.
True, but everyone swore it wasn’t.
The gas station attendant, the Waffle
House hostess – they pointed me in this
direction. Five times – Yes, I say five times
I spun my car down the icy hill,
crossing ghost paths with a charcoaled hotel.
Then, on my sixth try, I kid you not,
I stumbled upon this place, VACANCY
sign aglow – the V and N darkened.
That is about the extent of the night.
Now I am in bed passing the time.
Cold, broken, alone – Death molested me.
Where are you youth? We were together
for a moment, it seems, or perhaps two.
A moment, a day, a week, decades,
what does it matter? Everything before
perdition is a childhood dream. Now
seconds tick as minutes – hours as days.
Please, grant me the breath to kiss the flesh
of youth, if only in a lucid dream.
To grace, let me sleep, fashion a beard.
I fear I shall never leave this place – that
the sun shall never rise – that this
bed should always plague my bones – this hotel,
that it would descend into ashy
embers, plowed by an eternal blizzard,
that I should be a covetous ghost
in winter, always alone, – craving youth.
So, that is the extent of the night.
Still, the part that I will not soon forget
isn’t the blizzard, coffee, hostess,
burnt down hotel in heaps, nor corpse groans.
The greatest torments of hell rest not
in those, but in the damned digital
timepiece taunting me from the in-table.
Yes, taunt! That miserable device,
inching ever so slowly through the night.
Refraction
by Rebecca Gaffron
I look in the mirror of your eyes and see myself, as I see myself, and wonder what you see. You, who called me beautiful while your calloused thumb rubbed traces of Halloween-costume-freckles from my smooth cheek. You gazed at me under a streetlight all but over-powered by the orange glow of a harvest moon. And it was clear you loved in that moment before your lips met mine. For an instant I wondered how and then the feel of you made me forget to question.
Now all I can think of is the reflection of your smile distorted by glistening water. A line whips and circles in the air. A lure, so light—freshly tied and real. The cast is perfect. I am mesmerized by infinitely swaying loops outlined against sky, like some complicated incantation, working and weaving the designs of the universe into our own desires. Willing this fish to strike.
And I can’t tell if I’m the fish or the fisherman. Not sure who is catching who. Not that it matters. The hook is set and the work begins. We play each other. Reel in the slack and come up close, close enough to look in the mirror of the other’s eyes, where we see ourselves as we see ourselves and wonder what the other sees.
I could be a fish in your grasp. Caught. A gift you’d gaze heavenward and give thanks for. Or you, slick in my hands . A gift I’d tremble with gratitude for. But the run isn’t finished yet. So speckled, iridescent skin slips through hesitant fingers and the line pays out again.
I ache to trust you the way I have never trusted. I ache for you to kill me fast and set my soul free. I want to feel you split me open. Offer my depths to the river and watch as spring-cold currents wash away this mistrust. This doubt. This fear of surrender. I would do the same for you. Rub you down with juniper and salt, protecting more than flesh. Preserving those bits you thought you’d lost.
We could accept the gift of a magic fish. We could look into its eyes and see ourselves as we see ourselves, but also possibilities—a lifetime of harvest moons together and the lingering sound of your guitar, or my words, or the laughter of our children.
But then your lips meet mine and I wonder if this is refraction or reality, before the risk of losing you makes me forget to question.
I look in the mirror of your eyes and see myself, as I see myself, and wonder what you see. You, who called me beautiful while your calloused thumb rubbed traces of Halloween-costume-freckles from my smooth cheek. You gazed at me under a streetlight all but over-powered by the orange glow of a harvest moon. And it was clear you loved in that moment before your lips met mine. For an instant I wondered how and then the feel of you made me forget to question.
Now all I can think of is the reflection of your smile distorted by glistening water. A line whips and circles in the air. A lure, so light—freshly tied and real. The cast is perfect. I am mesmerized by infinitely swaying loops outlined against sky, like some complicated incantation, working and weaving the designs of the universe into our own desires. Willing this fish to strike.
And I can’t tell if I’m the fish or the fisherman. Not sure who is catching who. Not that it matters. The hook is set and the work begins. We play each other. Reel in the slack and come up close, close enough to look in the mirror of the other’s eyes, where we see ourselves as we see ourselves and wonder what the other sees.
I could be a fish in your grasp. Caught. A gift you’d gaze heavenward and give thanks for. Or you, slick in my hands . A gift I’d tremble with gratitude for. But the run isn’t finished yet. So speckled, iridescent skin slips through hesitant fingers and the line pays out again.
I ache to trust you the way I have never trusted. I ache for you to kill me fast and set my soul free. I want to feel you split me open. Offer my depths to the river and watch as spring-cold currents wash away this mistrust. This doubt. This fear of surrender. I would do the same for you. Rub you down with juniper and salt, protecting more than flesh. Preserving those bits you thought you’d lost.
We could accept the gift of a magic fish. We could look into its eyes and see ourselves as we see ourselves, but also possibilities—a lifetime of harvest moons together and the lingering sound of your guitar, or my words, or the laughter of our children.
But then your lips meet mine and I wonder if this is refraction or reality, before the risk of losing you makes me forget to question.
Gacyville, 1986
by David S. Pointer
Subjected to a criminal justice grad student
wanting me to accompany her ambitions—
interviewing John Wayne Gacy in Illinois
abut his atrocious crime resume convictions
where this killer clown may use his own
casket lowering rope as birthday party lasso
entertaining Satan’s flock of serial killers
Subjected to a criminal justice grad student
wanting me to accompany her ambitions—
interviewing John Wayne Gacy in Illinois
abut his atrocious crime resume convictions
where this killer clown may use his own
casket lowering rope as birthday party lasso
entertaining Satan’s flock of serial killers
Fleeing The Line
by Jason E. Hodges
Crossing state lines
First takes crossing the line drawn in your mind
For they are as real as lines drawn in the sand
Crossing over for what you knew was right
For it was time get away
Get away from the lies
Get away so you could have time to think
Get away from all the broken promises of change
From the begging and pleading that came so easily
When a comfortable home and wife was drifting from sight
From the tears that dried up so quickly once you said all was alright
You left all this deception behind
To sit on the blacktop hills covered in clover
To sit on the hills of your childhood home
For sometimes you have to take control of your life
Before losing control of it all
It takes courage to say you’ve had enough
It takes strength to do the unthinkable
To not only stand up for what you believe in
But to stand up and walk out the door
Out with your child in hand
Your little girl you had to protect
For a little girl being raised looks to her mother’s example
She’s learning how to become a woman
And a mother not walked over
Will raise a fine young lady
A lady that will look back on the memory
Of her mother finding enough courage to cross state lines
Crossing state lines
First takes crossing the line drawn in your mind
For they are as real as lines drawn in the sand
Crossing over for what you knew was right
For it was time get away
Get away from the lies
Get away so you could have time to think
Get away from all the broken promises of change
From the begging and pleading that came so easily
When a comfortable home and wife was drifting from sight
From the tears that dried up so quickly once you said all was alright
You left all this deception behind
To sit on the blacktop hills covered in clover
To sit on the hills of your childhood home
For sometimes you have to take control of your life
Before losing control of it all
It takes courage to say you’ve had enough
It takes strength to do the unthinkable
To not only stand up for what you believe in
But to stand up and walk out the door
Out with your child in hand
Your little girl you had to protect
For a little girl being raised looks to her mother’s example
She’s learning how to become a woman
And a mother not walked over
Will raise a fine young lady
A lady that will look back on the memory
Of her mother finding enough courage to cross state lines
Hell Hath No Fury
by Cynthia Ruth Lewis
I wasn't born this way.
I didn't come out of a box like this.
My bitterness
has been many years in the making
and, I'd say, par for the fucking course
Just because the majority of my poems
are bitter, twisted and dark
doesn't mean I'm just a surly, pessimistic fuck
with nothing better to do
I used to be nice
I used to be trusting, sweet and vulnerable
until I gave my heart away too many times
to the wrong men,
the kind that ate women like me for dinner
men I used to believe would love and protect me,
assure me of my beauty and worth,
save me, resurrect me
but all I got was defiled and lied to
and taken for rides
until I no longer even recalled
what I'd been searching for in the first place
It didn't take me long
to find all the darkness, greed and ugliness
lurking behind their smiles
beyond their groping hands
and within their vicious thrusts,
corrupting my self-respect
raping my faith
and crushing my soul
until the day I rose out of my own ashes
and called things as I saw fit;
spat it back in their faces
and made them see the real me
made them understood
how far their actions and lies had gone
This is one pot who's not afraid
to call the kettle black,
one who's finally learned to view
their 'good intentions' through the eyes of scorn...
Lord knows I've never been one
to wear my heart on my sleeve,
but hang mine out enough times to dry,
and I'll make you wish I was never born
MY PONY
by Lee Stern
I don’t know if my pony likes it where he is.
Or if he’d rather be back with me.
I spent a lot of time asking myself that question.
When I should have been asking myself other questions.
Like, are they feeding him apples?
And letting him roam freely in the field when he chooses?
Have they given him a quiet place in the barn
where he can be with his mother
when that strikes him as the thing that he wants to do?
Or are they doing other things, perhaps?
Are they letting him roam over to where the bell tower used to be?
And where the man who rang it quietly one day,
rode steadily away on his horse?
I don’t know if my pony likes it where he is.
Or if he’d rather be back with me.
I spent a lot of time asking myself that question.
When I should have been asking myself other questions.
Like, are they feeding him apples?
And letting him roam freely in the field when he chooses?
Have they given him a quiet place in the barn
where he can be with his mother
when that strikes him as the thing that he wants to do?
Or are they doing other things, perhaps?
Are they letting him roam over to where the bell tower used to be?
And where the man who rang it quietly one day,
rode steadily away on his horse?
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
The Act of Light
by Austin McCarron
Believe me, that’s all I know,
the crime of beards,
marching
through visions
and bowing to the scheme of trains.
Guides appear and the rain is blind.
All night I follow the line, past buildings
and huts,
barns of time,
where giant haystacks of ice blue veins
bleed like types of air.
Temporarily
I beseech the act of light,
on the ground, hiding the birth of voices.
Believe me, that’s all I know,
the crime of beards,
marching
through visions
and bowing to the scheme of trains.
Guides appear and the rain is blind.
All night I follow the line, past buildings
and huts,
barns of time,
where giant haystacks of ice blue veins
bleed like types of air.
Temporarily
I beseech the act of light,
on the ground, hiding the birth of voices.
Night out
by Michael Holme
“Easy living” on piano seduces in the soundscape
with the drummer’s brushes pushing.
They beckon abundant filigrees
floating in the air.
People guard whiskey,
and gin chaser collections.
Alongside hedgehog ashtrays
doused in tar.
His thigh feels taps of the bassist crotchets,
at an andante tic-toc speed.
He could kill to hear Piaf in the mix,
regardless of his lack of French.
Any sultry singing would do though,
the cream on this audio mocha.
In the downstairs toilet a message reads,
“Anyone dealing in drugs
will be barred and reported to the police.”
At twenty steps down, heels are sirens.
How it works is anyone’s guess.
The light down here shocks his pupils,
and the purity of the air revitalises.
He’s an easel relieving himself, forearm on wall.
Then he crouches to forcibly throw.
This is what he calls a night out, alone.
“Easy living” on piano seduces in the soundscape
with the drummer’s brushes pushing.
They beckon abundant filigrees
floating in the air.
People guard whiskey,
and gin chaser collections.
Alongside hedgehog ashtrays
doused in tar.
His thigh feels taps of the bassist crotchets,
at an andante tic-toc speed.
He could kill to hear Piaf in the mix,
regardless of his lack of French.
Any sultry singing would do though,
the cream on this audio mocha.
In the downstairs toilet a message reads,
“Anyone dealing in drugs
will be barred and reported to the police.”
At twenty steps down, heels are sirens.
How it works is anyone’s guess.
The light down here shocks his pupils,
and the purity of the air revitalises.
He’s an easel relieving himself, forearm on wall.
Then he crouches to forcibly throw.
This is what he calls a night out, alone.
Windows of Understanding:
Middle East Tete’ a Tete’
by KJ Hannah Greenberg
Tattered blue and white banners,
Made in Korea,
Exclaim mistaken fidelity.
Moms, lipsticked like pit bulls,
Push expectations past climaxes,
Resolved by vibrating nations.
Interesting, isn’t it, when enemies
Insist children’s value decreases
Where we need bombs.
If I could capture and slay
The desert hyena crying outside my salon
Windows of understanding would prevail.
Tattered blue and white banners,
Made in Korea,
Exclaim mistaken fidelity.
Moms, lipsticked like pit bulls,
Push expectations past climaxes,
Resolved by vibrating nations.
Interesting, isn’t it, when enemies
Insist children’s value decreases
Where we need bombs.
If I could capture and slay
The desert hyena crying outside my salon
Windows of understanding would prevail.
Armadillo Home
Rush Hour, Chicago
by Donal Mahoney
Early evening traffic's
rather heavy.
Autos armadillo home
along the Outer Drive
as out of mouths of buildings
people enter mouths
of anything that moves
wherever every evening
they are going. Tonight
they interrupt the passion
of another person’s day,
the crone astride the hydrant
who once again this evening
bows and swoops and curses
as she burlaps broken glass
gives the finger to nice people
propped in autos staring
as she lets the traffic pass.
Early evening traffic's
rather heavy.
Autos armadillo home
along the Outer Drive
as out of mouths of buildings
people enter mouths
of anything that moves
wherever every evening
they are going. Tonight
they interrupt the passion
of another person’s day,
the crone astride the hydrant
who once again this evening
bows and swoops and curses
as she burlaps broken glass
gives the finger to nice people
propped in autos staring
as she lets the traffic pass.
Paths on the Beach - Nonet
by Pat St. Pierre
Footprints on sand while ocean waves crash.
Walking alone in heavy steps
Then shells and seaweed wash in.
The sea washes the sand
As salt smell lingers.
Paths erased from beach.
White sand alters.
Once again
Deep tracks
Show.
Footprints on sand while ocean waves crash.
Walking alone in heavy steps
Then shells and seaweed wash in.
The sea washes the sand
As salt smell lingers.
Paths erased from beach.
White sand alters.
Once again
Deep tracks
Show.
VAMLET: HORATIO’S DARKSIDE
by Edgar Rider
Former would be King Hamlet now Vamlet ponders his situation. How did he end up becoming a vampire.
Horatio his faithful companion is equally perplexed. Horatio sitting near a tree does not hear the footsteps of impending intruders.
The gravediggers aka the Clowns use their magic dust on Horatio.
He sneaks up on Vamlet. "Horatio is that you?"
Before Vamlet can utter another word Horatio coldcocks him from behind
"I feel funny," Horatio says as a scowl dawns his face. "But in a good devious way."
Horatio knows what he must do. He rides into town. Horatio is usually weak but finds unusual strength in his newfound darkness. Horatio takes over the throne by force. The gravediggers fight alongside their new cohort. Horatio slices and dices his way to clear cut victory.
Horatio sits on the throne. "King Horatio. I like the sound of that." He waits for a second as if hearing applause. "They never saw this coming." He then pauses as if having a conversation with himself. "Sidekick, my left family jewel."
The transfixed guards lead Vamlet into the room. They force Vamlet to a kneeling position looking up at Horatio. Vamlet is still stunned by his best friends betrayal. "What is this? My best friend. Why you vermin." He pauses gather his thoughts. "What spell are you under anyway?"
He notices the gravediggers who have now morphed into clowns. "Ah yes that explains it all. Do not fear Horatio, I shall bring you back to your former self."
Vamlet is led away in chains. King Horatio smiles and shrugs his shoulders. What was Vamlet talking about . Oh well for now I am enjoying this.
Better to be king for one day then a peon for a lifetime.
How will Vamlet get out of this one. And will Horatio go back to being his former self. Too soon to tell.........
Editor's Note: Edgar Rider's idea of Vamlet came from a cheesy Halloween costume, inspring the combination of e a vampire with Hamlet. Tales of Vamlet have appeared in the Short Humor Site, 69 Flavors of Paranoia, and will be featured in the upcoming November issue of WeirdYear.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Fuck You, Fuck Me
by Cynthia Ruth Lewis
I'm almost glad I gave my heart to you, asshole;
I'm almost glad you took me for a ride—
you really opened my eyes
I already had a bad attitude
when it came to men
but I took a chance on you
because you seemed so damned sincere,
but you ended up being
the worst one of them all
You stole what little faith I had left
and hung it out to dry
but I can't rightly say I hate you—
I hate myself more
for even falling for your shit
for giving you a chance
for stupidly thinking "maybe this time"....
for being hungry enough
to swallow your fucking bait
but it taught me a lesson;
one I won't easily forget
damn you
for stripping away my last shred of hope
damn me
for being foolish enough
to grab onto the frayed end of that fucking rope
Girls are Cats and Guys are Dogs
by Chris Butler
Girls are pets.
Guys are wild.
Girls are pussies.
Guys are bastards.
Girls are named after Egyptian queens and cuddly things.
Guys are called whatever four letter word is hollered.
Girls live in an alley.
Guys reside in the doghouse.
Girls lick themselves clean.
Guys gnaw on their crotch.
Girls purr.
Guys pant.
Girls are fixed from littering kittens.
Guys are neutered to serve their owners.
Girls play with their prey.
Guys chase furry tail.
Girls squat in a box and bury their dirty secrets in the sand.
Guys piss on the perfect tree.
Girls climb atop the perfect tree.
Guys dig up dirty secrets.
Girls hiss.
Guys bark.
Girls are diseased by rabies.
Guys acquire cat scratch fever.
Girls have nine lives.
Guys die seven years at a time.
Girls become the victims of neighborhood sadists.
Guys get hit by a truck.
Girls are pets.
Guys are wild.
Girls are pussies.
Guys are bastards.
Girls are named after Egyptian queens and cuddly things.
Guys are called whatever four letter word is hollered.
Girls live in an alley.
Guys reside in the doghouse.
Girls lick themselves clean.
Guys gnaw on their crotch.
Girls purr.
Guys pant.
Girls are fixed from littering kittens.
Guys are neutered to serve their owners.
Girls play with their prey.
Guys chase furry tail.
Girls squat in a box and bury their dirty secrets in the sand.
Guys piss on the perfect tree.
Girls climb atop the perfect tree.
Guys dig up dirty secrets.
Girls hiss.
Guys bark.
Girls are diseased by rabies.
Guys acquire cat scratch fever.
Girls have nine lives.
Guys die seven years at a time.
Girls become the victims of neighborhood sadists.
Guys get hit by a truck.
Revenge of the mutant camels
by Michael Holme
I’ve had dreams like this before;
dead bodies in high-vis vests
caught in plant machinery.
Can you imagine it, semi stiff arms pointing
from dirty JCBs? I’ll STOP right there.
I’m sorry, I don’t write about roses
and springtime, new born lambs and love.
I blame it on television and video games,
ZAP, K-POW. Revenge of the Mutant Camels
was my 8-bit, pixelated, eighties diffuser of angst.
When I was a lad we’d no Duke Nukem 3D
in a million colours. We lived with sixteen.
But I dreamed in rainbows, like I do today,
and that gets me back to dumper yellow,
recurring, waking me in the night with a challenge.
It’s not real. Carnage in the quarry is my wraith.
I’ve had dreams like this before;
dead bodies in high-vis vests
caught in plant machinery.
Can you imagine it, semi stiff arms pointing
from dirty JCBs? I’ll STOP right there.
I’m sorry, I don’t write about roses
and springtime, new born lambs and love.
I blame it on television and video games,
ZAP, K-POW. Revenge of the Mutant Camels
was my 8-bit, pixelated, eighties diffuser of angst.
When I was a lad we’d no Duke Nukem 3D
in a million colours. We lived with sixteen.
But I dreamed in rainbows, like I do today,
and that gets me back to dumper yellow,
recurring, waking me in the night with a challenge.
It’s not real. Carnage in the quarry is my wraith.
Landscape of Reason
by Austin McCarron
Behind chrome plated forests
there is a stump
of light and bright
is the flame of its inner machine.
Hot as a roast the meat
of its gleaming fist. On tours of air
the destination silence cherishes.
Its heart trembles like wood.
Plagued by doubt, its greatness of
spirit is revered and its life is a song
poured out of
concrete furnaces like a cast of wires.
The land is sweet, full of religious
smells. Out of roots of chaos, springs
of water, wearing caps of snow.
On legs of blood
a journey through gates and passes,
where trees
with animal fur over time begin to thaw.
Behind chrome plated forests
there is a stump
of light and bright
is the flame of its inner machine.
Hot as a roast the meat
of its gleaming fist. On tours of air
the destination silence cherishes.
Its heart trembles like wood.
Plagued by doubt, its greatness of
spirit is revered and its life is a song
poured out of
concrete furnaces like a cast of wires.
The land is sweet, full of religious
smells. Out of roots of chaos, springs
of water, wearing caps of snow.
On legs of blood
a journey through gates and passes,
where trees
with animal fur over time begin to thaw.
THESE ARE THE PLACES
by Lee Stern
These are the places that I’ve been to.
And that I’m so anxious to tell you about.
I’d like you to give me some of your free time
so I can do that.
And some of the places had different kinds of lumber in it.
And other places didn’t have any lumber at all.
And keeping track of which place was which was the hardest part of all.
I tried to keep notes about it.
Because I thought that was the best way to keep things straight.
But I got tired of the notes.
And decided to commit it to my memory.
And now I can tell you that one place was just like every other place.
There would be fractions on the ground.
And birds of quality stepping onto the wayward brims of their hats.
These are the places that I’ve been to.
And that I’m so anxious to tell you about.
I’d like you to give me some of your free time
so I can do that.
And some of the places had different kinds of lumber in it.
And other places didn’t have any lumber at all.
And keeping track of which place was which was the hardest part of all.
I tried to keep notes about it.
Because I thought that was the best way to keep things straight.
But I got tired of the notes.
And decided to commit it to my memory.
And now I can tell you that one place was just like every other place.
There would be fractions on the ground.
And birds of quality stepping onto the wayward brims of their hats.
Steak n Shake, Rainy Sunday Evening
by James Babbs
it’s the middle of February
so it could be snowing but
the Beach Boys keep singing
about the sun and the surf
I’m seated near the window
where I can see the interior
of the restaurant reflected
in the rain-soaked glass
so that there’s a second
restaurant identical to
the first one with another
set of customers just
like the other ones and
my other self gazes back at me
holding his own pen and
writing in his own notebook
while eating the same thing as me
chicken taco salad with a
large plate of cheese fries
it’s the middle of February
so it could be snowing but
the Beach Boys keep singing
about the sun and the surf
I’m seated near the window
where I can see the interior
of the restaurant reflected
in the rain-soaked glass
so that there’s a second
restaurant identical to
the first one with another
set of customers just
like the other ones and
my other self gazes back at me
holding his own pen and
writing in his own notebook
while eating the same thing as me
chicken taco salad with a
large plate of cheese fries
Thursday, November 10, 2011
The Outpouring of Hearts
by Tammy T. Stone
I’m writing with a borrowed pen on
Brown paper towels from the bathroom.
A zombie or a sound poet? she asks and
Laughs. Her throaty voice from being sick.
I dream of coarser paper from gas
Station toilets. Of the movie Gaz Bar Blues.
Waiting and feeling good is all I need.
In due time means nothing but waiting in full,
Of fullness and with the future inside of it, the
Outpouring of hearts. This is the now that lives.
Major heart troubles, I imagine telling
The old Canadian actor down the street,
The bohemian barefoot one, after I nod hello
And he invites me in to get
High and get at all the meanings.
Better than brain trouble, I suppose.
No more writing myself out Love
Beloved.
I love her, next to me, old, Asian, taking a massive
Last drag of her cigarette. Her lungs
First filled with smoke in another country
Under the sun.
I’m writing with a borrowed pen on
Brown paper towels from the bathroom.
A zombie or a sound poet? she asks and
Laughs. Her throaty voice from being sick.
I dream of coarser paper from gas
Station toilets. Of the movie Gaz Bar Blues.
Waiting and feeling good is all I need.
In due time means nothing but waiting in full,
Of fullness and with the future inside of it, the
Outpouring of hearts. This is the now that lives.
Major heart troubles, I imagine telling
The old Canadian actor down the street,
The bohemian barefoot one, after I nod hello
And he invites me in to get
High and get at all the meanings.
Better than brain trouble, I suppose.
No more writing myself out Love
Beloved.
I love her, next to me, old, Asian, taking a massive
Last drag of her cigarette. Her lungs
First filled with smoke in another country
Under the sun.
1020 Ocean
by Susan S. Keiser
No one thinks
to dream
Black Mercy
scrapes, churlish
from sense-slick
long ago
I was often there
in promenade,
sick by the clevelander,
pools dissolving
into dead or dying eyes
borne on
tres delinqentes
in its full descent
to plasma-blue
2 bleu,
ce ciel est bien au bleu.
Abart Tarn
by Rachel J. Fenton
Tarn is thi umbilicus; to sever thisen from it is to sever thisen.
Tarn is t' choose no shoes rather than wear ones in thi bag
bought from a sun faded box on t' street for pence, damaged on t' tag.
Tarn is t' coyt tha wears for free until it dun't fit and then for sixty
pence per week for t' next year.
Tarn is t' bead er sweat that pricks thi skin when some bleeder bends
thi ear an asks, who a' thee?
Tarn is t' kid who waits till thar in skooel to seh ah saw thee
in Pahndstretchers and everyone's too busy laughing to whuk art,
if they saw thee, they were theer anall.
Tarn is three hours in t' bargain stooer to choose which presents
tha wants t' buy thi family for Christmas, return em t' shelves
and looercate one tha can affooerd, an all t' while be follered by a guard,
who’d be better occupied wetching his weight not thee on closed circuit tv.
Tarn is to visit thi aunt in London, go t' jewellery stooer and suffer
er umiliation, when t' shutters come darn, explaining thar wi er.
Tarn is a whisper that began as a draught under t' door, condensed
on t' winder an soaked through towel in t' wood er thy frame,
blackening, so that regardless er ar much white paint thy applies, spooers
allas show through; thar dirty face.
Tarn'll blow thi ouse darn and ne matter ar much thy explains,
what choices tha mecks, who thy ignores, what clooes tha wears, ar fast
tha runs in bare feeut, tha cannot outrun thisen; tha pooer inside and art;
thy will be undone.
Tarn is t' look upon my face; “am sorry, ah dun't know thee”.
Rocket Science
by Kyrsten Bean
It’s not rocket science, you say
I may be wrong, but I think
you never really wanted me that way
There’s no point, you explain
we should just call each other
once in a while
friends
Can we ever hang out?
I whisper
my voice eludes me
Yeah, you say
I’ll be in LA
Give me a call if
you’re ever in town
I’m going to let you go
I’m letting it all go, you say
know what I mean, jellybean?
OK
I say, then
did I push you away?
I never really felt I was let in
you lament
your voice is gentle
and reassuring in the distance
before you hang up
It’s not rocket science, you say
I may be wrong, but I think
you never really wanted me that way
There’s no point, you explain
we should just call each other
once in a while
friends
Can we ever hang out?
I whisper
my voice eludes me
Yeah, you say
I’ll be in LA
Give me a call if
you’re ever in town
I’m going to let you go
I’m letting it all go, you say
know what I mean, jellybean?
OK
I say, then
did I push you away?
I never really felt I was let in
you lament
your voice is gentle
and reassuring in the distance
before you hang up
Together Irreplaceable
by Sandy Benitez
You thought of me as your Queen Isabella,
as if I had sent you away to discover
new worlds, to discover whatever may exist
beyond what the naked eye could see
and claim it in my name, my honor.
I imagined you chatting with the birds
on The Canary Islands, sipping rum
on the beaches of The Bahamas,
all the while battling the easterlies
with the bravado of a Spanish conquistador.
Months drifted by like the Santa Maria
and still there was no sign of you.
My heart sank, heavy as gold bullion
with hope dying in the gilded birdcage
beside my bed beside the broken window.
Birdseed and feathers matted together
like an old couple lying on a deathbed,
waiting for the clock to strike;
neither one more precious than the other
but together irreplaceable.
You thought of me as your Queen Isabella,
as if I had sent you away to discover
new worlds, to discover whatever may exist
beyond what the naked eye could see
and claim it in my name, my honor.
I imagined you chatting with the birds
on The Canary Islands, sipping rum
on the beaches of The Bahamas,
all the while battling the easterlies
with the bravado of a Spanish conquistador.
Months drifted by like the Santa Maria
and still there was no sign of you.
My heart sank, heavy as gold bullion
with hope dying in the gilded birdcage
beside my bed beside the broken window.
Birdseed and feathers matted together
like an old couple lying on a deathbed,
waiting for the clock to strike;
neither one more precious than the other
but together irreplaceable.
The pretense of breathing underwater
by Savannah Stuitje
I was eleven years old, the summer you begin to notice how skinny you are in all the wrong places, when you’re caught in the juniors section of Target and pretend to be lost. We went there everyday, too hot to do anything but laze on rafts. The clumpy pond sand that followed me home every night, the sharp stones I thought were snapping turtles, swirling silt in the water turning my legs a golden tan. That summer still tastes of flat soda and sandy food in my mouth. That summer when I realized I wasn’t the only one alive anymore. They dragged him out of the water; lay him on the ground, two pale hands pushing him roughly. A challenge to sit up, fight for his own breath. The water streamed out of his nose and mouth. I remember I kept waiting for him to sit up and push them off him. The ambulance men, surrounding him like ants on sugar, adults gathering to discuss it in words children didn’t want to understand. I remember hearing later that he was pronounced dead on arrival. I wondered what it was like, to feel your muscles seize up and your body sink to the sandy bottom taking you with it. I wondered if he was still there.
I was eleven years old, the summer you begin to notice how skinny you are in all the wrong places, when you’re caught in the juniors section of Target and pretend to be lost. We went there everyday, too hot to do anything but laze on rafts. The clumpy pond sand that followed me home every night, the sharp stones I thought were snapping turtles, swirling silt in the water turning my legs a golden tan. That summer still tastes of flat soda and sandy food in my mouth. That summer when I realized I wasn’t the only one alive anymore. They dragged him out of the water; lay him on the ground, two pale hands pushing him roughly. A challenge to sit up, fight for his own breath. The water streamed out of his nose and mouth. I remember I kept waiting for him to sit up and push them off him. The ambulance men, surrounding him like ants on sugar, adults gathering to discuss it in words children didn’t want to understand. I remember hearing later that he was pronounced dead on arrival. I wondered what it was like, to feel your muscles seize up and your body sink to the sandy bottom taking you with it. I wondered if he was still there.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Untitled
by Alison L. Peoples
Captured:
Lo be the child
Nursing his cup of tea;
Sugarless
As a mother can be
From her ceramic breast
Where little eyes gaze
For warmth
Beyond the kilned lip-edge:
Burning, cracking…
Empty.
Captured:
Lo be the child
Nursing his cup of tea;
Sugarless
As a mother can be
From her ceramic breast
Where little eyes gaze
For warmth
Beyond the kilned lip-edge:
Burning, cracking…
Empty.
THE DAY AFTER ALLEN GINSBERG DIED AT THE AGE OF 70
by Tammy T. Stone
They were the children of glassy-eyed drunken house lords aging foxes in inner city world loose soiled undershirts hanging on saggy flesh these hidden gods of Ginsberg’s time
Who had sex in the hour of night when they couldn’t count the stars because the smog and drink took away the worst of the paranoia
With beer in their fingers cooling bulging blue sweltering necks cleaning their throats that gurgled and splattered acid words
While their women waddled from kitchens to men bound in spider creations sticky inviting obsessing and making
Mashing potatoes bought from corner stores where spotted young faces smiled and listened to tales of the ailments of aunts
At home the cleaned windows of the misguided insects who never got into the cluttered dens brightened by fading
Their children locked by fatherly spews and mothery tears that whispered coos of I was beautiful once but I’ve done good by you tell me I’ve done good by you give me a kiss
And the boys of Ginsberg’s time gave kisses seeing the madness knowing it crawled to them on their faded bedsheets where dingy lamps dimly lit their papers and pens and roaming hands
Leaving the spoils of their sutra weaving for another generation while they looked back on spirited bottles and shook the pillboxes on their mothers’ bedsides
And left the houses of mothers and fathers to seek their likenesses in other men youthful sexual bodies and benzedrine
Lying still in sunflower beds tiger orange recesses of primal state put into letters to Africa and poems and books that breathed through their beat clawing and saying no
And killing the sex driven love driven fantasies but not before the mad prophesies of the men of Ginsberg’s time came together and spoke again
They were the children of glassy-eyed drunken house lords aging foxes in inner city world loose soiled undershirts hanging on saggy flesh these hidden gods of Ginsberg’s time
Who had sex in the hour of night when they couldn’t count the stars because the smog and drink took away the worst of the paranoia
With beer in their fingers cooling bulging blue sweltering necks cleaning their throats that gurgled and splattered acid words
While their women waddled from kitchens to men bound in spider creations sticky inviting obsessing and making
Mashing potatoes bought from corner stores where spotted young faces smiled and listened to tales of the ailments of aunts
At home the cleaned windows of the misguided insects who never got into the cluttered dens brightened by fading
Their children locked by fatherly spews and mothery tears that whispered coos of I was beautiful once but I’ve done good by you tell me I’ve done good by you give me a kiss
And the boys of Ginsberg’s time gave kisses seeing the madness knowing it crawled to them on their faded bedsheets where dingy lamps dimly lit their papers and pens and roaming hands
Leaving the spoils of their sutra weaving for another generation while they looked back on spirited bottles and shook the pillboxes on their mothers’ bedsides
And left the houses of mothers and fathers to seek their likenesses in other men youthful sexual bodies and benzedrine
Lying still in sunflower beds tiger orange recesses of primal state put into letters to Africa and poems and books that breathed through their beat clawing and saying no
And killing the sex driven love driven fantasies but not before the mad prophesies of the men of Ginsberg’s time came together and spoke again
Eating an Orange
by Jessica Otto
I pick up the orange of the kitchen counter
and cut into it with a haphazard, serrated blade
crusted with peanut butter sleeping in the sink
next to a greasy tilapia spine that found
its final resting place in my coffee mug.
Inside the orange is something like the pulse that
floats beneath your heart murmur. The juice
stings a paper cut when I try to dig out a seed that
is not the pearl I was expecting from this thing that
is not an oyster. And eat it anyway.
I pick up the orange of the kitchen counter
and cut into it with a haphazard, serrated blade
crusted with peanut butter sleeping in the sink
next to a greasy tilapia spine that found
its final resting place in my coffee mug.
Inside the orange is something like the pulse that
floats beneath your heart murmur. The juice
stings a paper cut when I try to dig out a seed that
is not the pearl I was expecting from this thing that
is not an oyster. And eat it anyway.
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