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
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