by Robert Nisbet
In a coastal cottage suddenly
by tossed spring hawthorn
the seagull with the savage eye
scratches down the windowsill.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
@bronxgirlwithpictures #whoareyoureally
by Amy Soricelli
I see your pictures the coffee designs/ it is cool how you did that in the
space of your life/ your dog is nice -
I would not see your dog otherwise/your lost penny came back it's true/ the barn door you painted sky blue
we don't have barn doors here.
I could not set my life in a box;
you planted plants in the planters
you painted the deep night air the stars bounce off the sides/
on the stairs made of clay
I could not see that any other way.
I have not gone Down Under you weave rugs/ you spy spies
in the sheep you tend the blank country skies-
it's the gritty Bronx blues I cup into my palm/ I snap it back let it go
you want more dirt red alarms/ painted city snap tags across the concrete
there would be no other way for you to see.
You have all boys down the rusty stairs/ in towns ending in full bubble round
my mouth gets caught in those flinty sounds -
is the air we share the same over there.
The stuff you sell the corner back down the alley/ your blackboard
signs and heady beer/ can't see the same sun from over here.
I smile your days and birthday hats/ you take yours off to all of mine in that
we share the nothing of everything fast/ flashes black then white
the mornings your day and mine is night.
But you would not know me before or then -
i doubt I would know you if i saw you in the light/ or down my street
there would be no other way for us to meet.
I see your pictures the coffee designs/ it is cool how you did that in the
space of your life/ your dog is nice -
I would not see your dog otherwise/your lost penny came back it's true/ the barn door you painted sky blue
we don't have barn doors here.
I could not set my life in a box;
you planted plants in the planters
you painted the deep night air the stars bounce off the sides/
on the stairs made of clay
I could not see that any other way.
I have not gone Down Under you weave rugs/ you spy spies
in the sheep you tend the blank country skies-
it's the gritty Bronx blues I cup into my palm/ I snap it back let it go
you want more dirt red alarms/ painted city snap tags across the concrete
there would be no other way for you to see.
You have all boys down the rusty stairs/ in towns ending in full bubble round
my mouth gets caught in those flinty sounds -
is the air we share the same over there.
The stuff you sell the corner back down the alley/ your blackboard
signs and heady beer/ can't see the same sun from over here.
I smile your days and birthday hats/ you take yours off to all of mine in that
we share the nothing of everything fast/ flashes black then white
the mornings your day and mine is night.
But you would not know me before or then -
i doubt I would know you if i saw you in the light/ or down my street
there would be no other way for us to meet.
Sirens Cut
by A.J. Huffman
through early hours of unrest. My mind swims
a little harder towards awake, clings to inflated
images of tragedy. I am drowning in another
wave of wakefulness. This level is painted five
alarm red. Are they coming to take my body away?
I wonder at decibels far beyond appropriate.
Louder and louder, my thoughts and distant screamings
rage. I know I should plan, panic, run,
maybe even get out of bed, dressed. Flashing
crescendos. I roll over, bury my face
in pillows, relieved, but knowing
I am anything but safe.
through early hours of unrest. My mind swims
a little harder towards awake, clings to inflated
images of tragedy. I am drowning in another
wave of wakefulness. This level is painted five
alarm red. Are they coming to take my body away?
I wonder at decibels far beyond appropriate.
Louder and louder, my thoughts and distant screamings
rage. I know I should plan, panic, run,
maybe even get out of bed, dressed. Flashing
crescendos. I roll over, bury my face
in pillows, relieved, but knowing
I am anything but safe.
Another Sunrise in His Day
by Donal Mahoney
Will I walk again,
Tillie mumbled,
lost in the fog of
her knee operation.
The surgeon predicted
she'd toss her cane away
in two months.
Still in a fog, she asked
if she'd walk the way
she walked before,
with the same locomotion,
as her husband called it,
a walk he studied
through binoculars
behind lace curtains
from the upstairs window
sitting in his wheelchair
as she strolled through
the garden, picking a
bouquet, creating another
sunrise in his day.
Will I walk again,
Tillie mumbled,
lost in the fog of
her knee operation.
The surgeon predicted
she'd toss her cane away
in two months.
Still in a fog, she asked
if she'd walk the way
she walked before,
with the same locomotion,
as her husband called it,
a walk he studied
through binoculars
behind lace curtains
from the upstairs window
sitting in his wheelchair
as she strolled through
the garden, picking a
bouquet, creating another
sunrise in his day.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
2nd FREE BEER
by Marc Carver
As I walk across Clapham common,
I see some young women and men having a party.
Underneath a open canopy there is some food and drink.
A young woman comes over to me
and tells me to help myself.
"To the beer?" I say.
"Sure, we only have to carry it home." She says.
She gives me a bottle.
"Do you need it opening?" she asks.
"I can sort that out." I say
but she gets a bottle opener and opens it for me.
I thank her and have my first free beer.
I got one a year ago
but I had to convince the guy I was a genuis
and of course
that is what I did.
As I walk across Clapham common,
I see some young women and men having a party.
Underneath a open canopy there is some food and drink.
A young woman comes over to me
and tells me to help myself.
"To the beer?" I say.
"Sure, we only have to carry it home." She says.
She gives me a bottle.
"Do you need it opening?" she asks.
"I can sort that out." I say
but she gets a bottle opener and opens it for me.
I thank her and have my first free beer.
I got one a year ago
but I had to convince the guy I was a genuis
and of course
that is what I did.
The Pride of Elizabethtown, Ky
by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
She climbs into bed
beside me
and turns out the light.
I imagine Europe
the Dark Ages,
only the green fire alarm light
blinking in 28 second
intervals.
We are on our way
to Florida.
The land of Jimmy Buffet
and the Seminole
Indian.
Outside
by the car
a large bronze fountain
of lions
stands guard.
The pride of Elizabethtown
Kentucky.
If we drive right through
we should be on the beach
by five,
the darkness
says.
I play the ode to joy
on my belly,
or how I imagine it should
be played.
My fingers in the dark
like the legs of
a jubilant
spider.
She climbs into bed
beside me
and turns out the light.
I imagine Europe
the Dark Ages,
only the green fire alarm light
blinking in 28 second
intervals.
We are on our way
to Florida.
The land of Jimmy Buffet
and the Seminole
Indian.
Outside
by the car
a large bronze fountain
of lions
stands guard.
The pride of Elizabethtown
Kentucky.
If we drive right through
we should be on the beach
by five,
the darkness
says.
I play the ode to joy
on my belly,
or how I imagine it should
be played.
My fingers in the dark
like the legs of
a jubilant
spider.
Why I don't care that we end
by Amy Soricelli
Your laughter fits in a teacup - it rolls around
my tongue like oolong blends
It lives in small signs / back alleys the last
seat on the train.
It dies by the road a flat meat.
It doesn't rise up with guns pointing fists strong
It does not revolt against the blues.
It doesn't bob up and down like a sagging kite it falls
like wicker into your hand
And it doesn't shield me from the truth
that i'm not right enough for you to love;
that i'm much too damaged to care.
Your laughter fits in a teacup - it rolls around
my tongue like oolong blends
It lives in small signs / back alleys the last
seat on the train.
It dies by the road a flat meat.
It doesn't rise up with guns pointing fists strong
It does not revolt against the blues.
It doesn't bob up and down like a sagging kite it falls
like wicker into your hand
And it doesn't shield me from the truth
that i'm not right enough for you to love;
that i'm much too damaged to care.
death will come to you
by Linda M. Crate
the music of the night
stars singing to the indigo
of the sky,
and to the moon mother
dangling
her snobbish nose
above the sea;
this speaks to me in whispers
louder than the carnelian of
your sun smile—
the more you pursue me the harder
i disappear into the heart of
a wood
dancing with stars in the belly of
her streams,
moon beams dancing their astral
silver in my hair
as i gallop away from you;
you are the manticore desiring the magic
of my blood,
and i am the unicorn goring everything
that destroys innocence to the
ground;
but i know i need help when it comes
to you—
i lure you into the forest,
and you follow
without consideration only seeking like a blind
ravenous animal;
i bring you to my bretherin,
and all too late
you see your end etched in the horizon of
story telling sequins dancing
in their jeweled thrones of a night's sky.
the music of the night
stars singing to the indigo
of the sky,
and to the moon mother
dangling
her snobbish nose
above the sea;
this speaks to me in whispers
louder than the carnelian of
your sun smile—
the more you pursue me the harder
i disappear into the heart of
a wood
dancing with stars in the belly of
her streams,
moon beams dancing their astral
silver in my hair
as i gallop away from you;
you are the manticore desiring the magic
of my blood,
and i am the unicorn goring everything
that destroys innocence to the
ground;
but i know i need help when it comes
to you—
i lure you into the forest,
and you follow
without consideration only seeking like a blind
ravenous animal;
i bring you to my bretherin,
and all too late
you see your end etched in the horizon of
story telling sequins dancing
in their jeweled thrones of a night's sky.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
FASHION STATEMENTS
by Richard Schnap
I wear a dress
Of green garbage bags
Mirroring the way
Your world looks at me
My shoes are made of duct tape
My hat barbed wire
And I carry a purse
Made of Barbie doll heads
But next to my eye
Is a tattooed tear
The only cosmetic
That adorns my face
And if you ask me
What meaning it has
You’ll just have to guess
For my lips are sealed.
I wear a dress
Of green garbage bags
Mirroring the way
Your world looks at me
My shoes are made of duct tape
My hat barbed wire
And I carry a purse
Made of Barbie doll heads
But next to my eye
Is a tattooed tear
The only cosmetic
That adorns my face
And if you ask me
What meaning it has
You’ll just have to guess
For my lips are sealed.
The Stars of Del Mar
by Robert Halleck
I was sitting in the park
at the end of 15th Street
holding my mail and
looking at the stars. He sat
beside me. I told him about
this star, that star, and
did you see, did you know
how far and how you
could not get lost.
That's North and yes
that's the Big Dipper and
yes the moon is full
and here is why.
He thanked me
and got up.
Crossing the tracks
to the other park,
he lay in the grass
and looked up enjoying
the silence, my ignorance,
the stars for what they are.
I was sitting in the park
at the end of 15th Street
holding my mail and
looking at the stars. He sat
beside me. I told him about
this star, that star, and
did you see, did you know
how far and how you
could not get lost.
That's North and yes
that's the Big Dipper and
yes the moon is full
and here is why.
He thanked me
and got up.
Crossing the tracks
to the other park,
he lay in the grass
and looked up enjoying
the silence, my ignorance,
the stars for what they are.
An Important Remake
by J. K. Durick
We are getting to retake some of the scenes
Fix the things that went wrong the first time
Around, and the film editor has been busy
Cutting, splicing, making things look better
Than they did, jump cut, invisible cut, finally
Fixing my place in things; of course, makeup
And the costumer did their parts, dressed me
Pressed me, even made my ears look smaller
And me a bit taller than before, and we made
Other changes, the screenwriter was replaced
By a script doctor, pages and pages of fluff
Disappeared, special effects were added, and
A full set of stuntmen brought in, this time
I won’t have to actually fall down those stairs
Or be launched over the handlebars, so much
Of my painful childhood will be done this time
By someone else; the grips and gaffers, even
The best boys were all in line behind scenes
Managing the wires and props properly, no
Lights out or tripping up in this latest version;
And after the wrap, when everything was finally
In the can, the director called the cast and crew
Together, popped a bottle of good champagne,
Turned to me and said, “here’s looking at you”
But this time, no close-up in the scene,
We are getting to retake some of the scenes
Fix the things that went wrong the first time
Around, and the film editor has been busy
Cutting, splicing, making things look better
Than they did, jump cut, invisible cut, finally
Fixing my place in things; of course, makeup
And the costumer did their parts, dressed me
Pressed me, even made my ears look smaller
And me a bit taller than before, and we made
Other changes, the screenwriter was replaced
By a script doctor, pages and pages of fluff
Disappeared, special effects were added, and
A full set of stuntmen brought in, this time
I won’t have to actually fall down those stairs
Or be launched over the handlebars, so much
Of my painful childhood will be done this time
By someone else; the grips and gaffers, even
The best boys were all in line behind scenes
Managing the wires and props properly, no
Lights out or tripping up in this latest version;
And after the wrap, when everything was finally
In the can, the director called the cast and crew
Together, popped a bottle of good champagne,
Turned to me and said, “here’s looking at you”
But this time, no close-up in the scene,
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Riff on the Simple Answer
to the Ultimate Question
by Mark Blaeuer
Divinely, Jackie Robinson
of Dodgers fame walked out: New York,
up Gower street, yet dwelling on
gigantic bears who punished pork-
ly kids appalled
at Elisha the Bald.
So all Egyptian deities
a rainbow of molybdenum
did huff, begetting Jesus-knees
and Catalan’s Talmudic sum.
My tongue, I wot,
surpriseth Their robot.
Turn now to Billy yearning here:
his Juliet is comatose,
embedded in the very near
half-century, her cricket dose.
If paradise sport pips,
TIFF Elvis hips.
Connect two more antipodes.
Harshad-abundant-pronic Loire.
Hey, Disco Biscuits on CDs.
Indelicate? No, Strigaskór.
Kaleidoscopic hens
eat citizens.
Regard the Math Olympiad
(see hundred per). A way sub-par
green jacket. Lewis Carroll, rad
unto his death. Ummi Kumar
is not a Beast but holed
dominion’s gold.
Enough. Why should I prate of oil-
to-barrel gallonage, diffuse
Orion Nebula, Fred Hoyle,
the NatWest Tower? Too abstruse.
“How Not to Be Seen”
entertains a queen.
Go then, you made of Størmer stuff
and overlocking CPUs,
lest Hack and honeycomb be tough
and sphenic magic sing the blues.
X-factors byte indeed,
you must concede.
Divinely, Jackie Robinson
of Dodgers fame walked out: New York,
up Gower street, yet dwelling on
gigantic bears who punished pork-
ly kids appalled
at Elisha the Bald.
So all Egyptian deities
a rainbow of molybdenum
did huff, begetting Jesus-knees
and Catalan’s Talmudic sum.
My tongue, I wot,
surpriseth Their robot.
Turn now to Billy yearning here:
his Juliet is comatose,
embedded in the very near
half-century, her cricket dose.
If paradise sport pips,
TIFF Elvis hips.
Connect two more antipodes.
Harshad-abundant-pronic Loire.
Hey, Disco Biscuits on CDs.
Indelicate? No, Strigaskór.
Kaleidoscopic hens
eat citizens.
Regard the Math Olympiad
(see hundred per). A way sub-par
green jacket. Lewis Carroll, rad
unto his death. Ummi Kumar
is not a Beast but holed
dominion’s gold.
Enough. Why should I prate of oil-
to-barrel gallonage, diffuse
Orion Nebula, Fred Hoyle,
the NatWest Tower? Too abstruse.
“How Not to Be Seen”
entertains a queen.
Go then, you made of Størmer stuff
and overlocking CPUs,
lest Hack and honeycomb be tough
and sphenic magic sing the blues.
X-factors byte indeed,
you must concede.
too much for even the greatest
by J.J. Campbell
the final tears
of a dying soul
what outsiders
would call a
life well lived
but the regret
of the truth is
often too much
for even the
greatest
be it a gun
be it an overdose
be it an accident
attributed to
old age
the final days
will come upon
us like hell
breaking through
a calm night
like disease
spreading
among the
poor
there's always a
part of the story
they never told
you as a child
the final tears
of a dying soul
what outsiders
would call a
life well lived
but the regret
of the truth is
often too much
for even the
greatest
be it a gun
be it an overdose
be it an accident
attributed to
old age
the final days
will come upon
us like hell
breaking through
a calm night
like disease
spreading
among the
poor
there's always a
part of the story
they never told
you as a child
LOCAL CHARITY
by Sandy Hiortdahl
Jesse left three shredded
perch on the bank
for that wounded hawk
and we watched to see
her come closer, closer,
limping and wary with
a yellow eye, with a beak
and talons moving fast
on the fish, but watching us
just in case and ready
to turn and do her best
if need be to protect herself.
She ate all three and then
sat back a bit as though to
reflect on the lunch and give
hawk thanks in her hawk world
to the pond and its inhabitants.
The next day, Jesse did the same,
and the next and the next and by
the end of the week, our hawk
walked the shore in triumph,
snatching up the fish guts,
then took flight.
Jesse left three shredded
perch on the bank
for that wounded hawk
and we watched to see
her come closer, closer,
limping and wary with
a yellow eye, with a beak
and talons moving fast
on the fish, but watching us
just in case and ready
to turn and do her best
if need be to protect herself.
She ate all three and then
sat back a bit as though to
reflect on the lunch and give
hawk thanks in her hawk world
to the pond and its inhabitants.
The next day, Jesse did the same,
and the next and the next and by
the end of the week, our hawk
walked the shore in triumph,
snatching up the fish guts,
then took flight.
Even the Rainbow Tank’s Fish Saluted
by KJ Hannah Greenberg
Even the rainbow tank’s fish saluted,
As the secretary determined which,
Among languages, best suited
Environs, where civics, education,
Like so much fashioned violently
By a disgruntled minority (aided
With roads, healthcare, employment,
Hope, sustenance), altered relevance.
Every six months, the landlord collected,
No matter if young children’s toileting,
Or parents’ clear beverage cans silently
Witnessed intruders pry open windows’
Bars, cut door latches, abscond, disappear,
Carry away utensils, rugs, rings, computers,
Transform humble dwellings, structure new
Caravansaries for safehousing loutish men.
Draped in an ulster, Grandmother called
Quietly, assigning chores, classes, meals,
Forced political revenants to again dissolve,
To disband “community” broadcasts since
Tainted factotums composed rumors,
Networked citizens, planted falsehoods,
Drank up tears plus orbital motions, life;
Expectorated happiness, safety, gratitude.
Our captains sometimes misappropriated
The Holy Land’s reliable ingredients,
Invited outworlder bandits to capture,
To record, to film transpirate feelings.
Mistakenly, officials summoned “truths”
Beyond reason, vitriol-shaped stories,
Hurtful movies, bile-laden sound bites,
False, bitter, representations. Mendacities.
Never mattered whether media made sense.
Faith’s valuable raw properties advance us,
Bring constructs revealing universal blueprints,
The Almighty’s hand, heavenly master plans.
Immense earthen openings still engulf rebels,
Sort out lesser baddies with quick death by
Divine fire. There’s no consolation elsewhere;
Service to The Boss means enforcing limits.
Even the rainbow tank’s fish saluted,
As the secretary determined which,
Among languages, best suited
Environs, where civics, education,
Like so much fashioned violently
By a disgruntled minority (aided
With roads, healthcare, employment,
Hope, sustenance), altered relevance.
Every six months, the landlord collected,
No matter if young children’s toileting,
Or parents’ clear beverage cans silently
Witnessed intruders pry open windows’
Bars, cut door latches, abscond, disappear,
Carry away utensils, rugs, rings, computers,
Transform humble dwellings, structure new
Caravansaries for safehousing loutish men.
Draped in an ulster, Grandmother called
Quietly, assigning chores, classes, meals,
Forced political revenants to again dissolve,
To disband “community” broadcasts since
Tainted factotums composed rumors,
Networked citizens, planted falsehoods,
Drank up tears plus orbital motions, life;
Expectorated happiness, safety, gratitude.
Our captains sometimes misappropriated
The Holy Land’s reliable ingredients,
Invited outworlder bandits to capture,
To record, to film transpirate feelings.
Mistakenly, officials summoned “truths”
Beyond reason, vitriol-shaped stories,
Hurtful movies, bile-laden sound bites,
False, bitter, representations. Mendacities.
Never mattered whether media made sense.
Faith’s valuable raw properties advance us,
Bring constructs revealing universal blueprints,
The Almighty’s hand, heavenly master plans.
Immense earthen openings still engulf rebels,
Sort out lesser baddies with quick death by
Divine fire. There’s no consolation elsewhere;
Service to The Boss means enforcing limits.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Mount Parable
by JD DeHart
no one bothered to tell
the weary traveler
that the inside of the mountain
was hollow, but he continued
anyway, leading his family
on, past the lagoons that might
have offered solace, past the plenty
and the promises, the grand
vineyards, the voices of gods,
to the intended destination,
now listening to the echo
resonate back to him, too far
to go back now.
no one bothered to tell
the weary traveler
that the inside of the mountain
was hollow, but he continued
anyway, leading his family
on, past the lagoons that might
have offered solace, past the plenty
and the promises, the grand
vineyards, the voices of gods,
to the intended destination,
now listening to the echo
resonate back to him, too far
to go back now.
Moth Upside Down on the Ceiling
by Donal Mahoney
This black moth
flew in the front door
of the living room
the other night
and has been up
on the ceiling
ever since.
It's hanging
upside down
in the same spot
not moving
like a drone waiting
for instructions.
I'm in my recliner
this morning
drinking coffee
and watching him.
He's an immigrant
from the light
that shines all night
on the front porch
letting burglars know
I have an AK-47
should they decide
to drop in.
The last few nights
I've noticed other moths
fluttering around the light
perhaps wondering where
this moth is.
In his current fix,
he too may be wondering
how they're doing.
When I was a boy,
there was a protocol
in my family when
a moth commandeered
the parlor ceiling.
My father would swing
the fly swatter
and flatten the intruder
with one splat.
The last three mornings
I haven't seen this moth move.
I wouldn't kill him
even if I had a swatter.
But if he were
an inconvenience,
like an unintended fetus
found in a womb,
I still wouldn't do anything.
We have people trained
to take care of that
and like my father
they know what
they're doing.
This black moth
flew in the front door
of the living room
the other night
and has been up
on the ceiling
ever since.
It's hanging
upside down
in the same spot
not moving
like a drone waiting
for instructions.
I'm in my recliner
this morning
drinking coffee
and watching him.
He's an immigrant
from the light
that shines all night
on the front porch
letting burglars know
I have an AK-47
should they decide
to drop in.
The last few nights
I've noticed other moths
fluttering around the light
perhaps wondering where
this moth is.
In his current fix,
he too may be wondering
how they're doing.
When I was a boy,
there was a protocol
in my family when
a moth commandeered
the parlor ceiling.
My father would swing
the fly swatter
and flatten the intruder
with one splat.
The last three mornings
I haven't seen this moth move.
I wouldn't kill him
even if I had a swatter.
But if he were
an inconvenience,
like an unintended fetus
found in a womb,
I still wouldn't do anything.
We have people trained
to take care of that
and like my father
they know what
they're doing.
WITH LOVE
by Marc Carver
My words gift death
to someone
who is ready to leave.
The damp fingers
snuff out the candle of light
small smoke now fills the room.
I can touch her still as she leaves
crosses the plain
as she goes
she becomes young again
and we are together
and there is no one else in the world
not at all..
My words gift death
to someone
who is ready to leave.
The damp fingers
snuff out the candle of light
small smoke now fills the room.
I can touch her still as she leaves
crosses the plain
as she goes
she becomes young again
and we are together
and there is no one else in the world
not at all..
Didn’t Miss a Light
by Todd Mercer
Me and Ingenue
cross the distance of the city
on the surface roads. A couple blocks,
then stop, we roll
a couple blocks more.
This ain’t the speed round.
Don’t waste worry,
we’ll get there when
night falls from under-slung clouds,
while you tap your watch’s face
certain of superiority, while you vent
and stew, Ingenue and me
are living better, cataloging
truth on the ground you’ve missed
from the vantage of the
sometimes-efficient toll thruways.
We’re a mile out, in-bound,
humming with soul, seeing all
and blessing the details.
Me and Ingenue
cross the distance of the city
on the surface roads. A couple blocks,
then stop, we roll
a couple blocks more.
This ain’t the speed round.
Don’t waste worry,
we’ll get there when
night falls from under-slung clouds,
while you tap your watch’s face
certain of superiority, while you vent
and stew, Ingenue and me
are living better, cataloging
truth on the ground you’ve missed
from the vantage of the
sometimes-efficient toll thruways.
We’re a mile out, in-bound,
humming with soul, seeing all
and blessing the details.
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
silent treatment
by Wanda Morrow Clevenger
worst part
of fighting
with him
is the
prolonged
silent
black eye
of
Katrina
the expanse
spent sorting
fury
and chaos
on yard sale
tables
putting a
price
to damages
what to
let go
for pennies
what to
hoard
for the next
landfall
worst part
of fighting
with him
is the
prolonged
silent
black eye
of
Katrina
the expanse
spent sorting
fury
and chaos
on yard sale
tables
putting a
price
to damages
what to
let go
for pennies
what to
hoard
for the next
landfall
don't underestimate me
by Linda M. Crate
i don't know who i am
my identity
has been stripped from me
like a jane doe
in a morgue
don't know when i ceased to be
a person,
but evidently i'm only a woman
or what men
perceive
as such judging from the way
they view me like a piece
of meat
when my hips sway as i walk
my skirt flying behind me
like a gypsy anthem;
i am not
your conquest,
the ancient climb or the
archaeological dig
of gyrating hips against the nether-regions—
stop stripping of my name,
i am linda;
daughter, sister, granddaughter, niece,
great niece,
cousin, friend, co-worker,
poet and writer—
there's a passion beating in my chest that would
burn your baser thoughts to ruin
for i am a woman,
but i'm so much more than that
there's talent and emotions
woven in my fabric;
i burn bright as stars
woe to the man
that underestimates me again.
i don't know who i am
my identity
has been stripped from me
like a jane doe
in a morgue
don't know when i ceased to be
a person,
but evidently i'm only a woman
or what men
perceive
as such judging from the way
they view me like a piece
of meat
when my hips sway as i walk
my skirt flying behind me
like a gypsy anthem;
i am not
your conquest,
the ancient climb or the
archaeological dig
of gyrating hips against the nether-regions—
stop stripping of my name,
i am linda;
daughter, sister, granddaughter, niece,
great niece,
cousin, friend, co-worker,
poet and writer—
there's a passion beating in my chest that would
burn your baser thoughts to ruin
for i am a woman,
but i'm so much more than that
there's talent and emotions
woven in my fabric;
i burn bright as stars
woe to the man
that underestimates me again.
This One Doesn’t Have a Title
by James Babbs
according to the bathroom scale
I’m up to 250 pounds
the heaviest I’ve ever been
I know I’m fat and need to lose some weight
I’ve never tried to pretend
I’m thin and beautiful
but I have gone past mirrors
and stopped to look at myself
thinking I wasn’t too bad
after all
I still have my own hair
and all of my own teeth
even my wisdom teeth
at the back of my mouth
I’ve heard some people have trouble with them
when they start coming in
but I never did
and I never had to have my tonsils out
I still have all my original parts
and the only bones I’ve ever broken
were two small ones in my right foot
after a large box of laundry soap
fell on it many years ago
when I worked the night shift at Wal-Mart
and didn’t weigh near as much
as what I do now
according to the bathroom scale
I’m up to 250 pounds
the heaviest I’ve ever been
I know I’m fat and need to lose some weight
I’ve never tried to pretend
I’m thin and beautiful
but I have gone past mirrors
and stopped to look at myself
thinking I wasn’t too bad
after all
I still have my own hair
and all of my own teeth
even my wisdom teeth
at the back of my mouth
I’ve heard some people have trouble with them
when they start coming in
but I never did
and I never had to have my tonsils out
I still have all my original parts
and the only bones I’ve ever broken
were two small ones in my right foot
after a large box of laundry soap
fell on it many years ago
when I worked the night shift at Wal-Mart
and didn’t weigh near as much
as what I do now
Fixamatic
by John Pursch
And so O’Flaherty E-Roarkin’ Tweedy Two-Piling
Flamepot Torino-Angler-4-Fleshscan Farmbot
(alias Sunsheen Q-Table Fixamatic Sox Machina)
was always renounced from seed to shiny spleef,
as any whirled-wide louver’s primary basted
mating tourniquet might be...
Well, this slovenly grout-fer-notchy
wrench ova wenchy wonder,
she staggers between barstools
batter tan any udder armchair
totally dug-knee-terrier blow-by-blowbot
what Yule never have deep rivulets
of purely mined loud goop,
latter lone good luck,
to mate in personage or when exiled
on an otter planetoid in sherbet aloud
summed starry-sighed canned stellae shins,
tanned intoned and of course purr-flecked lea attached
to seven amour (hey!) stumblingly spinning thighs
lick wad weave Yeti sea graze the soil or hat most fear
of hourly wander fuel planet Dearth.
Hear, led me given ye hind spansule
of wad she zounds alike when she pluralizes:
“Aaooooh, ladled biceps honers,
stuck hon palmipsest Dearth,
shame dimes noun has plangent Dirt.
Swell come’s sorely swilling up
hen yer bulkheads bellow dick,
high can seize data weed out
heaven clocking a shekel
on yer seemingly measely orbit.
Whelp, antsy blonde-ruddered feminine lobotic
ken sea wad’s cumin on,
phlegm halfway surround da galactic hub,
dusty opaquity knot-weed-spandex.
Highs closet, laps spurted,
higher tail ye icon feeble yer savory surge,
haul twelve bullion of youse,
nest jut yearning toucan but hag chew alley
scumming upper sturm und dragnet,
spouting threw thyme without heaven
you sing temporal drugs or thyme mache!
Quiet an extraordinary fleet
ewe bays’ve menage’d to pull offal,
hefty ye drone mine the pun!”
And so O’Flaherty E-Roarkin’ Tweedy Two-Piling
Flamepot Torino-Angler-4-Fleshscan Farmbot
(alias Sunsheen Q-Table Fixamatic Sox Machina)
was always renounced from seed to shiny spleef,
as any whirled-wide louver’s primary basted
mating tourniquet might be...
Well, this slovenly grout-fer-notchy
wrench ova wenchy wonder,
she staggers between barstools
batter tan any udder armchair
totally dug-knee-terrier blow-by-blowbot
what Yule never have deep rivulets
of purely mined loud goop,
latter lone good luck,
to mate in personage or when exiled
on an otter planetoid in sherbet aloud
summed starry-sighed canned stellae shins,
tanned intoned and of course purr-flecked lea attached
to seven amour (hey!) stumblingly spinning thighs
lick wad weave Yeti sea graze the soil or hat most fear
of hourly wander fuel planet Dearth.
Hear, led me given ye hind spansule
of wad she zounds alike when she pluralizes:
“Aaooooh, ladled biceps honers,
stuck hon palmipsest Dearth,
shame dimes noun has plangent Dirt.
Swell come’s sorely swilling up
hen yer bulkheads bellow dick,
high can seize data weed out
heaven clocking a shekel
on yer seemingly measely orbit.
Whelp, antsy blonde-ruddered feminine lobotic
ken sea wad’s cumin on,
phlegm halfway surround da galactic hub,
dusty opaquity knot-weed-spandex.
Highs closet, laps spurted,
higher tail ye icon feeble yer savory surge,
haul twelve bullion of youse,
nest jut yearning toucan but hag chew alley
scumming upper sturm und dragnet,
spouting threw thyme without heaven
you sing temporal drugs or thyme mache!
Quiet an extraordinary fleet
ewe bays’ve menage’d to pull offal,
hefty ye drone mine the pun!”
Sunday, June 15, 2014
The Visit
by Bobby Steve Baker
Once; it seems a life ago, I drove in procession
this rudiment of road and so I know it well.
Two wheel ruts enclose grasses two feet high
whose heavy buds we severed on the grill
intruding through
the winding pines that whistled with our passing,
whistled in pursed lips of the wind. Whispering our
arrival
to those who understood their sticky tongue
from years of idle listening to their seductive
song.
Fallen pine cones crunched beneath our tires
a squirrel stood statue still beside the lightly
travelled trail.
My son, oldest of five, and the only one
to know his grandfather, was impatient
as a child will be when he anticipates a visit
with papa and will receive a treat, for sure a treat.
Past the final cloistering of trees
there he was in a small clearing by a pond, sitting
on a stone, smoking a cigarette, directing
other men, always Master Chief of the Boat,
never satisfied, nothing done quite right.
He had lost weight, but then I realized
the last time I saw him he had lost weight,
and the light in his eyes for his grandchild
was so bright there was some left over
for his son a glint in the eye of a father
who loved the idea of loving his child
but could not hold him to his chest and encircle him.
He gave me his Navy medals to give to my boy
who was delighted by the terribly funny stories
that were told about the war.
Don’t be so long in coming back he said,
dragging smoke off the dying embers of the cigarette
as we turned to take our leave of him,
and he slipped again beneath the mist
the stone wobbling for a moment like a buoy.
Once; it seems a life ago, I drove in procession
this rudiment of road and so I know it well.
Two wheel ruts enclose grasses two feet high
whose heavy buds we severed on the grill
intruding through
the winding pines that whistled with our passing,
whistled in pursed lips of the wind. Whispering our
arrival
to those who understood their sticky tongue
from years of idle listening to their seductive
song.
Fallen pine cones crunched beneath our tires
a squirrel stood statue still beside the lightly
travelled trail.
My son, oldest of five, and the only one
to know his grandfather, was impatient
as a child will be when he anticipates a visit
with papa and will receive a treat, for sure a treat.
Past the final cloistering of trees
there he was in a small clearing by a pond, sitting
on a stone, smoking a cigarette, directing
other men, always Master Chief of the Boat,
never satisfied, nothing done quite right.
He had lost weight, but then I realized
the last time I saw him he had lost weight,
and the light in his eyes for his grandchild
was so bright there was some left over
for his son a glint in the eye of a father
who loved the idea of loving his child
but could not hold him to his chest and encircle him.
He gave me his Navy medals to give to my boy
who was delighted by the terribly funny stories
that were told about the war.
Don’t be so long in coming back he said,
dragging smoke off the dying embers of the cigarette
as we turned to take our leave of him,
and he slipped again beneath the mist
the stone wobbling for a moment like a buoy.
lord only knows why she married him twice
by Larry Jones
well fiddle faddle elmer
(sometimes she called me elmer)
you're holding your fork
just like your father.
I wish you wouldn't do that
you remind me of him.
do you know how he got out of the war?
while he was in korea
he fell off a jeep
and broke his leg,
so they sent him home
ha, he was a liar and a coward.
your father was the dumbest man I ever knew,
he could never hold a job
for more than a couple weeks
and he was always crying
about silly little things.
you see that hole in the living room wall?
your father did that with his fist,
he was drunk and crying
then he had the nerve
to blame it on me.
lord only knows why I married him twice.
stop looking at me like that willie
(sometimes she called me willie)
you remind me of him
god I hated that man.
well fiddle faddle elmer
(sometimes she called me elmer)
you're holding your fork
just like your father.
I wish you wouldn't do that
you remind me of him.
do you know how he got out of the war?
while he was in korea
he fell off a jeep
and broke his leg,
so they sent him home
ha, he was a liar and a coward.
your father was the dumbest man I ever knew,
he could never hold a job
for more than a couple weeks
and he was always crying
about silly little things.
you see that hole in the living room wall?
your father did that with his fist,
he was drunk and crying
then he had the nerve
to blame it on me.
lord only knows why I married him twice.
stop looking at me like that willie
(sometimes she called me willie)
you remind me of him
god I hated that man.
A Father's Day Like No Other
by Donal Mahoney
Wally Anderson, father of three daughters, was not pleased after reading an email from Shelly, his eldest, a week before Father's Day. He thought she might be coming to visit for the holiday. Instead Shelly told him of her sudden wedding to a man he did not know. A Google search told him that her new husband had two names and that he had married Shelly under the most recent one. However, Google also said his new son-in-law had a good job and apparently leads a respectable life.
The wedding had taken place on an island in the Pacific. The ceremony had been conducted by one of an indigenous chieftain under a gigantic coconut tree. Shelly had studied anthropology in college with an emphasis on indigenous peoples so Wally understood why she might choose to marry in that environment. But the more Wally read about her marriage, the more he felt as if a coconut had fallen on his head.
This was not the first time Shelly had surprised him. She had married her two other husbands on the spur of the moment as well. One was a drunk and the other a gambler. After two marriages of less than a year each, Shelly moved on with life. And now she had a new husband, albeit with two names. The first two husbands, whatever their flaws, had only one name. No confusion in that regard at least.
So after his daughter sent him a photo of the happy couple on their honeymoon, Wally did another Google search and discovered not only did her new husband have two names but photos of him available online revealed that he resembled the late Ted Bundy, a mass murderer and rapist executed some years ago. This prompted Wally to reply to his daughter's email by asking why her new husband had two names, giving full credit to Google for disclosing this information.
"Shelly, as your father, I have a right to know," Wally wrote.
In half an hour, Shelly sent her father a long email with attachments attesting to the character and accomplishments of her husband but without any explanation as to why he had two names. Apparently, he had taken the second name as an adult, tossing out the possibility that he was an orphan adopted by some nice couple in Iowa, the state from which he hailed under the first of his two names. According to Google, he had earned two degrees from Yale under that first name.
In his next email to Shelly, Wally mentioned that he was still confused by the whole situation and needed further clarification.
"Shelly, if your mother was still alive, she would want to know as well," Wally said as imperatively as he could. He didn't want to set Shelly off because she might disappear again as she had when she was fresh out of college. She had spent three years island-hopping in the Pacific, getting to know the terrain and the people. She really enjoyed her time there.
In her reply Shelly said she would "tell Daddy all about it on Father's Day" when she was coming to see him. Her new husband, however, would not be coming with her since he was going to visit his father for the holiday.
"They are very close," Shelly added in a postscript.
Wally replied right away, his fingers flying across the keyboard.
"Which father might that be--and which name does he go by? And does he live in Iowa or is he somewhere else? A concerned father wants to know."
Shelly wrote back and bubbled that she would tell him everything on Father's Day and bring him some fresh coconuts to boot.
Wally realized that all he could do was wait and see. So he wrote back and said that he'd wait for Father's Day so she could tell him everything in person.
Shelly replied right away and said that if it's a boy, they might name him Walter.
It was obvious to Wally now that this would be a Father's Day like no other.
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Launch of cross country mobile bookstore & publisher
June 14, 2014
For Immediate Release
Mobile bookstore and publisher prepares to launch a cross country journey in the style of Jack Kerouac.
Independent publishers Nostrovia! Poetry and UndergroundBooks have launched a crowd fundraising campaign to organize a cross-country mobile bookstore and publishing house called Books & Shovels. Books & Shovels, headed by Jeremiah Walton, a 19 year old poet from New Hampshire, and founder of Nostrovia! Poetry, will begin its cross country journey at the 2014 NYC Poetry Festival on Governor’s Island.
Aiming to promote passionate living, Books & Shovels exists to encourage others to be willing to make sacrifices to accomplish their dreams. The store is run of a station wagon, and sets up shop at literary festivals, open mics, poetry slams, and on street corners, distributing poetry chapbooks, street books, cds, records, novels, comics, graffiti, and displays of passion. You can donate your materials to Books & Shovels for distribution through their website.
Nostrovia! Poetry was founded in 2011, and has since published chapbooks, zines, street books, video poems, any median it can sink its teeth into. Nostrovia! Poetry has been featured at the 2013 and 2014 Midwest Small Press festivals, the 2013 NYC Poetry Festival, and Cleveland's 2014 Snoetry Festival. Known for its guerilla marketing tactics and street performing missions, Nostrovia! Poetry will not be silent.
Books & Shovels is seeking pledges to help finance the project. Money can be pledged through their IndieGoGo campaign at igg.me/at/mobilebookstore. Information on Nostrovia! Poetry can be found at nostroviatowriting.com.
###
Contact:
Jeremiah Walton, Nostrovia! Poetry
Tel: 603-727-6710
Email: jeremiahwalton (at) nostroviatowriting.com
For Immediate Release
Mobile bookstore and publisher prepares to launch a cross country journey in the style of Jack Kerouac.
Independent publishers Nostrovia! Poetry and UndergroundBooks have launched a crowd fundraising campaign to organize a cross-country mobile bookstore and publishing house called Books & Shovels. Books & Shovels, headed by Jeremiah Walton, a 19 year old poet from New Hampshire, and founder of Nostrovia! Poetry, will begin its cross country journey at the 2014 NYC Poetry Festival on Governor’s Island.
Aiming to promote passionate living, Books & Shovels exists to encourage others to be willing to make sacrifices to accomplish their dreams. The store is run of a station wagon, and sets up shop at literary festivals, open mics, poetry slams, and on street corners, distributing poetry chapbooks, street books, cds, records, novels, comics, graffiti, and displays of passion. You can donate your materials to Books & Shovels for distribution through their website.
Nostrovia! Poetry was founded in 2011, and has since published chapbooks, zines, street books, video poems, any median it can sink its teeth into. Nostrovia! Poetry has been featured at the 2013 and 2014 Midwest Small Press festivals, the 2013 NYC Poetry Festival, and Cleveland's 2014 Snoetry Festival. Known for its guerilla marketing tactics and street performing missions, Nostrovia! Poetry will not be silent.
Books & Shovels is seeking pledges to help finance the project. Money can be pledged through their IndieGoGo campaign at igg.me/at/mobilebookstore. Information on Nostrovia! Poetry can be found at nostroviatowriting.com.
###
Contact:
Jeremiah Walton, Nostrovia! Poetry
Tel: 603-727-6710
Email: jeremiahwalton (at) nostroviatowriting.com
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Throughout the Beginning of Social History
by KJ Hannah Greenberg
Throughout the beginning of social history,
Yaacov’s sons distinguished here as holy.
The ways of prayer would cover all. No
Bashing, no exclusivity, no slurs; just unity.
Contemporary settlers’ demographics, too,
Amass thinking, speaking, acting towards
Each other as balance against muddled facets,
Quantifiably garnering lives free from canards.
Honor, again and again, gleans conscience,
Behooves cleaving to forefathers’ wisdoms,
Provides an ongoing purchase of miracles,
In local buildings glistening with sandstone.
Decebrate postures, those funky oppositions,
Faith improperly functioning, trendy rhetoric,
Disobedience to The Book, The Boss, Truth,
Omit vital spiritual nutrients, clinch iniquity.
When all of the nations turn against Israel,
Reflecting predawn eternity, we’ll run, greet
Messiah’s world without dressed up religion.
From the straits, we’ll call upon The Name.
Throughout the beginning of social history,
Yaacov’s sons distinguished here as holy.
The ways of prayer would cover all. No
Bashing, no exclusivity, no slurs; just unity.
Contemporary settlers’ demographics, too,
Amass thinking, speaking, acting towards
Each other as balance against muddled facets,
Quantifiably garnering lives free from canards.
Honor, again and again, gleans conscience,
Behooves cleaving to forefathers’ wisdoms,
Provides an ongoing purchase of miracles,
In local buildings glistening with sandstone.
Decebrate postures, those funky oppositions,
Faith improperly functioning, trendy rhetoric,
Disobedience to The Book, The Boss, Truth,
Omit vital spiritual nutrients, clinch iniquity.
When all of the nations turn against Israel,
Reflecting predawn eternity, we’ll run, greet
Messiah’s world without dressed up religion.
From the straits, we’ll call upon The Name.
Sentences Correctly and Incorrectly Translated Using Duolingo
by Joseph Feinberg
Each day I love you more
I want to be better
She is covered in ice
Her eyes are the only parts that can move
She communicates to me more than before
When the ice melts, she becomes liquid
She becomes so hot that steam ascends from her skin
There is her warmth against my body
It's the body of the animal
These are our heads
Your face is red
Your face is red
Your face is red
He has blood on the lips
His skin is cold
It is too soon to turn back
They did not want to leave my prison
The heart is a muscle
The pain is in a muscle
Each day I love you more
I want to be better
She is covered in ice
Her eyes are the only parts that can move
She communicates to me more than before
When the ice melts, she becomes liquid
She becomes so hot that steam ascends from her skin
There is her warmth against my body
It's the body of the animal
These are our heads
Your face is red
Your face is red
Your face is red
He has blood on the lips
His skin is cold
It is too soon to turn back
They did not want to leave my prison
The heart is a muscle
The pain is in a muscle
LAUGHING WITH JAMIE
by Jennifer A. McGowan
We talked about how to twist the truth.
Like you drying gunpowder in the gas oven,
I said. Good party talk, but really.
He was silent for a minute. It wasn’t
in there for very long, he said, defensively.
We talked about how to twist the truth.
Like you drying gunpowder in the gas oven,
I said. Good party talk, but really.
He was silent for a minute. It wasn’t
in there for very long, he said, defensively.
Time is Lumber
by Todd Mercer
The roof of his house collapsed
as the pumper truck pulled into the drive. He paused…
then called out the strategy, the Fire Chief
rolled hoses from the hydrant hookups,
as if it were any other house. The training
takes over, but time is lumber
and this residence was fully involved
when a neighbor phoned it in.
After the embers of a total burn-down
are doused, bulldozers and actuaries
come through with their tasks. The man’s
bunking at the station, just for now/indefinitely,
charred hair, stoic, smoldering.
The roof of his house collapsed
as the pumper truck pulled into the drive. He paused…
then called out the strategy, the Fire Chief
rolled hoses from the hydrant hookups,
as if it were any other house. The training
takes over, but time is lumber
and this residence was fully involved
when a neighbor phoned it in.
After the embers of a total burn-down
are doused, bulldozers and actuaries
come through with their tasks. The man’s
bunking at the station, just for now/indefinitely,
charred hair, stoic, smoldering.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
On The Roof
by BethAnn Caputo
I think of us,
Imagine a neon line painted on asphalt.
I claw at the boundary, stripped bare
Dig my finger nails deep
just to watch them bleed.
These places we have come to fear the worst,
turned inside out
could be a different world--
let the past leak down the gutter,
dream out loud.
But we forget that in people,
there is some devil.
No force, however strong
can weld a crooked pipe straight.
and it's cold
and it's cold
and it's cold
We are homesick most for what we have never known.
I think of us,
Imagine a neon line painted on asphalt.
I claw at the boundary, stripped bare
Dig my finger nails deep
just to watch them bleed.
These places we have come to fear the worst,
turned inside out
could be a different world--
let the past leak down the gutter,
dream out loud.
But we forget that in people,
there is some devil.
No force, however strong
can weld a crooked pipe straight.
and it's cold
and it's cold
and it's cold
We are homesick most for what we have never known.
The Undead Robots
by Pijush Kanti Deb
The undead robots we are today,
made diplomatically by the dead brains,
paralyzed to the epics scanned by turns
by the dynamic and enthusiastic neighbor,
surprisingly ambidextrous in refusing the nectar
while a glass of hemlock is preferred to drown.
Counseling, good wish and blessing-the pearls
quite generous and tolerant to our thorny attitude,
yet their dropping on us is unfelt and unpicked
and putting two and two together today
seems to be unable to create a better equation.
Tomorrow is ever-hopeful, so ascertained
for a giant touch of an honest morning-
rewarding us a luminous sun, rising.
The undead robots we are today,
made diplomatically by the dead brains,
paralyzed to the epics scanned by turns
by the dynamic and enthusiastic neighbor,
surprisingly ambidextrous in refusing the nectar
while a glass of hemlock is preferred to drown.
Counseling, good wish and blessing-the pearls
quite generous and tolerant to our thorny attitude,
yet their dropping on us is unfelt and unpicked
and putting two and two together today
seems to be unable to create a better equation.
Tomorrow is ever-hopeful, so ascertained
for a giant touch of an honest morning-
rewarding us a luminous sun, rising.
LUGANIS
by Marc Carver
I keep waking up
with these hardons
then I fall back asleep
and an hour or two later they are still there.
Really springy, like those spring boards in the swimming pool
the ones that go up and down when people jump on them.
I wish I could work one of these away jumping up and down
on someone but
there is no one here.
I keep waking up
with these hardons
then I fall back asleep
and an hour or two later they are still there.
Really springy, like those spring boards in the swimming pool
the ones that go up and down when people jump on them.
I wish I could work one of these away jumping up and down
on someone but
there is no one here.
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