by Isabel Kestner
There is no prison bar
so strong as what your
father taught you,
told you, ingrained
in your mind. There is no
fortress less escapable
than what your mother
misled you to believe
and beat into your heart.
The land is an evil barren
prison you can only work,
work and work in for nothing.
There is no crime, no punished
with such suffering as this.
But somewhere, hidden in
the deepest untouchable
safe hold of the soul
there is a key that unlocks
this latitude of lies and
lets you escape to the
wide open wondrous
world outside. And that
world is waiting for your
arrival with open arms,
arms wider than your
wildest imagination
all waiting to embrace you
once you make your escape.
Go and find your key.
The world is waiting for you.
*Isabel Kestner's poems have appeared in numerous publications since the age of seventeen. Her first collection of poetry, Strange Things She Heard, was released in December 2009.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Bible Study
by Rachel Kalyna
Your cock is
the Tower of Babel.
And, thank God,
my native tongue
will never be
too tired
for a blowjob.
Your cock is
the Tower of Babel.
And, thank God,
my native tongue
will never be
too tired
for a blowjob.
Outskirtal Child
by A.J. Kaufmann
life called devils
the morning
sorrow and longing
fingers of native sun
thought only of themselves
blessed in exiled
colors of thunder
the ”who”, the “so”
of a stormy sunrise
strange vivifying
melancholy
warmth and power
in dead town eyes
filled with pain
where wait of strength
suicide streets
and years of frost
were islands
of I, who
was poor
wrong
and had age
to die like a dog
buried
nameless
unthinkingly
bleeding
on another
outskirtal
child
life called devils
the morning
sorrow and longing
fingers of native sun
thought only of themselves
blessed in exiled
colors of thunder
the ”who”, the “so”
of a stormy sunrise
strange vivifying
melancholy
warmth and power
in dead town eyes
filled with pain
where wait of strength
suicide streets
and years of frost
were islands
of I, who
was poor
wrong
and had age
to die like a dog
buried
nameless
unthinkingly
bleeding
on another
outskirtal
child
Friday, May 28, 2010
Black Seed by Black Seed
by Donal Mahoney
Every day the same people
at the same table
at the rear of the cafeteria.
The maiden, 35 at least,
is gray at the temples,
sour at the mouth.
The widow, 55, waves
a cigarette like a wand.
Girdled and dyed,
she needs no one now;
She ministers to a dog
and has a new apartment.
The accountant, 65, wants to retire,
his years of intemperance
tempered by a stroke,
his anger at everything
suddenly gone. The janitor, 60,
explains over and over
how over the weekend
he snipped from his garden
husks of dead sunflowers
and drove them out of the city
and into the forest
and there in a clearing
spread the black cakes
for chipmunks to strip,
black seed by black seed.
I, a young editor,
“with your whole life
in front of you,” they insist,
sit through it all,
Monday through Friday,
spooning broth, buttering slices
of rye, and praying that after
pudding again for dessert,
the phone on my desk
will explode too late
with a call I’ll take anyway,
and that after that call, I’ll rise
and take from my sport coat
a speech I wrote years ago,
a speech I’ll discard for two lines
off the cuff: “Here’s two weeks’ notice.
I have found a new job.”
Every day the same people
at the same table
at the rear of the cafeteria.
The maiden, 35 at least,
is gray at the temples,
sour at the mouth.
The widow, 55, waves
a cigarette like a wand.
Girdled and dyed,
she needs no one now;
She ministers to a dog
and has a new apartment.
The accountant, 65, wants to retire,
his years of intemperance
tempered by a stroke,
his anger at everything
suddenly gone. The janitor, 60,
explains over and over
how over the weekend
he snipped from his garden
husks of dead sunflowers
and drove them out of the city
and into the forest
and there in a clearing
spread the black cakes
for chipmunks to strip,
black seed by black seed.
I, a young editor,
“with your whole life
in front of you,” they insist,
sit through it all,
Monday through Friday,
spooning broth, buttering slices
of rye, and praying that after
pudding again for dessert,
the phone on my desk
will explode too late
with a call I’ll take anyway,
and that after that call, I’ll rise
and take from my sport coat
a speech I wrote years ago,
a speech I’ll discard for two lines
off the cuff: “Here’s two weeks’ notice.
I have found a new job.”
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
HE SAID HE COULDN’T COMMUNICATE WITH HER BECAUSE SHE WAS RUSSIAN
by Lyn Lifshin
it wasn’t the language, she spoke perfect
English but the way of life, being secret,
too careful, watching what she said so
wildly. She didn’t say what mattered, he
never knew. It was the culture he said,
the secrets, the knock on a metal door in
the night. It didn’t work, he hadn’t tried
as he could have but the communication,
it was missing. I miss him, but of course
I don’t say it. Miss, something we didn’t
have, missed like any connection, 2 people
passing each other in a town, hot to see
each other but not having a clue. Could it
be because my father came from Russia?
My father who hardly said a word, moved
thru the house as if a ghost, a stranger in
darkness. So many secrets. What I wanted
to say, I didn’t. I wasn’t direct but taking
my leather coat must have been an SOS,
an alert. I wanted but I didn’t say it. My
given name, Russian, the music I love in a
minor key. Sad Russian music, sadder than
the blues. Something, the way he pushed
his mother’s fingers from his skin after
the cycle accident, drugged on the floor
hours before she leaped Niagara Falls
saying nothing must be, like the phone calls,
all hang ups, what I don’t know, secret,
vague, stripped of all caller ID
*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm
it wasn’t the language, she spoke perfect
English but the way of life, being secret,
too careful, watching what she said so
wildly. She didn’t say what mattered, he
never knew. It was the culture he said,
the secrets, the knock on a metal door in
the night. It didn’t work, he hadn’t tried
as he could have but the communication,
it was missing. I miss him, but of course
I don’t say it. Miss, something we didn’t
have, missed like any connection, 2 people
passing each other in a town, hot to see
each other but not having a clue. Could it
be because my father came from Russia?
My father who hardly said a word, moved
thru the house as if a ghost, a stranger in
darkness. So many secrets. What I wanted
to say, I didn’t. I wasn’t direct but taking
my leather coat must have been an SOS,
an alert. I wanted but I didn’t say it. My
given name, Russian, the music I love in a
minor key. Sad Russian music, sadder than
the blues. Something, the way he pushed
his mother’s fingers from his skin after
the cycle accident, drugged on the floor
hours before she leaped Niagara Falls
saying nothing must be, like the phone calls,
all hang ups, what I don’t know, secret,
vague, stripped of all caller ID
*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
“Cerack”
by Ben Smith
The first one opens
Like a stolen child.
Pop, pop, pop.
I say if
I get too drunk to fuck
Tonight
Can you ring me
tomorrow
and
masturbate
with the phone near
your split.
She laughs.
Rubs the side
of my face.
Calls me crazy.
My
girl is a fucking
Social worker.
The first one opens
Like a stolen child.
Pop, pop, pop.
I say if
I get too drunk to fuck
Tonight
Can you ring me
tomorrow
and
masturbate
with the phone near
your split.
She laughs.
Rubs the side
of my face.
Calls me crazy.
My
girl is a fucking
Social worker.
“believe me”
by Ben Smith
You don’t know
What it's like
To be drunk
At night
Alone and twisting
Your body
Into the
Strangest
Positions.
Face all pressed
Up and weird
Bent wristed
Like a dinosaur.
an
Empty
Three ringed
Six pack
On the floor.
The blues
In the
Back ground
my mum
And dad
Worrying about me
In the bed
With the sleepless
Nights.
I feel bad
But id feel
Worse knowing
I never
Had a
Crack.
You don’t know
What it's like
To be drunk
At night
Alone and twisting
Your body
Into the
Strangest
Positions.
Face all pressed
Up and weird
Bent wristed
Like a dinosaur.
an
Empty
Three ringed
Six pack
On the floor.
The blues
In the
Back ground
my mum
And dad
Worrying about me
In the bed
With the sleepless
Nights.
I feel bad
But id feel
Worse knowing
I never
Had a
Crack.
Monday, May 24, 2010
I WAS TO BE HIS VACATION
and he didn’t get a
bang for his buck.
It wasn’t the open
cove, the welcome.
It was a chance and
risk and I guess he
felt taken and not
on a joy ride. I guess
I was supposed to
be his rolling hills,
exotic flowers never
found in his part of
the word, rare and
there just for him.
He expected feasts,
exotic meals. He had
taken off without
pay. He wanted to
plunge into me,
wanted to shipwreck
in my thighs. He
wanted to do things
he wouldn’t do at
home, wanted his
money’s worth
or a refund
by Lyn Lifshin
*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm
bang for his buck.
It wasn’t the open
cove, the welcome.
It was a chance and
risk and I guess he
felt taken and not
on a joy ride. I guess
I was supposed to
be his rolling hills,
exotic flowers never
found in his part of
the word, rare and
there just for him.
He expected feasts,
exotic meals. He had
taken off without
pay. He wanted to
plunge into me,
wanted to shipwreck
in my thighs. He
wanted to do things
he wouldn’t do at
home, wanted his
money’s worth
or a refund
by Lyn Lifshin
*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm
Saturday, May 22, 2010
IMAGINING HIM OPENING MY E MAIL
by Lyn Lifshin
the look on his face,
startled? A grin?
Nauseous? A huge
laugh? Let’s say
he was on Candid
Camera– the lens
moves on, focuses
on his fingers. Do
they pause? Could
they delete without
opening? Could I
be so unlike the
woman he made
up I suppose 2 years
ago and could only
long for when I was
the whole country
away? Once he
wrote me he might
leave, go to Europe,
just fuck. Maybe
he saw me as all
those cities, my jacket
and books hostage
in his room and
when I picked them
up without anything
happening, I became
cock tease # 722
as the camera moves
in to see him hit, since
he can’t touch me,
the delete button
*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm
the look on his face,
startled? A grin?
Nauseous? A huge
laugh? Let’s say
he was on Candid
Camera– the lens
moves on, focuses
on his fingers. Do
they pause? Could
they delete without
opening? Could I
be so unlike the
woman he made
up I suppose 2 years
ago and could only
long for when I was
the whole country
away? Once he
wrote me he might
leave, go to Europe,
just fuck. Maybe
he saw me as all
those cities, my jacket
and books hostage
in his room and
when I picked them
up without anything
happening, I became
cock tease # 722
as the camera moves
in to see him hit, since
he can’t touch me,
the delete button
*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm
6 Ravens
by Melanie Browne
6 ravens feel glum after
drinking espressos,
they feel
passive-aggressive,
and cut themselves
with shiny sharp things,
while 6 sailors
smoke beneath
6 crimson trees
6 ravens feel glum after
drinking espressos,
they feel
passive-aggressive,
and cut themselves
with shiny sharp things,
while 6 sailors
smoke beneath
6 crimson trees
Friday, May 21, 2010
Fat Tuesday Polka
by David Brannan
We didn’t have a white Christmas
we had a white Fat Tuesday
The cypress outside my window
reminds me of a cemetery
and this is no time to be talking
to the dead
OK it’s not even a cypress
but an arborvitae
I am fat regardless of season
or day of the week
Fat Tuesday is a moveable feast
Let’s pretend we’re not married
I wanna polka in the snow with you I
who can’t tell the difference between
a mogul and a moraine
a cypress and a sigh
We didn’t have a white Christmas
we had a white Fat Tuesday
The cypress outside my window
reminds me of a cemetery
and this is no time to be talking
to the dead
OK it’s not even a cypress
but an arborvitae
I am fat regardless of season
or day of the week
Fat Tuesday is a moveable feast
Let’s pretend we’re not married
I wanna polka in the snow with you I
who can’t tell the difference between
a mogul and a moraine
a cypress and a sigh
Thursday, May 20, 2010
"night terrors"
by Shannon Peil
I can hold a conversation
without moving my upper lip.
I can smile with my eyes
and I can look away
to laugh. I can read
psych papers
about why
people have nightmares
where
their teeth fall out.
I can have my own nightmares
where I accidentally
smile in public.
I can nod
awkwardly
when pretty girls say hi.
I can feel
my rot eating me
from the inside out.
I can hold a conversation
without moving my upper lip.
I can smile with my eyes
and I can look away
to laugh. I can read
psych papers
about why
people have nightmares
where
their teeth fall out.
I can have my own nightmares
where I accidentally
smile in public.
I can nod
awkwardly
when pretty girls say hi.
I can feel
my rot eating me
from the inside out.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
All I want to do
by Laura Whelton
I sit and tear pages from mis- spelt longings.
I have always loved,
Yet not known what I loved.
Like licking a desert,
Or blow drying the rain.
And the tight lipped questions
Spoken in rhyme,
Have a habit of knowing
Just how I have sinned,
While the silver- tongued
Answers have gone with the wind.
And winning alone
Is the same as losing, in time.
And for the most part
I swim in sublime
Mis-truths and half lies
Whispered at dawn
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Wilson and Broadway at 4 a.m.
Chicago
Sunday evening. Drunk
and strolling home.
On the way an hour now,
block after block,
bar to bar.
Weekend’s gone,
Monday’s turning.
Along the way
his swollen fingers find
parking meter posts
are an endless xylophone.
Plunked, they play
the anthem
of a life misspent.
by Donal Mahoney
Sunday evening. Drunk
and strolling home.
On the way an hour now,
block after block,
bar to bar.
Weekend’s gone,
Monday’s turning.
Along the way
his swollen fingers find
parking meter posts
are an endless xylophone.
Plunked, they play
the anthem
of a life misspent.
by Donal Mahoney
Sunday, May 16, 2010
History of a Leather Jacket
by Jessica Otto
Before the
three car accidents
suicidal mother
moon viewing by the river
father died of cancer
credit card debt
was the thrift store sale rack.
Before the
three car accidents
suicidal mother
moon viewing by the river
father died of cancer
credit card debt
was the thrift store sale rack.
Lies
by Catfish McDaris
Everyone lies:
the president
your spouse
your kids
satan
dogs
cigars
warning labels
your doctor
television
motherfuckers
cocksuckers
hookers
johns
honkies
white trash
hillbillies
niggers
spics
yo mama
your padre
the pope
even the wise old owl
hooting in the sycamore tree.
Tough Guys Don't Need Gats
by Catfish McDaris
On leave in Amsterdam
staying at a hostel I
met two cuties from Ft Worth
We toured the canals
in a tulip gondola
saw Anne Frank's house
Van Gogh paintings
& dazzling flower markets
They wanted hashish but
wouldn't go to a marijuana cafe
I went to Dope Park where
mostly Africans
Sold Afghan & Paki black
tripping green & choking
red Lebanese
They showed the good
stuff then switched it for
camel dung
Knowing Three Card Monte
these cats were amateurs
after several attempts at
the rip off I shoved my 38
up this mother's nostril
The jig was up I got
the smoke & squirted
them with water as I ran
like Jim Thorpe.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Only The Damned Make Love
by Justin Wade Thompson
she sat on the edge of the bed
eating red velvet cake
in her panties
and a tiny tight undershirt
black nipples that i've sucked
for long hours
like wishing and wondering under stars
she cleans the fork
with her tongue
when she's finished
she wraps her brown legs around my head
with her cunt
in my face, on my lips
and i bury my nose
into the breach of her
she pushes tattooed arms
and sweat
along the hairless white of my chest
along the heart, along the ribs
collapsing on top of me
deeper than a fire or storm or the wrath of an awakened god
finally
she asks me
if i'd like a glass
of water
i catch my breath and answer
yes.
she sat on the edge of the bed
eating red velvet cake
in her panties
and a tiny tight undershirt
black nipples that i've sucked
for long hours
like wishing and wondering under stars
she cleans the fork
with her tongue
when she's finished
she wraps her brown legs around my head
with her cunt
in my face, on my lips
and i bury my nose
into the breach of her
she pushes tattooed arms
and sweat
along the hairless white of my chest
along the heart, along the ribs
collapsing on top of me
deeper than a fire or storm or the wrath of an awakened god
finally
she asks me
if i'd like a glass
of water
i catch my breath and answer
yes.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Bless Me, Father
Two minutes more, Father Paul,
and you will hear another of my strange confessions.
Right now, I'm outside
watching the rain on my glasses
running in rills.
When I make it to the church,
I'll confess the usual stuff with a few variations,
the same plot, the same ploys,
the same frenetic tale I have always to tell.
Next week, however, things will be different.
Next week, I won't make a list
in the diner across from St. Peter's.
The waitress there knows me too well.
Last week she asked, "Am I on your list?"
"Not a chance," I said.
"What time do you get off from work?"
"5 o'clock," she said.
"I'll be back," I said,
"and we can go to St. Peter's and make
the Stations of the Cross."
Father Paul,
you can see that I'm trying
to bring women to the Lord.
So next week, no list.
I'll sit in the diner and swig
on a milkshake instead.
When I come into your box,
I'll fall on the kneeler
and whisper through the grille,
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
I did the same stuff this week
that I did last week
but this week I did it more often."
Father Paul, if I quit making lists,
this whole process
will be easier on both of us.
Who wants to hear a grown man
recite forever what Yogi Berra called
deja vu all over again?
by Donal Mahoney
and you will hear another of my strange confessions.
Right now, I'm outside
watching the rain on my glasses
running in rills.
When I make it to the church,
I'll confess the usual stuff with a few variations,
the same plot, the same ploys,
the same frenetic tale I have always to tell.
Next week, however, things will be different.
Next week, I won't make a list
in the diner across from St. Peter's.
The waitress there knows me too well.
Last week she asked, "Am I on your list?"
"Not a chance," I said.
"What time do you get off from work?"
"5 o'clock," she said.
"I'll be back," I said,
"and we can go to St. Peter's and make
the Stations of the Cross."
Father Paul,
you can see that I'm trying
to bring women to the Lord.
So next week, no list.
I'll sit in the diner and swig
on a milkshake instead.
When I come into your box,
I'll fall on the kneeler
and whisper through the grille,
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
I did the same stuff this week
that I did last week
but this week I did it more often."
Father Paul, if I quit making lists,
this whole process
will be easier on both of us.
Who wants to hear a grown man
recite forever what Yogi Berra called
deja vu all over again?
by Donal Mahoney
Monday, May 10, 2010
Finding Jesus Using Only a Prostitute and a Compass
is no small feat
when you're only paid up
for the hour.
Add to that,
the sobering terror of nothing
to drink,
a sorry lack of spermicide,
and a twenty-something brunette
who refuses to come out
of the bathroom.
Finding Jesus using only a prostitute
and a compass
is not the ideal way
to spend a Friday night,
but than again,
I never thought I'd be laying here
playing at Brando
with the ladies
or Cagney with the Tommys.
Raised on road hockey
and dungeons and dragons,
I'm forever that small town kid
who jerks off to the glossy promises
of magazine women
he will never meet
and waits to merge into oncoming
traffic
when old enough
to drive.
That said,
you should feel honoured
to have been with me
all those years
ago.
I don't just shower and deodorize
for anyone.
by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
when you're only paid up
for the hour.
Add to that,
the sobering terror of nothing
to drink,
a sorry lack of spermicide,
and a twenty-something brunette
who refuses to come out
of the bathroom.
Finding Jesus using only a prostitute
and a compass
is not the ideal way
to spend a Friday night,
but than again,
I never thought I'd be laying here
playing at Brando
with the ladies
or Cagney with the Tommys.
Raised on road hockey
and dungeons and dragons,
I'm forever that small town kid
who jerks off to the glossy promises
of magazine women
he will never meet
and waits to merge into oncoming
traffic
when old enough
to drive.
That said,
you should feel honoured
to have been with me
all those years
ago.
I don't just shower and deodorize
for anyone.
by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Thursday, May 6, 2010
19 & bleeding in New Orleans
by Shannon Peil
the men all screamed
'show me yr tits!'
& the women laughed
they yelled down at me
from the patios
'show me yr dick!'
& i was fuzzy
dazed
& agreeable
i dropped my pants
to the knee
presented myself
smiling wide as they hooted
threw beads down
then yelled
'look out!'
&
watched the cop
throw me face down
grinning into the concrete
the men all screamed
'show me yr tits!'
& the women laughed
they yelled down at me
from the patios
'show me yr dick!'
& i was fuzzy
dazed
& agreeable
i dropped my pants
to the knee
presented myself
smiling wide as they hooted
threw beads down
then yelled
'look out!'
&
watched the cop
throw me face down
grinning into the concrete
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Country Fair Consuming
by Nicole Taylor
tent and food, hamburger and granola and more,
a rust colored Beatnik corduroy hat
a pair of blue sodalite earrings.
gifts of
a colorful decorated handshaker
a hemp necklace with a few decorations.
food and drinks from fair
Tamale and Turkish coffee and Baklava while
watching the storm and poles constructed before the play.
Thai noodles and tea, iced
bagel and coffee in Eugene morning.
breakfast wrap and coffees on ride home with
a quiet nice artist vendor lady.
*http://apoetessanthology.blogspot.com/
tent and food, hamburger and granola and more,
a rust colored Beatnik corduroy hat
a pair of blue sodalite earrings.
gifts of
a colorful decorated handshaker
a hemp necklace with a few decorations.
food and drinks from fair
Tamale and Turkish coffee and Baklava while
watching the storm and poles constructed before the play.
Thai noodles and tea, iced
bagel and coffee in Eugene morning.
breakfast wrap and coffees on ride home with
a quiet nice artist vendor lady.
*http://apoetessanthology.blogspot.com/
Sunday, May 2, 2010
A Gift for One
by Sandy Benitez
Strangers laugh and point at me.
Fingers carelesslly lighting
fires as if magic bred beneath
their shirt sleeves. I used to
burn badly. Now I stroll with
the pain. Bring me more, please.
It is beautiful, no? Suffering.
So I'm the sour girl, woman-child.
The oddity. The shrinking violet
in a field of drunk wild flowers.
And if you search long enough
you may see me. My short petals,
the purple glint in my eyes.
But I blend in well. I've learned
to adapt to changing seasons.
Smiles in Summer, frowns in Winter.
So when you arrive at my garden,
don't expect to pick a bouquet.
I travel solo. A gift for one.
Strangers laugh and point at me.
Fingers carelesslly lighting
fires as if magic bred beneath
their shirt sleeves. I used to
burn badly. Now I stroll with
the pain. Bring me more, please.
It is beautiful, no? Suffering.
So I'm the sour girl, woman-child.
The oddity. The shrinking violet
in a field of drunk wild flowers.
And if you search long enough
you may see me. My short petals,
the purple glint in my eyes.
But I blend in well. I've learned
to adapt to changing seasons.
Smiles in Summer, frowns in Winter.
So when you arrive at my garden,
don't expect to pick a bouquet.
I travel solo. A gift for one.
The Dragon
by Sandy Benitez
When you first told me about
the dragon tattoo, I didn't
believe you were preppy 101,
clean cut in your wool sweater
and dockers. I wasn't sure
I wanted to see your legs,
lean and pale; a runner's body
fed from lentil soup and fish
crackers.
The dragon was a distraction for
the horror that lay underneath.
Creeping and winding itself
through layers of arrogance that
you breathed from your nostrils.
Setting fire to gentle hands
whose only intent was to touch
your heart.
I always thought dragons wore
beauty in unconventionality.
Loners, drifting in solitude, their
wings unclipped. But when I tasted
your fire, it burned my tongue.
So I spit you out, let you disappear
behind pages of myth.
When you first told me about
the dragon tattoo, I didn't
believe you were preppy 101,
clean cut in your wool sweater
and dockers. I wasn't sure
I wanted to see your legs,
lean and pale; a runner's body
fed from lentil soup and fish
crackers.
The dragon was a distraction for
the horror that lay underneath.
Creeping and winding itself
through layers of arrogance that
you breathed from your nostrils.
Setting fire to gentle hands
whose only intent was to touch
your heart.
I always thought dragons wore
beauty in unconventionality.
Loners, drifting in solitude, their
wings unclipped. But when I tasted
your fire, it burned my tongue.
So I spit you out, let you disappear
behind pages of myth.
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