Asphodel Madness

my new chap

2010-10-16T02:46:00.003-04:00

you can buy a copy of my new chap The Fury of Sparrows here:
http://newpolishbeat.wordpress.com/2010/10/07/ross-vassilev-the-fury-of-sparrows/

my new blog

2010-09-06T15:42:00.001-04:00

http://asphodelmadness.wordpress.com/

The Writer Buries Himself in The Mud Until The Next Rainy Season

2010-09-04T21:22:00.001-04:00

by Melanie Browne

where, once again,

he will ramble

through the menagerie

of chaos,

mating with

the masses,

hoping his carrion

offspring

will deliver

the wake-

up-call

that

nudges

the sleeping

mobs

out of their

peaceful

stupor

BAD CHESTER RYAN

2010-09-02T16:56:00.003-04:00

after taking his sweet time

nibbling at his last meal
he smoked a cigarette
despite quitting years ago
and he listened absently
as the preacher tried hard
to console him with passages
from the Bible he never read
and telling Bad Chester Ryan
If you believe you'll be saved
but Ryan believes he's beyond
the pale and hope is a tiny thing
that will burn with him
in that chair and after this
he can rest his murdering bones
under deep ground where
he can't hurt another living soul

by Salvatore Buttaci

http://salvatorebuttaci.wordpress.com

*"FLASHING MY SHORTS" -- order it from AMAZON.COM http://tinyurl.com/2d4kjuk

or KINDLE EDITION http://tinyurl.com/2bkms9w

SEPTEMBER 24, 2001

2010-09-01T16:13:00.004-04:00

by Lyn Lifshin

brown leaves
on the steps, from
rust and green
to ashen like
the last weeks.
Now on the
metro, I’m sniffing
for something that
smells like
nail polish remover,
for someone
with a bomb.
Last night I
dreamed I gave a
reading but I
couldn’t find any
poems I wanted.
When I open my
mouth, I spit a
black rose

*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm

thank god I’m a poet

2010-08-31T06:22:00.001-04:00

by Tommy Hobbe

I scraped this dog shit poetry off of the sole of my soul

with a termite infested wooden prosthetic hand

and splattered it onto the back of an unpaid parking ticket

it’s as lovely as chainsaw sodomy preformed post mortem

feels like I’m holding up my warm slimy intestines

for the leisurely perusal and cockeyed judgment of zombies

it all began when some modern lit teacher said

that my bloody vomit looked like abstract art

since that moment I’ve crucified my pride daily

so that chronic spiritual masturbators

could watch this trailer park freakshow with outraged eyes

and be reassured that they're not as fucked up as some people

SUCH KNOWLEDGE

2010-08-30T07:39:00.002-04:00

by Richard Godwin

What do I know
About the perfume of midnight cemeteries
Or the blood rose
With no thorns at all

What do I know
About the hand that touches me in the dark
And stops my blood beating in my veins
Or the ice in my ear

When I hear an avenue of hummingbirds
The sounds they make full of the colour of their wings
What do I know
About the hidden desires of my

Loved ones whose faces change in twilight
What do I know
About the veins that trace a journey on a leaf
Or the hidden energy of air

SORT OF A NEW BEGINNING

2010-08-29T19:50:00.001-04:00

by Steven Gulvezan

Alabaster in the shining moon

His buttocks and belly were bare

He sank into the pond

A chain of stones around his neck

A garland of honeysuckle in his hair

His skin so pale shone luminous when wet

He wished a wish to sink and drown

And forget—

But he could not…

And as he struggled to die

All his hatred

And jealousy and fear

Bobbed up within his brain

Causing him much grief…

Much more so, indeed, than the water

That was trickling into his lungs and

Not really suffocating him…

He bobbed to the surface

Sucked in the air

Ripped off the stones

And clambered – cursing

Both life and death –

Back onto the beach

And returned to this world again

Artist's Son

2010-08-29T04:43:00.001-04:00

by Mathias Nelson

The artists are dandelions:
There are so many of them
unwanted.

God called my mother
a dandelion
and told her she was
better than all the other
flowers.

Wasn't too long
till they chopped off her head,
poured weed killer
across her stem
and she drank it up,
became a member of society:

bane.

But not before she born me.
And I'm still a seed
flipping in the breeze
past the wanted flowers,
one of the few artists
who's still got a head.

But the mower is always
in the distance.
And who knows where
this wind will carry me?—when
we are all destined to be
shitty poems.

HAREM

2010-08-27T19:52:00.000-04:00

by Hugh Fox

Her ummmmmm, my third wife, sixty-four,
talking full time about "Everyone in my
family died in their sixties," although
(a face-lift 5 years ago) she looks fortyish,
e-mails every day from wife-possibles from
way back, sending me pictures of grandkids
("For me that's what counts, genetic continuation)
photos of themselves, poems, publishing questions,
when can I come out to Carpinteria to visit, five
months since Joey died (shark), "Let's meet in
Chicago," or this skin-cancer beauty in New
Hampshire, "The surgery went great, come for
a visit before the first snow...," my ex-student
in L.A., pals for 50 years, "This widow stuff is
crap...I need you...," a bunch of fucking saint-
whores, amazed at how the legs still hold up,
the surgically-chemically helped faces, and
always this sense of almost supernatural
get-together-foreverness, what I needed was
five lives and a theology that said "Who you
love you marry, forget numbers...."

Conspiracy

2010-08-26T23:27:00.001-04:00

by Lisa Zaran

I won't be long
but I might be late.
Don't wait up.
The red moon is up.
Stars blink like
frightened eyes.
Guilt shackles my
naked form to life
and from the corner
of my mind I laugh
because I know not
how to react to anything
right.
My children glint
like little lakes,
swallowing moonlight,
hiding their secrets
in centers so deep
no mother could reach
and so I choose to drown.
Fathers pass away
behind plastic curtains
in critical care units-
no more minty breath
or spinning thoughts,
my father dies delicately
quiet and all I can think
as I slip away, down the corridor
of hush and antiseptic
is why and what will I do
now that there will be no more
warm hands and glue and carpentry.
Who will fix my broken dolls?
Lovers kneel
and send flowers
while a thousand others
tear my pictures in half
before throwing them into the fire.
My heart is stale.
My love is nothing but an astonishing remark.
I'd call my latest lover perfect
but he has a scar above his lip
and his knees are weak from kneeling.
He's far from it.
Okay, I won't be late
but I might be long.
If you write, don't expect a reply.
I did not pack a pencil.

*http://www.lisazaran.com/
http://www.contemporaryamericanvoices.com/
http://www.dearbobdylan.com/

For Paradox 5

2010-08-25T20:25:00.001-04:00

by Matt O'Toole

Like an emptied box of cutlery, Eugene's body falls twisted, limbs woven around themselves.
Their dry mouths had one other held hostage.
His milk white neck embracing her fingers gently like blue tack.
They step back from each other, his smile pricking pale balloon pink cheeks,
He dives in her deep inkwell pupils, swimming in thick road tar black ink.
A heavy tear grows in the corner of her eye and rests on her cheek.
Water streams down the steps thowing cutlery either side,
Buckets of ink dry to chalk and dust.

She steps over his fallen twisted wire body,
staring at his white flour caked face,
and smudged crimson lips,
staring into his marble green eyes,
She thinks of when they met at Oul' Butters,
A singed smile in her siren face,
At old butters, where he held her, glowing and tall.
After everything since then, he's just put a barrel to his head,
and painted all 4 walls.

I AM

2010-08-24T14:44:00.004-04:00

For I am the life and death.
For I am the sun and the darkness.
I am the power of love and I am the darkness among others.

I am the time and stars.
I am the song which is sung very far.

I am not an energy nor entity.

I am neither of any religion or soul.

I am the message of the beloved.

I am the brother and the father.

I am the love and the hate.

Sometimes, I am nothing but emptiness.

I am the sex to multiply time and again.

I am the number added over zero.

I am the quality of mankind.

I am

I am the friend and foe.

I am the sin and sinner.

I am the silence and crowd.

I am the sadness and pain.

I am neither any of human words nor human deeds.

I am

Just I am

Maybe I am

Let us say, I am, I will be, I was.

So, here I am, here I belong, in this moment of complete solitude

Because I was, I am, and I will be.

by Santosh Kalwar

*http://kalwar.com.np/

Open

2010-08-23T17:17:00.000-04:00

by Lara Konesky

proximity can't fuck with muse
it only hurts the physical
only hurts a little
don't even tell me where your home is
unless I open my legs
and it's there

Life is a sad-slow movie with subtitled romance*

2010-08-23T15:43:00.000-04:00

by Kristina Marie Darling

And here, Kodak picturesque, my love,
the streets do not end with a damsel taken
her legs splayed and small bills scattered like leaves.
In this strange place, darling,
we dream drugged yellow haze and burlesque shows.
It is so beautiful here I don’t ever want to land.
Someone brings flowers to me in cameo
and the credits fade, with you the dead agnostic
myself left to catch crystals
of methamphetamine cold in your breath.

*from Kristina's chapbook "The Traffic in Women" from Dancing Girl Press

CATAWAMPUS

2010-08-21T20:44:00.001-04:00

by Kallima Hamilton

Exuberant beatniks in angst-black turtlenecks,
secretly dreaming of sunlight and waffles,
scrounge their pockets for rhythmic shards
of keen poetry and wailing laments.

Blow those blues, Daddy-O, blow those blues.
Fresh young trees spitting gold cold leaves
on urban decay, the way you do a John Wayne
with a cigarette into this cement gutter
covered with wet newsprint and remnant fries.

It's all neon and Pepto-Bismol from here.
Some fungi swiped your tree frogs.
Sweet confetti of annihilation,
save us from the garish fate
of baboon-butt bright self love.

DISCARDED SOCIAL BURDEN

2010-08-20T19:40:00.003-04:00

by Junie Moon

Faint rays of sunlight
through a tiny window
caught the spinning
prism, rainbows danced ’round
that tin can trap called home

Ha, just think, mobile home,
mobile suggesting it would move.
That old bucket hadn’t moved
in thirty years sitting
in grammies back yard

Feeling trashy was easy
when picking up
food stamps each month
was the high point of life

Even worse, the way
people look when
getting groceries,
some folks look away
others look on in disgust

One step above homeless,
a refugee, a pariah,
unwanted, used up, just one
more name on the welfare list

Finally she heard the baby crying,
so distant, strange, unreal,
all alone, disconnected from all
other life forms

Poverty and neglect
suffocating her;
strangling a tattered
will to live.

Just a little light of hope
would, perhaps, give
enough strength to keep moving

Long ago she had given up on God
or any other type of salvation,
redemption surely did not know
her address but the bill collectors did

If only she could just leave,
yes, leave this ALL behind
She went down to the river
most every day when
the baby slept

The water, sparkling, golden,
freedom soaring where the
sky crosses the water

LUST BLOWING UNDER THE DOOR, BRIGHT AS STRAW

2010-08-19T04:11:00.002-04:00

by Lyn Lifshin

Your smile’s like sun
flowers he said
as tho
embarrassed his
hands were
pressing
awkwardly the
ring on his
second finger
close to her
eyes
from that room
a wheat sea
lust
blew under the
door bright
as straw
and his warm
parts on
her belly
those small
bones that
changed her
small
bones to water
And not even
knowing
his name
until later
when the floor
fell
the room
turned into a
painting
and the paint
cracked

*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm

The Big Shiny Prison

2010-08-18T17:10:00.002-04:00

by Ryan Bartek

Here's a PDF "non-fiction counterculture book" by Ryan Bartek called The Big Shiny Prison. It's a free download.

And another The Silent Burning.

*http://ryanbartek.angelfire.com/blog/

BECAUSE

2010-08-18T17:01:00.001-04:00

by Jonathan Hayes

it’s the sadness
of sulfur, or
the fact that
suicides are just
statistics, that
makes me want
to love you, while
i still exist, and
fill in that empty
four-letter word
with all my blood
and breath

Westy bar

2010-08-17T18:00:00.000-04:00

by Ben Smith

No one likes the juke box

and any time it's on

the locals ask to have

it shut off.

Every one drinks alone

but in company

and quietly

sip at their beer

with the thunder

of loneliness.

Every time the door opens

people snap their heads

and look to see if it might

be some one who they

know and will break them

from the annoying and

tedious conversation

they are having with people

they hate.

The old dudes that read from

glasses

and

they

have grey hair.

Putting 10 buck bets on every race.

Any thing to elude them from

the outside

and make belive

that it's okay to be this

old and

drunk and

lonely

and un afraid

of death

or something

like it.

THE CARNIVAL

2010-08-16T04:57:00.001-04:00

by Ben Rasnic

August heat precipitates

steady rain feathering

pink cotton candy swirls

and watercolor canvas pools

quivering in neon funhouse mirrors.

Sideshow games tilt

from leaded milk bottles

and greased crystal dishes,

shooting gallery rifles with bent sights

and barrels crooked as a raccoon’s penis.

Bearded bikers

sport tattered denim,

arms plastered

in purple ink tattoos

man the ride controls.

We ride the Scrambler, the Cyclops,

the Tilt-a-Whirl and finally,

the Ferris Wheel where we kiss

until our lips chap, then cozy up

in the black curtained booth,

my sweaty palms pressed

against her bare naked breasts

for the first time,

nipples pink and swelling

like candied apples;

exit through a mud puddle maze,

ghost image film strips

of blurred lives

and spent quarters

trampled underfoot.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

2010-08-16T03:30:00.000-04:00

by John Kusak

8:50 p.m.

Gutenberg,
removable type,
has come a long way.
wireless laser printing
and now, the new thing is,
blogs
I hope there is a great poet, still young
Somewhere, perhaps in Bogata, or Buena Aires
Who writes with a stick in sand,
Or charcoal on white ash tree trunks,
Who will be captured by Google Earth
Each letter disappearing into the cold black sea
As the tides push in or the fire blazes.

9:02 p.m.

I am naked
The humidity is causing my lungs to grieve.
I relax them with a cigarette
which only makes their lugubrious mourn
A bit more acrid.
The ceiling fan methodically returns by ritual
As if not by physics or electricity.
Perspiration has risen to form a nice thin sheen
of silky sweat off my skin
I am watching my cock get bigger and smaller
as if it has a brain of its own,
it's difficult to be serious enough,
to feel the un-pleasantries of heat
when I am staring at my own penis.

9:12 p.m.

The last 25 minutes have been a waste of time
Please forgive me, reader
These poems rather suck,
Sometimes writing makes me feel as if
I am dissolving in time to a climax tragically in decline
These times, I need to go outside
And change my tires.

gun shots bust like nickel plated cherry blossoms

2010-08-13T21:08:00.000-04:00

by David Smith

gun shots bust like nickel plated cherry blossoms

pulled from the waistband of low jeans

hidden in the sleeves of Richmond sweatshirts

blooming the shatter of auto glass explodes

with the impact of wayward chevrolets

at twenty third and rheem while

mothers fly from living rooms and bound

front steps to snatch babies from front yards

behind chain link and denial

dragging small arms of frightened

screams at mamas fearful urgency

overhead metal slams into the siding of old houses

burrowed amid termites and unrelenting detritus

of slow and persistent consumption

these streets are ruled by the warlords

whose law is vengeance like winter rain

driving hard dark and cold

into impotent neighborhoods

buried deep into weary rooftops

that cannot resist them nor repel them

but pay tribute with diverted eyes

and avoidance of darkened sidewalks

while disclaimed soldiers barter euphoria

and seek disrespect

among the homes of their enemies

classmates in the iron triangle

children run to school wary of the cars that slow

and pull to the curb and thump their skin

dark figures in dark spaces taunt them

and provoke scurry and furtive flight

into the arms of shit apostles

new chap by Catfish McDaris

2010-08-11T21:05:00.002-04:00

making love to the rain check it out.

My First Two Kills

2010-08-10T06:19:00.001-04:00

by Jim Davis

Wrapped in heavy down we are
sitting ducks, rotting leaves,
when expected to crunch, mash
from all the rain and the kick
from this .22 is far too strong
for prepubescent boys, tears
shoulder sinew from soft, fleshy arms.

Sparrows sing in the aligned crosshair
of my new Red Ryder. plunk. plunk.
plunk. One crumples and falls
like the seedling of a maple,
spinning like a helicopter
to the expectant forest floor.
I pinch that little bastard by its dead neck,
palpate the skull I put holes in
and pose for a picture, holler,
present the tiny carcass
to my father with pride.

Buckshot explodes, freckles the cornfield sky.
My father winged a goose and I
perform a heavy-handed choke that
bloodies my leather gloves. I strangle,
suffocate, pull life from feathered limbs.
I wipe blood on my overalls:
warpaint.

The Kama Sutra of Edward Cullen

2010-08-10T02:13:00.000-04:00

by J. Bradley

There is no hitting this, no fingernails
sifting through the diamonds all over
my chest, no tree bark to mark
our backs, no necking without teeth.

We'll just stare. Awkwardly.
Staring into you. Romantically.
Staring at you. It is creepy?
Not when pre-teen girls hunt
for this cock hoping to slake
their thirst for true love.

Oh dove, I would snap your wings,
drink your plummet, wear the neck
like a crucifix to ward off these girls
who wear their ovaries on their sleeves.

One day, I will build up the courage,
the resolve, to stop the staring,
stop giving you that pensive look
that unwinds your panties.

*http://iheartfailure.net/

This is just to say

2010-08-08T20:00:00.001-04:00

by Mark James Andrews

I have swallowed

all the pills

that were in

your red purse

and which

you were rationing

saving

for your work week

Forgive me

for getting loaded

I knew

they weren’t M & M’s

A Library Fantasy

2010-08-08T00:04:00.001-04:00

by Denis Robillard

Zuk’s spirit was impaled upon
the knife of love
It all started when the young
red-headed gazelle rose up
like a zoo flower
and crossed a perfect set of legs
containing a Tantric mystery.
There was a lie on her lips
a lost gaze inside her fiery eyes
a moist stamp inside the passport
of her heart.

3 Poems by Emily Handover

2010-08-08T00:03:00.001-04:00

1.
i painted a picture of you
in my mind
while he buried himself
deeper inside me
you had on that sweatshirt
with the ripped sleeve
and your hair
combed back straight
i hate your hair like that
but the only way i can
get off is by
picturing it

2.
he told me i had
the tightest slit he
ever felt
i told him i was a gypsy
a vagabond
traveling
around in search of
the biggest sea monster
one could find
and
my search wasn't over
i gave a final tug
before leaving only
the stench of
salt water
and a disheartening memory

3.
slung back another
handle of rot gut
tripped over the
memories i thought
i forgot
and fucked another sailor
to prove i don't care
only thing i got
is an empty bottle and
an itchy cunt

Peruvian Dream

2010-08-06T22:46:00.000-04:00

by Eliza Ronalds-Hannon

Dozing through the Andes
In the front of a crowded bus
Her unconcious uncurls, stretches, and crawls into his dreams
As her head rests on muscle and wool.

On his mind's ride the bus is guided by breath-
The exhalations of the black eyed panpipe player who boarded ten miles back.
His quick and airy melodies loop them through sharp curves;
And long clear notes send them down steep straightaways.

The musician is driver and passenger,
Navigating a bloodshot landscape.
He predicts each curve of the terrain
And meneuvers with gentle blows.

As his rhythms quicken their speed increases.
Outside, the grazing llamas fly by faster and faster
Until they fade away completely as the bus leaves the ground
And enters a foggy airway punctured by ragged mountain peaks.

She wakes to the smell of damp wool
Scratchy wetness on her face, his chest.
His tears or hers?

Eyes of

2010-08-05T23:44:00.001-04:00

by Sean McGahey

The eyes of patronising spinsters
looking at this street bum's
Cider stained suit of humbleness
Dog ends and empty packets of
hope scatter the floor.

"even-sev" by Sarah Ahmad

2010-08-05T04:17:00.002-04:00

"lover a banana"

2010-08-04T03:07:00.001-04:00

by Diana Salier

pssst! i'm full of vitamins
chiquita banana quips
with pride
at the breakfast table today
as if i need a reason to want to be here
with her.

well don't rub it in, i say
that may be so, but let us not forget
that i'm good for you too,
aren't i?

and then i peel off her
unripe first layer
i should have waited
more than five minutes
after bringing her home

because halfway through the long
curve of her body, i'm weary of
the premature taste

i toss chiquita banana
in the nearest receptacle
with all the love and care
of a hired mercenary

and grab a raspberry yogurt
instead

"Tale of Two Lovers"

2010-08-03T15:28:00.000-04:00

by Derrick Keeton

The rails feel cold on my fingertips as I
Descend down the stairs
That winter leaving the hospital, you behind
As usual, they say you’ll pull through
But instinct tells me it shouldn’t have taken this
Long

Long as lonely nights which pass like a pontoon
In the throes of thunderous waves on the high seas
And so strange, the torment, if only the gun had been
On safe, last winter would not have passed so bitter
Yet, hope tells me they are right, and your recovery will be
Slow

The mirror haunts back an image of a man who has seen
Death from an empty bottle
Each restless eve I drink away the memories of the days
When you were here with me, you scoundrel!
I told you never to touch that cold killing machine, my breaths die
Short

Cascades of consolation rest at my door in envelopes
As if a mailman left them there in sheer pity, avoiding the box
Next to the drive, and the cold comes once again, three winters it has been
You’re lead-leaden body now shows a familiar pair of eyes
You tell me to bend low, say, “I wanted to end the pain.
Of letting you know I cannot love you.” And as I leave…
The great specters of misery and scorn weigh heavy on my eyes
They say, “He will not make it through the night.”
The rails are cold, but not so cold as the reality of death, its venom poisoning so
Fast

questionable vocalization skills

2010-08-02T02:52:00.001-04:00

by Carl Miller Daniels

a sexy good-looking young man

is kissing the lips

of a sexy good-looking young woman

while that good-looking young woman gives

him an inept but heartfelt and well-intentioned

hand job;

the sexy good-looking young man

got off anyway, a

good gushy series of sloppy messy

cum spurts.

the young man then

reciprocates, using his

fingers to try and

bring this woman

to orgasm.

in the middle

of it, a neighbor calls,

invites them both to

dinner.

they say yes.

several weeks later,

details emerge, and

everybody involved

feels very hopeful

about the

future. in fact,

that night,

when the

sexy good-looking young

man is again getting a hand-job,

he tells her "yeah baby

yeah."

gorilla architecture

2010-08-02T02:49:00.001-04:00

by Carl Miller Daniels

"refry the beans on the doorstep of darkness"
and
"cherish the fallen angels, for they are
often the most beautiful" --
these were the thoughts
that the sexy big-dicked young man
was having as he was watching
the birds migrate, and,
as he watched them through
the little tiny itty bitty interwoven
holes of his screened-in porch,
he kept saying to himself,
"refry the beans on the doorstep of darkness"
and
"cherish the fallen angels, for they are
often the most beautiful" -- until,
the certainty of his own
madness loomed like
a twisting clothesline
on the horizon,
and even the
turnip that was sucking on
his dick
could no longer distract
him from the certainty
of orgasmic
introspectivity,
the yearning of his
pants to slither back
up his ankles, and, at
the very least, cover up the
knees.

Flat Water Prayer

2010-08-01T01:05:00.002-04:00

by TM Göttl

Coliseum dog fights
marked up the bank vault doors,
while gray-templed men, wearing
expensive wrist-watches,
stirred their coffee with silver barreled guns,
whispering through grated windows.

We escaped
across flat water borders,
passports and nicotine in our pockets.
But I watched my last prayer,
limping to the east,
weighted down by glass antennae
and polystyrene wings.

Summer spells never answer
with open grand ballrooms
and naked tables,
making room for halogen bulbs,
caught, in thorns and burning shrubs
like a multicolored spider
collapsing at dawn.

I could hear the overseer,
His voices of London glass,
above His Times Square eyes,
above his feet, the glittering wrecking balls
walking through Dresden markets.

What hopeless sigh can rise
more than crusty dial tones creeping up the stairwells,
especially under my
frantical embellishment, gluing on every feather,
every pretty bit of tinfoil
riding by on fate and a
plagiaristic breeze?

And who are the eleventh-hour sponsors,
bearing my paper airplane testament on their backs?
A pair of white foxes, flying,
tails afire, flanking a snapped quarter-star,
guarding hostages
and the tiny alloyed messengers,
who climb to the ends
of the elephant grass,
velvet and silken bags
tied to their limbs,
but they climb, my friend.
Still, they climb.

*TM Göttl lives in Cleveland, OH. Check her out at:
http://www.buffalozef.net/

...and be sure to check out this site too:
http://www.eveningforchuck.com/

flame Eaters

2010-07-29T23:04:00.000-04:00

by Jesse Mitchell

When your eyes were turned away
When your black eyes were turned away
Half-closed
And looking far off
Is when you lost me,
Sightlessly lost me
In the thick darkness
The dark barely-here-shadows
And the wild sounds
Of wild things.
Lost in the places of fires
And slow trains and imaginary things
And unconquerable stains
Left by indistinguishable stings.
When your eyes were lost
And turned blankly away.
Dancing, ripped apart, dancing in margins
Over here away
On the edge of the blade
Knife
Sword
Sword swallowers
And flame eaters
And fire spitters…
The rail-splitters
The never liars
The green eyed
And
Beautiful souls
The nothing-to-no-one devils
The I-never-know-a-danger lunatics
The no sorrow, no regrets, never turning back maniacs
The wild noises
Of wild things
When you turned your eyes away
Is when you lost me
In the swirl and
Sound
And might
And muddle
Of low light.

blue eye

2010-07-28T22:27:00.003-04:00

by Regina Green

a blue bird's egg, tiny. and empty.
my eye is like this- blue like this.

but filled with embryonic longings.
i think the last thought i may ever

think and it is of you. a crack appears,
the thick fluid of gestation mounts to

my defense. not yet, it cries. too late,
i cry. weary just then and a cat comes

to inspect, its tongue a reservoir. for
once i let the whole damn thing go.

To-uncaring

2010-07-27T14:43:00.002-04:00

by Tatjana Debeljacki

Lost in the grey loneliness.

Cognition intruder – rustling from the mind.

Unclear thread, passionate, cruel, is awaken.

The fruit is not conspiracy.

The lunatic, genius of silence!

Get closer to the unspoken.

The analysis of reason- slavery!

During walking, visible shame!

Exciting autonomy,

Opened door, the windows,

Draft!

In the mist the stairways

Leading to heaven.

Paralyzed conscience,

Portable mirror.

In the plural against the fluency,

Conducting, behavior,

And admit the guilt.

The line connecting,

The road to the spacecraft.

We walk on by in dishonor.

Bronze woman,

Brass man!!!

*www.poetabg.com/

*http://debeljacki.mojblog.rs/

*http://twitter.com/debeljacki

On Religion

2010-07-27T03:46:00.002-04:00

Those who love God/god will always love

Those who do not believe in God will never believe
Why are we inducing our insights on common people?
If you are intellectually fulfilled then it does not necessarily
Means that you should make fool of your intelligence.
Religion will never be dead and be dead.
What is not dead is spiritualism. We are bunch of spirits
Or soul and we are here for short periods of time.
This is our standard existence. If we follow moral, ethical, social
and humanistic principals. We will be blessed among ourselves.
There is no need to worry and doubt other’s intelligence, we
Are here and we will be here in one form or another.
The philosophy of life is not life of philosophy rather journey
towards sustainable peace and prosperity. Remember, the more
Differences you will create, the more difference you will have
to solve. We are the problems and we have the solutions.

by Santosh Kalwar

Waste of Time.

2010-07-26T03:51:00.002-04:00

by Laura Whelton

You know there was a day once

That stood out from time

Curled hair and tanned legs

A staple of a youthful past

Time was cruel and marks like blood

Soak this skin

Sun like butter now

Thick and blinding

No longer the painted happiness

Which held a hopeful thought

No longer the empty glasses

Held by a friend

Today was long

Cradled the sleeplessness

Worn out fatigue and promised nothing

Was it all a waste of time?

38 years of an alcoholic brother.

2010-07-26T03:47:00.003-04:00

by Laura Whelton

How easy to be the drunk

Eking out each day with coins

Shuffling towards another oblivion

With each waking stride.

How easy and forgotten

The long days of alcohol

Drank like a dying man with water

How easy the days

Spent doubled in pain

Vomiting nothing

But the pure torture

Of your condition.

How easy and sad

Begging at street corners

For the same coins

That last only a second

The endless walk

Of the drunk

As he staggers home

Night after lost night

Muttering dissatisfactory

Soliloquies

To the sombre moon

Diluted by spent eyes

How easy

To wake and have a conviction

On how to spend your day

While we soldiers of discipline

Work like animals for survival.

How easy.

I ONCE GOT A GRANT TO GO TO PRAGUE

2010-07-25T01:30:00.005-04:00

and interview people about the homeless there,

but the government representatives kept telling me

they didn't have any homeless, even though I could see

them on the street. They said they weren't really homeless,

that they were drunks who fell asleep on the way home,

that there just isn't a problem. And then one of the papers

reported that a tram driver got sick of a homeless man

who kept riding without ever getting off and so when

the man was sleeping the driver pulled over, took out

some gasoline, and lit the homeless man on fire.

I went to ask them about that, but they wouldn't

return any of my calls.

by Ron Ahimsa Riekki

A Real Man

2010-07-24T05:06:00.001-04:00

by Suchoon Mo

a real man
writes poetry
plays flute
and he masturbates
upon mountain top

Country Fair Weekend

2010-07-24T00:49:00.001-04:00

by Nicole Taylor

I drank beer with strangers, coffees downtown, teas with Mary, Mike's hard liquor with strangers and neighbors. At camp I bought a corduroy hat and sodalite earrings. At camp I watched drummers, musicians and a fire show with nude dancers. Later I watched another fire show from a great band, a fun pantomime and large chess board. At camp I ate Baklava and noodles. I also ate granola and a sub, a muffin on the ride home.

THE SIGH

2010-07-22T20:49:00.000-04:00

by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Middle of night music
soft in shadows
remembering you

breathing in my ear
wanting more

and I giving you more

and now

separate
we wonder what we did wrong

no tears
only a sadness
song
still penetrating a sigh
lasting for years.

PAULETTE,‭ ‬LIVING IN HER CAR

2010-07-22T20:35:00.000-04:00

by Lyn Lifshin

I was a ballet dancer,

then I got divorced.

I tried to be a

secretary but

learned that tho

I’m healthy

I couldn’t get

any job.‭ ‬I fill

my car with things

that don’t let‭

you know there’s

a person in there,

a lot of bags and boxes

and I cover myself

with newspaper

and hunker down

*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm

boston girl, well, I am chinese firecracker lame

2010-07-21T04:50:00.000-04:00

by kenneth mulvey

don’t go you fuck

don’t you dare

but it’s a busted

taillight drive

for a broken door handled

barroom and

a ponytailed joke

bowing, ejaculating

yessir yessir

alla the time

every time you look

at him,

asleep rumbling

throat after he

kicks you out

in a cold front

lawn till

the blistered moon

threatens the

mystics dreaded and

lovemakers

so I spend my

morning

peaking

into pieless windows,

wives shrugging their

pale shoulders at

empty tables,

husbands busy rubbing

one out in

hot showers

so they don’t

fuck this up,

whilst me down on

1^st street

with bustop bums meagre

cuz the women stay

limber

with methamphetamine

sores volcano naked

all the praised day,

where somebody stole my

empty wallet,

acting out the futile

show yet

we still are all

afraid,

no, I don’t ask for

it all back since

the emaciated

boy .22’s bunny rabbits

howling like babies

on a cyanide trip

and that’s enough,

I think,

until the midafternoon

pederasting fat russian elite

rape bloody violent

shouting 12 year old girls

between the 14^th

and 12^th floors,

behind unseen windows

upon papercut carpet,

police guard says

you better leave

buddy boy,

I whip up the

chaise into

crazy motion,

leave

the jealous road

sniffing his own usefulness,

stride dejected

head down and

bent enough for to

load confidence

upon her freckled eyelids

enough to fold

her desolation knees,

it will be easy, this,

the army boys are out

of town

and she’ll forgive,

she’ll need somebody,

she’ll drop her synthetic nuclear vest

in the presence

of an evolutionarily doctored cock

and take me back

Tense Darkness

2010-07-20T05:10:00.001-04:00

by Farida Samerkhanova

I am waiting for you in the middle of the night

And there comes a moment when

My body turns boneless and indifferent

Like a soft cotton pad

Every cell of my brain is plugged with disappointment and fatigue

I stop distinguishing between the sounds around me

The drops of rain jingling against the unfriendly surface of the roof

Your tires whispering something to the wet pavement

A distant neighbour’s garbage bin being dragged along the driveway

Your cautious steps on the telltale creaking kitchen floor

The irritating ticking of the clock on the bedroom wall

And my own miserable heart beating

CRUDE

2010-07-19T02:43:00.004-04:00

by Lyn Lifshin

the blackness
rising to the surface
oozing up to
the surface, slick
oozing in the back
yards. “No trespassing
Danger” signs. Oily
muck in the street.
“If they stay
they’re signing
their own death
warrant” on a sign
near a house
Candidates come
here days before
the election
to shake hands

***

it’s like a ghost
town, houses boarded
up. I’m afraid if
I leave the house
they’ll loot or burn
it. I have a child
with birth defects
of heart, pancreas.
Kidney. Chloroform
was so high it
wouldn’t be allowed
in any work place.
I was pregnant.
The state told me
nothing wasn’t
safe

*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm

Coastlines of My Dreams

2010-07-18T14:29:00.001-04:00

by Jake David

The shadowy past,
vague. Vast. Lone as the walls
a barren mind resembling
ungripped realities
like the coastlines of my dreams,
laying secretly within hidden pages.
brushing naked against the burgundy sky
underneath a Halloween moon
during a saxophone wind,
the ghost of a yesterdaynight's kiss.
I remember on the coast lines of my dreams
with eyes like the seven seas after Earth's climax.

The Grandest Gestures

2010-07-17T05:49:00.000-04:00

by David Tomaloff

I have been
to your cities

and seen
the Ducks

hiding coyly
among the lions
and thieves;

all huddled
together,

at once
defiant

and
terribly

alone.

Concrete
and Shoes,

sunglasses
and Stuff(!);

coldly
ablaze

like

science
fiction

just
w aiting

to
happen.

*www.davidtomaloff.com
*http://liontamersblues.tumblr.com/

11:45

2010-07-15T01:30:00.002-04:00

by Stephanie Wytovich

The phone refuses to ring

I wonder if it’s broken

Silenced

Or was quietly murdered

During the dead of night

It taunts me

Stares at me

Its numerical patterns

Circularly counting repetitively

Around the clock

While it ticks away seconds

And tocks away minutes

Relentlessly stealing hours from me

From my day

The carpet itches my thighs

And my nails dig into my arms

A nervous twitch

That draws blood

I try to distract myself

My spinning head is to full

To think otherwise

You’re probably busy

Wrapping yourself around her legs

Your tongue down her throat

Panting to the rhythm of her movements

Dancing in the crevices inside her

Or screaming to the beat of your heart

You’re probably occupied

Talking to your friends

Telling them about your night

You spent in a drunken stupor

Drowning in whiskey

Swimming in beer

Yelling at family

You’re probably lying

Telling them you’re in love

After you beat me in your room

Left me stained with tears

Dried blood on my lips

As you passed out in your bed

And I drove home

Battered

And broken.

You’re probably living your life

Going about your day

Like nothing is wrong

While I’m left

Sitting by the phone

Waiting…

For you to call,

Because I know if I leave

You’ll find me,

And I’ll be worse off

Then laying on this itchy carpet

In your run down apartment.

I’ll be dead.

YOUNG GIRL’S DIARY

2010-07-14T11:17:00.001-04:00

by Lyn Lifshin

There is nothing to eat.

We are going to die of hunger.

My teeth ache,

my left leg is frostbitten.

I almost finished the honey.

What have I done?

How selfish I am!

What are they going to say?

What will they

spread on their bread now?

Mother looks terrible–

a shadow of herself.

She works very hard.

Whenever I wake up

at twelve or one in the night

she is bent

over the sewing machine,

and she gets up at six.

I have no heart, no pity,

eat everything

I can lay my hands on.

Today I had an argument

with Father.

I insulted and even cursed him.

And this was because yesterday

I weighed the noodles

but this morning took

a spoonful for myself.

When father came back

he weighed them,

found there was less,

started yelling at me.

He was right, but I was

upset and cursed him.

Father just stood

at the window

and cried like a child.

No stranger ever

abused him like I did.

Everybody was home

I went to bed quickly

I thought I would die of hunger

*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm

Let Us Play

2010-07-13T22:03:00.000-04:00

by Santosh Kalwar

Dear Women,
come out and let us play,
reveal your secret and let’s swim
In a river of your pain
with enthusiasm and excitement

Let us swing with the melodies of birds
and let us be passionate
over our love

I know you are bothered,
by the mindless cults
The pursuit of your happiness

Lies beneath this earth
so, let us play
beautiful women

ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON BY RAPHAEL

2010-07-12T21:37:00.001-04:00

by Joel Solonche

It’s probably only me,
but George sure as hell
looks more like an NYPD
mounted cop about to club
an anti-war demonstrator
than anything else.

Searching for the anchor

2010-07-11T14:24:00.000-04:00

by Daniel Ames

green eyes and brown hair remind me of Alabama
when a long sheet of rain took the pain from her forehead
and assuaged the cankles by the cactus of doom

God is on the run and the apostles have nowhere to go
maybe Tuscaloosa but the coyotes drink hard there
and the prostitutes rape the johns using poker chips

conflagrations sound like nuclear submarines on the beach
and the conch shells spread the gossip of Christ
the Lord helps those who are hapless at the free throw line

Morning Breeze

2010-07-09T22:05:00.004-04:00

by Santosh Kalwar

I am like a tree
with so many branches
and leaves.

One branch of me
is purely an academic
and other is poetry.

rest of the branches
is very personal
and I don’t know
what personal really means.

born naked and
will die naked.
nakedness of sky
as I see it.

The brilliant moon
and entire universe
are all what I see,
when I see,
a dying person
growing in me.

As I climb
the hills
and the mountains
I find wisdom
is blowing
Just blowing
like a fresh
morning, breeze..

AIR

2010-07-08T01:49:00.001-04:00

by Demeter Race

The trace of his fingertips

On my belly

Elaboration

Of the troposphere

In that

High place

Slipping

Off his tongue

Falling

Eyes closed

32 feet

Per second squared

Never

Reaching ground.

In My Letter

2010-07-06T23:29:00.001-04:00

by Chris Middleman

I chose not to elaborate
on the dream I had of you

Where our skin was lit by
static on a rabbit-eared TV

Where I clutched your
knees as if I were falling

and held your legs apart,
intent on making you writhe

like a fever-struck child
My Summer to Remember,

the ring you wear lacks
any magic to ward off

the things you know
I'm capable of imagining

WHAT PATHWAYS

2010-07-06T02:51:00.002-04:00

by Richard Godwin

What watchdogs lie in the eternal furnace
Of your mind?
When lazy Sundays
Stalk your dreams and
The friends you gather
Like lost coins
Fall away
As your tired skin cracks with cold.

What pathways to
Oblivion do you seek?
When you cry alone at night
And feign to care
That summer has come with its million glances.
Cut by the loss

That you built
A long time ago.

*http://richardgodwin.wordpress.com/portfolio/

poem

2010-07-04T20:25:00.001-04:00

by Jo Hutton

I love the smell of just-cut grass,

Something about it

Takes me back to a peaceful

Time in my mind.

I used to lie in the long grass

In the field behind our house.

Look up at the sky

And watch the patterns I could make

By filtering rays of sunlight

Through near-closed eyelashes.

Those were the days.

Listening to the distant buzz of

My eccentric father

Whizzing up and down the lawn

In not-so-straight lines

On his new toy,

The Lawnmower

His pride and joy.

We used to laugh at his then,

Sitting astride the engine

Taking it all so seriously.

"Go and call Dad for tea," my mum would say.

"Whaaat?" he'd yell.

"Time for tea, Dad" I'd yell back.

"Whaat?"

"Oh forget it, Dad."

I'd tell Mum he was on his way,

And he'd finish up in his own good time.

And didn't we laugh at him again

That Day

Amidst our tears

Trying to come to terms with

The unimaginable

The deepest cut,

The sharpest pain,

The sudden death

Of the one you have loved the most

For the longest time.

Oh yes we laughed

About the lawnmower

And we cried

And laughed

And cried

And laughed

And cried some more

Until we were all dried up

And all that's left now

Is love

And dreams

And memories.

Document 13

2010-07-03T21:33:00.001-04:00

by Charles C Brooks III

The work ethic of Tupac is five hits in the chest, Death Row records
courting Snoop Dog, Dr. Dre – the battle was built by a faux-thug
in a pimp’s outfit who had a college degree and a middle-income home. Bullets are a mouthpiece, a street prophet only after dying for running his mouth.

Blame that on the white man too. Momma being a black panther left little
room for a white man to be decent,
on the level, open to talk and take up old slack.
Genius got wrapped up, tangled up, Biggie too
got his walking papers for playing a roll, lazy-eyed, hard rivalries for money,
fame, enough cash to lift up where they came from.

Blam! Blam! Blam! It’s not the sounds of movies, of rough-necks drunk,
it’s death. It’s futile ambulance rides so more murder
loses the validity, not enough proud work
big enough for everyone. Hard, heated, it’s razor blades and cars
that roll like art. Elegance in the best of them,
earned but born with a charm, a bow, a bounce.

Ripped From Us During Endless Harvest

2010-07-03T11:20:00.001-04:00

by Brian Le Lay

today is the first
of a long October

an Indian summer
that will lapse upon
our shoulders
for decades

plumes of smoke etched
in the New York skyline
that will last forever
in the books

we will paint autumn
leaves a moist salty
shade of blue

in the driveway
of a man
who went off
in the name
of the dollar

leaving behind
two little girls
and a confused
widow who
will only cry
in private

during harvest we wait
for the phone call--
"we found his body"

For My Mother Who Gave It Her All

2010-07-02T03:08:00.004-04:00

by Rod Peckman

My mother slept. Well, she worked, and worked hard.

And she slept when not at work.

She excelled at sleeping,--an adept, a maestro,

a Svengali of somnolence.

And she tried, I know she tried

to be the best mother she could be,

but I could not wake her from what I now know

was the formal garden one lays out

against the fecund weeded chaos,

a fleeting snooze against a lingering insanity.

The Voice Of Despair

2010-07-01T13:31:00.000-04:00

by April A.

Triangles of half-open doors
Reveal all the truth that is hidden:
Just condoms and cans on the floor,
Black papers with verses, forbidden -
Unfinished remakes of the song,
Deprived of the right to speak loud
Of wicked intentions gone wrong -
Erasers have muffled the shout.

The only illusion-proof mind -
A poet, the voice of despair,
Sincere, the one of this kind
Throws verses far into the air
Right there, in a dirty old flat
Among once great talents, now rotten.
They all have deserved more than that,
But even their names are forgotten

*http://april-abd.bravehost.com/Homepage.htm

Always

2010-06-30T17:53:00.000-04:00

by Black Kitty

always loved your hands
always thought they were so so very
livin
like i could see what life is through them
and they have thoughts all their own
a mind of their own
and they are heavy with sound
i look at every little bump and tiny scar and say
wow
play that song baby
play it for me

tonight play it with me
under that forest green cover
like you played them keys
and had us all swayin
groovin
yeah and strum it like them strings
you had us all jumpin
make it jump for me

always loved your lips
wrapped around any damn thing
even a bottle neck
hot as all get out
and i mean that
make me jealous when i see 'em on somethin besides me
but that's alright
show me i'm the only one
once the music stops

soft and hot, wet like that
boy don't make me go out and tell somebody
how you play that with your lips and tongue
umph, baby, just make me do this

scream out a note so somebody has to say
well alright then
with a smirk and a memory of used to be
take it to the next key
and i am all yours
it's all yours

always loved you
since the day i heard the music you made
always loved the way you took care to please the crowd
and then later
took care of me

so now take me to the next place
and baby
i'm yours all yours
never have to look again for what i need

captured

so i'll always love you boy
even when the music stops
and you don't play like that no more

Where Father Had Drowned

2010-06-28T17:49:00.000-04:00

by Anthony Liccione

To all the many wishes
I cast to the sea, all the forgotten yarns
of history, unraveled
lay spread on the bottom seabed.
Sandglass footprints of who
he was sunk along the shore,
billions of stars etch the pebbles
that went footloose.

The fishermen yachts ten yards away
cast their hooks and catch nothing
but colds and lost dreams in brine webs.

My father fit in with his troubles
as he cast his fishwife to the abysmal chill-
his soul strung in the curls of water
and tangled in hairs of seaweed.
Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum in a brown
paper bag was a favorite, when down
and done he’d cast the bagged bottle to the
black blanket sea of an SOS seeking tutelage.
His messages floated to shipwreck.

Desperate years trodden along the pier,
he chose a beautiful scenic view to wash
away the chronic depression of his life-
I wished my father a lifeboat,
and clear water to subdue in.
I tossed my cents apologizing
for being a born burden to you
and my mother you couldn’t control,
when the coins twirled at random, aimlessly
spinning a silver glitter to the bottom
before getting lost to the murk,
irretrievable.

The Editor is Sick of Evaluating, Ranking, and Liking

2010-06-28T17:47:00.000-04:00

by Andrew Rihn

Everything is overrated
except for Nihilism.
All the birds can fall from the sky
like so much rain; the hail
and sleet of their beaks
can break upon the pavement.
Highways are indeed like long
asphalt ribbons, but the gift inside
is a lump of coal. Actually,
we took that gift back, burned the coal
for fuel, and are giving you
an empty box instead.
But the corrugated cardboard is overrated.
So are the firestarters,
morning dew, and capital letters.
I eschew capital letters.
And capital punishment,
capitol hill, even Das Kapital.
Everything is overrated, even myself.
Especially that: the moon beams
on my windowsill, the look
of my hair in the morning mirror,
the way I say I love you sounds
like I hate you sounds like
what’s your name again?
Anyways, question marks are overrated,
and punctuation generally, and endings
with signifiers as obvious
as the tip of a shoelace.
And metaphors, too: overrated. The way
they explain this by way of that,
the way skilled poets fold them
like maps. The way readers unfold
them, reading the legend
and compass rose: north, south,
east, west (directions are overrated,
obviously). Writers are always trying
to understand where they’re going
rather than just getting the hell out of the way.
They never give credit to the editor,
always too busy giving themselves
four stars for effort.

*http://arihn.wordpress.com/

Afternoon on the Floor

2010-06-27T11:14:00.005-04:00

by Daniel Porder

My eyelids flicker,
crossing out
the light. I sink

into a flat embrace.
Shadows slip
down my cheeks,

snag on my lips.
I trace a wave
at the blue ceiling.
The world

blared like a guitar
all morning.
Now I turn
the volume low.

excellent poem

2010-06-26T18:12:00.000-04:00

*"What Is Not Allowed" by Richard Tillinghast

Routine Stop

2010-06-26T17:56:00.002-04:00

by Doug Draime

The cops stopped,
and had to inform me I
was on Grant street
in Santa Monica.

“Well, kiss my ass,”
I joked with one of the cops,
“the last thing I remember
I was smoking a joint
at a friend’s house in Silverlake.”

That’s when I had to relearn
that you don’t joke
with the cops. Or for that matter,
you can’t be honest
with cops about “illegal
drugs”, or anything else that
might be held up to serious debate.
Part of what I said was the truth
and the other part was just
a joke. I knew I wasn’t in Silverlake
anymore and I was quite aware
I was staggering some down Grant street,
having lost count of how many
beers I’d consumed since I’d
left Silverlake. So, I
pretended I was more messed-up
than I actually was, just to sort of, well,
fuck with ‘em.

“You trying to be a wise ass? You
just look like a drunk hippie to me,”
said the other cop,
with a potent dose of venom

“I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking
to your partner,” I replied, without
turning to look at him.

I knew that was a mistake the
instant it came outta my mouth,
but I couldn’t help myself.

He grabbed me from behind,
turned me around,
pushed me against the squad
car and turned me around again,
“Spread eagle, you piece of shit,”
he snarled at me, and then padded
me down hard, as he pushed me ribs
and cuffed me.

“This was just a routine stop, you
asshole, until you shot-off you
fucking mouth,” he said, grabbing
the back of my arms and leading
me to the back seat.

The Santa Monica cop shop/lockup
was much nicer than the Hollywood
Precinct that I had become accustomed
to. There was a color tv in the walkway
separating the cells, and access to
vending machines of soda, candy and
cigarettes.

The next morning when they cut me
loose I left a note for the cop that roughed
me up. “Hey, Jerry, I was really only
joking. But cops like you are the reason
people hate and fear cops. Maybe food
for thought, maybe not. Love, Doug.”

Near The Border Line

2010-06-26T17:54:00.000-04:00

by Doug Draime

The motel was on the
outskirts of a town,
from a drunken
John Houston movie..

I remember the exact placement
of the 5th of Johnny Walker Red,
sitting next to the glasses,
on the night stand but I
don’t remember her name.

Her eyes were light blue and like dimming
bar lights, flickering over my
shoulders, always looking at the
graying adobe.

I kept the tv on, and I must have
rolled 10 joints.

She liked it from behind bent over the
metal desk,
those lovely shadow-eyes blinking on and off at
the walls.
She never smiled once and gave me
one word answers to
my questions, only looking at me
when I turned away.
She didn’t even look up
when I paid her $20 more than she
said she was worth.

Sudbury

2010-06-25T05:21:00.001-04:00

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

In room 202

of the Travelway Inn

on Paris Street

I woke up and knew

I had to eat something

or be sick.

I threw on some clothes

from the floor

and grabbed some change

off the side table.

Staggered two blocks West

to the nearest convenience store

and as I passed through the parking lot

I noticed a parked red Sonata

with half a face blown off

in the driver's seat.

The morning frost ensured that bits of cranium

caked frozen to part

of the driver side window

after having slid down halfway.

I went into the convenience store

and bought a bag of pork rinds

and a Hustler.

I opened the bag

and ate one

as a crowd gathered around the car.

When I got back to my room

I pulled down the shades

folded my half eaten bag of pork rinds

to seal in freshness

and jerked off to the schoolgirl

and the charge nurse

doubled up

on page 24.

88A

2010-06-25T05:19:00.002-04:00

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

There was always one light on

each night

as I stumbled home

from the bar.

The rest of the lights on the street

were out

but the senile widow at 88A

always left her light on,

convinced that her husband who had been dead

five years

was cheating on her.

She was up at dawn each following morning

accosting passers by

and asking them

if they had seen her husband

who hadn't come home

last night.

One day

a white unmarked van came

and took her away

and a young family of first time homeowners

moved in.

Last night

the entire street was dark

when I stumbled home

from the bar.

It's been that way

for weeks now.

The Titanic

2010-06-24T02:47:00.001-04:00

by Kenneth Radu

A doll’s head, chipped by salt,
green from drowning,
stares up from the ocean floor.

Fish swim among the prisms
of unfallen chandeliers
and, phosphorescent, glow.

An electric eel pirouettes
inside a sailor’s skull,
then slides out a socket.

The ship is broken
like a sunken monument,
soft to touch and moving,

a trick of lights under water
and the camera’s searching
eye. What moves is memory:

a woman’s white muslin
in the breeze, badminton
cocks slapped back and forth,

an orchestra tuning, a dance,
good-night Mother, iceberg
and black water breaking in.

CUTTING

2010-06-24T02:38:00.000-04:00

by Mike Berger

Blood oozes out‭; ‬she smiles.‭ ‬Her
demon depression retreats.‭ ‬She‭
knows just how to cut‭; ‬long and‭
vertical,‭ ‬and not too deep.‭ ‬Slice
just enough to make the blood flow.

She hides her bloodletting behind
long sleeves as she hides the darkness‭
inside with a‭ ‬knife.

She sharpens the‭ ‬knife‭ ‬so it won't
bruise or tear.‭ ‬She stops the bleeding‭
with a rag.‭ ‬She puts the bloody rag in‭
a plastic bag and throws it in a dumpster
on the way to school.

She tells‭ ‬herself she is worthless.‭ ‬She's‭
done it so many times she's come to‭
believe it.‭ ‬The cutting doesn't help.

She struggles each day through school
and can't wait to get home for another
bloodletting.

OLD WOMAN IN THE ABANDONED BUILDING

2010-06-24T02:35:00.001-04:00

by John Grey

they left me here
she brawls
with speech
rips at her rescuers
as if they
were inquisitors

dogs are glad
for the light
cats sprawl
into the air

she leaves
belligerently
eyes squabbling like pigeons
lips their own target
hollering and bloody

tottering

2010-06-23T05:49:00.000-04:00

by Wesley Francis

my stepfather is
drunk on the porch
at three in the afternoon,
his pet rat resting
on his palm

he prods her,
says she has tumors
on her kidneys
as he totters on
unsteady feet

he whispers
his mouth against
the flur of her ear
"don't worry
it will take a long time
to kill you"

it doesn't occur to me
until much later
that he was talking
about himself

Lovesick

2010-06-23T05:45:00.001-04:00

by Zach King-Smith

Love is
a funny thing
to deal with.

I lost it
once and
it made me
sick for months
afterwards

and then I
found it once
again in the
hospital with
a girl who
wore a white
gown that
parted in
the back.

I hope I
don't have
to go back
and lose it
again.

They'd
lock me up
for sure the
next time.

PURGATORY MOODS

2010-06-23T05:43:00.000-04:00

by Zachary Whalen

the mood
in purgatory
tonight
is four litres of milk,
white.
the general concensus:
raw-throated whatever.

no contentment.
no promise.
ineffectual drugs
& too many
condoms.

another weekend's
weak
end.

Divvy it Up

2010-06-22T06:50:00.002-04:00

by Kumari de Silva

Why did some people get born where the angry tornadoes tear
up the scenery, or earthquakes yawn open the ground like a maw,
or Tsunami throttle, waves screaming while the sky recedes?
How do some people hold fast, hanging tough, as luck jumps, while others
just free fall, crash, then burn, without promise, without hope?

Good karma, blessings from the gentle Mother Earth or the Christ Father God?
Whenever I wing images of you: blue eyes brightly shining, a smile on your face,
more than I ever deja vued, this slight relationship of feather right relating values us.
Get real: nothing pushes me away, nothing cages you in, is there a tomorrow?
Luck is lark, no notes, just the pure now flutters in my heart.

"THE BODY LIES"

2010-06-22T05:48:00.001-04:00

by Tyanah August

AFTER A LONG, HARD NIGHT
I TAKE A DRAG FROM A CIGARETTE
'I THOUGHT U DIDN'T SMOKE.' HE SAYS.
'I THOUGHT I DIDN'T DO ALOT OF THINGS.' I REPLY.
HE KNOWS HE'S IN MY HEAD
ANOTHER SNAKE IN THE GRASS
ANOTHER WET SPOT IN MY BED
AS I LAY I THINK ABOUT THE ONE I THOUGHT I COULD LOVE FOREVER
THE ONE I CHOSE TO SPITE ON THIS NITE
BY FUCKIN ANOTHER FELLA
I WONDER IF HE'S WITH ANOTHER BITCH
LAID UP THINKING ABOUT ME AT THE VERY SAME MOMENT
I WOULD CALL BUT THAT'S RUDE
I'VE GOT COMPANY
I DON'T RESPECT HIM THOUGH
HE CAN'T MAKE LOVE TO ME
ONLY THRUST AND PUSH AND PUMP
NOT STROKE AND DIP AND KISS
SO SOFTLY
SO SLOWLY
THAT BASTARD DOESN’T CARE ABOUT ME
I TAKE A SIP OF MY NITECAP
AND TELL OLD JACK TO MAKE HIS SOLES CLAP
THEN AS SOON AS THE LOCK SNAPS
I'M DIALING 7 DIGITS BY HEART
BUT
NO ANSWER
I LAY ALONE
SOUL EMPTY
TEARS IN MY EYES
BODY AS COLD AS SNOW
THINKIN 'OH WELL, MAYBE TOMORROW'

* Tyanah's blog: spreadknowledgenotgossip.blogspot.com

AND THEN?

2010-06-22T05:43:00.001-04:00

by Hugh Fox

Remembering Hiroshima and Nagasaki
and obliteration-bombing out the other
Japanese cities, thinking about nuked-out
Chicago, Oak Park, Highland Park, Boston,
Somerville, Cambridge, Harvard levelled,
never really stopping, Kansas City war
streets, 600 dead last year, moving toward
the possibility of wiping it ALL out, before
the sun wears out or the earth cracks into
pieces when all the oil-reserves inside it
that kept it round-together, are used up, as
if Much Ado About Nothing, M.J., Monet’s
meditations, Audrey Hepburn had never
been.

poem

2010-06-21T19:39:00.001-04:00

by Ivan P.

She said that the Book of Genesis is not a textbook
of deceit and perversity, as many people think of it,
but just a narration of what had happened then,
and saints are not the guys with rich imagination,
ambiguous conduct and boundless inner freedom,
but just those who have spoken to God.
As for the question why God had chosen
the pettiest soul he could ever create,
that was really a problem for him.
He approached Abraham from left and right,
from the front and from behind, above and below,
but that smug fellow full of merchant rubbish didn't
see nor hear anything. In the end, utterly despondent,
he penetrated the skull and buried himself inside.
If you ask me where he is now, I would say that
he's still imprisoned in some businessman's skull,
bored to death. Lost in heavenly dross, angels don't
miss him, of course; they're happy with their
mad psalms.

Hard On

2010-06-21T19:34:00.001-04:00

by Pris Campbell

She sails, hard on the wind,
discovers an isle crammed
with bent orange trees
and one naked man.
He picks and
peels a nearby orange,
drinks its juice,
licks his chin,
touches himself,
disappears,
leaving her
to plot the coordinates
of lust.

this world is ending and i think i’m doing the right thing

2010-06-21T02:42:00.000-04:00

by Adam Moorad

i'm going to move to alaska and work on a fishing boat
i'm going to live off crabs and mollusks
because i don't care anymore
maybe floating on the ocean is what the future will be like
for those of us who can survive
and we will float and swim and drift
and wish we had drowned with everyone else

today i'm going to pack all my bags and drive across the country
and i will only stop when i feel the need
to climb a mountain or a tree somewhere along the interstate
that hovers over the road
and somewhere on this mountain or in this tree
there is a spirit of an indian
and that is what i am looking for, i think

jesus is engraved in the face of my rifle
and his beard becomes hot when i pull the trigger

i want to know the way the world will end
because i'd like to watch the tsunamis arrive
from a beach

this morning i realized i have relatives in the ocean
who have gills and fins
who have asexual reproduction methods
and i am jealous

one of my uncles is a whale
he swallows me when I fall into the water
i sit inside my uncle’s belly
like meat in a can
and wait for several weeks
counting my ribs beneath my fingers
like an orphan

*Adam lives in Brooklyn and works in publishing. Visit him here: http://adamadamadamadamadam.blogspot.com/

Hidden in the Cracks

2010-06-19T13:16:00.000-04:00

by Sandy Benitez

Rummaging through your face
blue ocean eyes
the one i remember
an old file
dusty
think unopened bottles
crown royale
coke
stored away
where i could not imagine you

today
i wrote a lost memo
some new clutter

questions
hidden in the cracks
spiders spinning tales
a gold hoop tangled
in denial
returned to sender

you came without a tie
apricot soap
a white angel
greeting me
handsigned
always
a long ago
when my fingertips
tasted your goodbye

sick day

2010-06-18T12:59:00.002-04:00

by Shannon Peil

i thought
real hard
about not showing up tomorrow
but a scab would do my job for half what I make
and it really doesn’t matter
how hard you fuck the white
middle class
american
male
we’ll bend over willingly
stare at the carrot
beg for it harder
until we’re outsourced
and tomorrow I’ll come in again
waiting
to get fucked
patiently

Cliché Country

2010-06-17T12:33:00.000-04:00

by David Chorlton

There’s a gently rocking sound
of hoofbeats on the trails
that run through dreams
people have of Arizona
where sunsets are brightest

as the backdrop
for a tall saguaro
and vultures hang like decorations
in a sky obsessed
with thirst. Old men have faces

creased like maps to the gold mines
they never discovered
but they kept a sense of humour
and the skill to spit
tobacco and mumble reminiscences
at the same time. They always wax

lyrical when referring
to Spanish speaking women
but are wary of the men.
Memories survive here
on beans and chili peppers,
washed down
with a bottle of independence.
Soft as a painting

on velvet the stars
appear overhead
when smoke from a camp fire
rises and a coyote’s profile
is printed on the full moon.
Even the legislature

is committed to preserving
values so traditional
nobody remembers them from
first time around, although
with all the open space
there’s no need to feel restricted.
The tumbleweed still rides

on a wind as dry as the skull
attached to the wall
and the diamondbacks only strike
when under duress.

Outside

2010-06-17T12:32:00.000-04:00

by David Chorlton

A cool breeze blows across the intersection
to a man wearing a sleeveless undershirt
beside an empty shopping cart
cutting off his hair
and allowing it to float down past his shoulders
until the tufts remaining
on his scalp are sparse
as the weeds sprouting up
from the gravel where he stands.
He’s home for now

at the edge of a parking lot
that serves the drug store
with its extrovert typography
offering deals he
can’t afford. Outside is his address,

his bedroom and his bathroom,
the lounge where he rests
and the den
in which he settles down
to smoke a cigarette or read
the newspaper someone threw away

but it doesn’t matter if the news
is yesterday’s; nothing is going
to change for him except
the weather forecast, which soon
will turn into a sentence
of life at a hundred degrees
in the shade, and the shade
is private property.

Kaleidoscope and Harpsichord

2010-06-16T12:36:00.005-04:00

As I've told my wife too many times,
the meaning of any poem hides
in the marriage of cadence and sound.

Vowels on a carousel,
consonants on a calliope,
whistles and bells,
we need them all
tickling our ears.
Otherwise, the lines
are gristle and fat, no meat.

Is it any wonder, then,
my wife has a problem
with any poem I give her to read
for a second opinion, especially
when the poem has no message
and I'm simply trying to hear
what I'm saying and don't care
if I understand it.

The other night in bed
I gave her another poem to read
and afterward she said this poem
was no different than the others.
She had hoped I'd improve.

"After all," she said,
"you've been writing for years
but reading a poem like this is
like looking through a kaleidoscope
while listening to a harpsichord."

Point well taken,
point well said.

But then I asked her
what should a man do
if he has careened for years
through the caves of his mind
spelunking for the right
line for a poem

only to hear his wife say
after reading one of his poems
that it was like
"looking through a kaleidoscope
while listening to a harpsichord."
What should he do--quit?

"Not a chance,"
she said this morning,
enthroned at the kitchen table,
as regal as ever in her fluttery gown
and buttering her English muffin
with long, languorous strokes
Van Gogh would envy.

"He should write even more,
all day and all night, if need be.
After all," she said, "my line
about the kaleidoscope and harpsichord
still needs a poem of its own.
It's all meat, no gristle, no fat."

by Donal Mahoney

Legendary Creature

2010-06-15T14:23:00.002-04:00

by Ray Succre

Hello monster, stamping and hooting, you,
stripped from shower and striped as barber’s pole;
gut drop here and red patch there, you,
demoniac, love; the great day’s bowl of fog
in a room; in an instant you exhale its kin—

Hello, hello, losing your hair before virgins,
hell and clippers, preening your nails beside the sink,
standing unpeeled, cherub-assed,
the light against the canister jammed in your armpits,
ice-blaze of youth gasifying to the sound of an uneven fan.

Your glasses balsamic, ears that know sprouts,
gasses and mortise and every scrubbed port—
for these yields you are granted the hideous servitude
of greatness, the wealth of thoughts like a balm,
your boiled over truth as a being semisolid in all ways,
an existence unverifiable but popularly accepted.

Clap in the mirror. Hello. Hop and clap and grease
your mind to the new instant.

It’s the going fire that has you. The going fire.

*Ray Succre's novels Tatterdemalion (2008) and Amphisbaena (2009), both through Cauliay, are widely available in print. Other Cruel Things (2009), an online collection of poetry, is available through Differentia Press.

Is That It?! (Adult)

2010-06-14T07:45:00.012-04:00

by Laura Whelton

Oops I did it again

I let you in

You didn’t stop, no

You went right ahead.

Just like before

I was your whore.

Stripped and bloated

Night time madness

Paints a badly

Drawn portrait.

He is never going to change.

Those lonely edged

Calls on a quiet morning

Ring in my ear.

Yet the tragedy remains

The same.

I am naked and fat.

Stream sweat from your face

Onto breasts

Most forgiving.

But I’m tired now

Tired.

And the semen running down my legs

Aint going nowhere fast.

But I am.

I’ll run in my mind

Until I’m out of wordless breath.

And accept the last

Solid fact,

Of being

Nothing to somebody

Who used to be everything

To me

Peaceful Rest

2010-06-11T04:11:00.000-04:00

by Melanie Browne

The dusty
sign
which
peeks through
the hearse's
white-curtained
windows
catches my
eye as
I fly down
75

We both,

make the
same exit,

We pull
into the
parking lot
of Centennial
Liquor

simultaneously

Later, as
I load the
Van with

purchases,

I see the
driver
Pulling those

same white

curtains
closed,

my eyes
dodging

the dark
side of the clouds

collateral murder

2010-06-10T19:45:00.003-04:00

*Wikileaks

Songbird Dance

2010-06-08T12:25:00.021-04:00

by Karen Kelsay

My need for your daisy-picked dreams
has vanished. I buried it beneath
the pumpkin vines last august,
shoveled a heap of maple leaves
over unbelieving soil,
erected a cross above
three year's worth of scattered seed—
and watched the songbirds dance.

4 poems by Chris Butler

2010-06-08T01:32:00.001-04:00

Contagious Cancer

I am a cancer cell,
intending to spoil
the whole bunch
by back-stroking down
the blood stream with
lymph fluids, while
establishing colonies in
the composting colon and
expanding real-estate
prostate space above a
towering tumor on the
left testicle, just to
lounge around the lungs,
then exhaled onto the
apex of the nervous system,
before spreading out
to this epidermis surface,
exposing my true self.

Down

I don’t
want to live
down in the
basement,
where the single
synthetic sun
beams artificial
light from a
dangling bulb,
swinging my struggling
shadows with each
futile pass as I bob
for the contents of
cobwebs, while
succumbing to
surrounding mouthfuls of
fiberglass insulated
cotton candy mixed
with carbon monoxide,
then holding
my breath while
hovering over the
graveyard corners
of discarded cockroach
carcasses, hollowed
out exoskeletons
of insects ingested by
incest marked with
toothpick crosses,
all underneath
the weight
of home.

Grind

Grinding my teeth
and thinking of you,
like I’m chewing sinew
or bleeding meat,

when you’re stuck in
my sandpaper enamel,
breaking the brittle
minerals while crawling
over and around the
rows of rolling molars
or lodged between the
cracked gaps, ripping
at my rotting roots,
where mint-flavored
floss splits the
reddened gums.

Creaking mandible jaw
until my face aches,
chisels this mouth
into crowned porcelain
dentures, straightened fake,
to forget one flaw.

Libido

I got a full-frontal
lobotomy to sever
my infected libido
and swollen ego,
so double-jointed
surgeons could stitch
together wilting skin
with shivering fingers,
using slivered string
and plaster cast masks
as memorable memorabilia
of stuff that once was.