by Rachel Lauren
Telephone wires cast its web to all the hungry houses. Connecting us. I know them not by name but the way they live. There’s the blue balloon always been filled with helium two houses to the left. He occasionally passes a nod to the walking wallet tip toeing on debt. Who sleeps with the gold mine at one of his other houses so the damp rag he married can absorb more fallen tears, the two houses across the street. A lonely house falling apart from heartache rots in its grave to the right. I sometimes lurk along its walls following flies. They tell me secrets. “He chops off the heads of crows and harvests them for the winter to wear them on the tips of his fingers.” Who are these people that share the same brackish street name as me? Trapped in this web.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Hands
by Sarah E. Alderman
Sweetest slut-puppy in the whole litter
With green eyes that echo the ocean
Its depth and uncompromising loyalty
To anything that is named love or disguised as
Did I fall out of the box?
Your favorite crayon
Your favorite hue of blue-green
Waiting for you to turn me over in your hands
Until I have turned
Purple, black, red
All the colors of bruised and bleeding
I am no longer my own
You make me wonder if I ever was
I am not a chameleon
But I learn to turn shades
According to your mood swings
The heat of your palms melting
Off such naive and silly things
Like ambition, like identity
Who needs self awareness, confidence, esteem
When in the presence of a supernova
Filling the sky with your temper
Temperamental heat
Eruptions, explosions
Sculpting spine until it is fragile and brittle
Like the burnt-out wick of a candle
Or the husk of the tallest pine
That cannot bend with the wind
Only sway in place
And still your hot heavy hands
Move over me
Sweetest slut-puppy in the whole litter
With green eyes that echo the ocean
Its depth and uncompromising loyalty
To anything that is named love or disguised as
Did I fall out of the box?
Your favorite crayon
Your favorite hue of blue-green
Waiting for you to turn me over in your hands
Until I have turned
Purple, black, red
All the colors of bruised and bleeding
I am no longer my own
You make me wonder if I ever was
I am not a chameleon
But I learn to turn shades
According to your mood swings
The heat of your palms melting
Off such naive and silly things
Like ambition, like identity
Who needs self awareness, confidence, esteem
When in the presence of a supernova
Filling the sky with your temper
Temperamental heat
Eruptions, explosions
Sculpting spine until it is fragile and brittle
Like the burnt-out wick of a candle
Or the husk of the tallest pine
That cannot bend with the wind
Only sway in place
And still your hot heavy hands
Move over me
Flowering nights
by Reena Prasad
An earthen lamp sits in smoky vigil
Dusk spreads beyond the courtyard tree
Burning incense sticks smolder
till they crumble into grey dust
Come home, the roses are sparkling wet
The dew-drenched lady
is quietly walking by.
Night glances in
through the creeper-draped glass
only to look away and ponder at large.
The Nishagandhi has bent
under the will of the rain
drizzling sweetness even in defeat.
Warm breaths hush the talkative bangles
but naughty anklets continue to smile and peep
Drops of water dot the cool, mud pitcher
Drops of water break into sweaty beads
Reality whispers but sleep cajoles.
Waiting for a bee to return back to me
Spring of my soul, I bloom no more
When darkness embraces my curled-up toes
a gentle need seeps through my inner whorls.
A bud in precocious bloom, a butterfly sensing doom
a moth settling for a vagrant hue
or am I the colour of a summer night
fading too soon?
Crushed jasmine buds dot a bridal bed
as a tender night falls into a scented dream.
An earthen lamp sits in smoky vigil
Dusk spreads beyond the courtyard tree
Burning incense sticks smolder
till they crumble into grey dust
Come home, the roses are sparkling wet
The dew-drenched lady
is quietly walking by.
Night glances in
through the creeper-draped glass
only to look away and ponder at large.
The Nishagandhi has bent
under the will of the rain
drizzling sweetness even in defeat.
Warm breaths hush the talkative bangles
but naughty anklets continue to smile and peep
Drops of water dot the cool, mud pitcher
Drops of water break into sweaty beads
Reality whispers but sleep cajoles.
Waiting for a bee to return back to me
Spring of my soul, I bloom no more
When darkness embraces my curled-up toes
a gentle need seeps through my inner whorls.
A bud in precocious bloom, a butterfly sensing doom
a moth settling for a vagrant hue
or am I the colour of a summer night
fading too soon?
Crushed jasmine buds dot a bridal bed
as a tender night falls into a scented dream.
Metallica Records Its Debut Album in Rochester, NY, May 1983
by Daniel M. Shapiro
The four horsemen flashed the lights
before techs could adjust
the white/black ratio of sky.
In this land of Chuck Mangione,
listening would seldom go easily.
A studio by the name of Music America
knelt behind a green sign with white letters:
The City of Rochester Welcomes You.
Peeling paint nodded its long-haired nod
at the whiplash-quick thrashers from the West.
Even boogaloos had to stutter-step,
cowering in the cool basement
of the 50-years-dead social club.
The drummer insisted his cymbals
rotated from the callused ghosts.
The sweater-vested man enlisted to engineer
had worked the counter at Music Lovers Shoppe,
collected sweaty bills for vinyl at retail price.
He would translate the band’s seek-and-destroy riffs
into the soundtrack of zits that couldn’t be hidden,
zits that shielded braces, speech mid-voice-change,
threadbare denim or faux leather a daily coin flip,
weed-burned fingers contorting into devil horns.
This would be a symphony for the front window,
an opus to unite the lonely at breakneck speed.
Six weeks later, the band would flee for anesthesia,
for all the gloom-free cities. The tightly gripped hammer
would give way to blood, jump in the fire midsummer
to go three times platinum, a discarded mirror
of shrugged-shouldered East Avenue clouds.
The four horsemen flashed the lights
before techs could adjust
the white/black ratio of sky.
In this land of Chuck Mangione,
listening would seldom go easily.
A studio by the name of Music America
knelt behind a green sign with white letters:
The City of Rochester Welcomes You.
Peeling paint nodded its long-haired nod
at the whiplash-quick thrashers from the West.
Even boogaloos had to stutter-step,
cowering in the cool basement
of the 50-years-dead social club.
The drummer insisted his cymbals
rotated from the callused ghosts.
The sweater-vested man enlisted to engineer
had worked the counter at Music Lovers Shoppe,
collected sweaty bills for vinyl at retail price.
He would translate the band’s seek-and-destroy riffs
into the soundtrack of zits that couldn’t be hidden,
zits that shielded braces, speech mid-voice-change,
threadbare denim or faux leather a daily coin flip,
weed-burned fingers contorting into devil horns.
This would be a symphony for the front window,
an opus to unite the lonely at breakneck speed.
Six weeks later, the band would flee for anesthesia,
for all the gloom-free cities. The tightly gripped hammer
would give way to blood, jump in the fire midsummer
to go three times platinum, a discarded mirror
of shrugged-shouldered East Avenue clouds.
Mourning the lost poems of an unknown poet
Hurt- spoken to Vincent
by A.V. Koshy
i know, vincent
this one is going to be as raw as your later ones
and as bitter, angry and ugly
you know those friends, birds of the same feather
but they were not friends
and i would write poems
and poems after poems
and they would say silently
but you are not as good as the ones who write in malayalam
we are better
or the ones who write in usa or uk
or the ones who got prizes
or got published
or the great ones
and i would say nothing
write, read it out
to a few
who would not laugh -
like you had theo
i had them -
and then tear it up
confetti on the sidewalks, so many countless pieces
littering the streets of the city of my cri(m)es
all my life they have followed me, vincent
and i kiss my girl and say, to her i'm more than vincent
and they say why don't you stop this madness
and i say
anna
is there god's hand's imprint on my heart
am i not like dostoevsky
and they say megalomania
vincent, sit here, paint with me in my loneliness
while i make love to your golden cornfields and bluest of skies
and let me read out to you my poem
and we can tear it up and let it like blackbirds fly
into your painted sky
for one thing i know of you, vincent
you would not laugh as the gutters fill with boats for boys
made from paper taken from my left-behind poems
alone of all mankind, you would sit and cry
with me and give me your canvasses, to write -
i know, vincent
this one is going to be as raw as your later ones
and as bitter, angry and ugly
you know those friends, birds of the same feather
but they were not friends
and i would write poems
and poems after poems
and they would say silently
but you are not as good as the ones who write in malayalam
we are better
or the ones who write in usa or uk
or the ones who got prizes
or got published
or the great ones
and i would say nothing
write, read it out
to a few
who would not laugh -
like you had theo
i had them -
and then tear it up
confetti on the sidewalks, so many countless pieces
littering the streets of the city of my cri(m)es
all my life they have followed me, vincent
and i kiss my girl and say, to her i'm more than vincent
and they say why don't you stop this madness
and i say
anna
is there god's hand's imprint on my heart
am i not like dostoevsky
and they say megalomania
vincent, sit here, paint with me in my loneliness
while i make love to your golden cornfields and bluest of skies
and let me read out to you my poem
and we can tear it up and let it like blackbirds fly
into your painted sky
for one thing i know of you, vincent
you would not laugh as the gutters fill with boats for boys
made from paper taken from my left-behind poems
alone of all mankind, you would sit and cry
with me and give me your canvasses, to write -
Ultraviolet
by Rebecca Gomez
She enters the spectrum
With ease
And not even the voices
Will scare her away
She shushes the meanest of them
For she has tired of 3-D
And in this place of bright lights and swirling walls
Her mind is at peace
And she can successfully
Think of only one thing at a time
She enters the spectrum
With ease
And not even the voices
Will scare her away
She shushes the meanest of them
For she has tired of 3-D
And in this place of bright lights and swirling walls
Her mind is at peace
And she can successfully
Think of only one thing at a time
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Austere Lights
by Ali Znaidi
No moon tonight. Instead, only bits of
golden fleece adumbrated by mist.
The light faded away bit by bit
to the rhythm of the lunar eclipse—
something akin to distant lights of a plane
swallowed by a hungry sky’s mouth.
Thunder. Lightning. & a cigarette
between two frigid fingers—
I was beginning to wonder if
these lights would hold;
if I would hold.
I wonder if light tonight was
administered to fit into
the austerity measures.
No moon tonight. Instead, only bits of
golden fleece adumbrated by mist.
The light faded away bit by bit
to the rhythm of the lunar eclipse—
something akin to distant lights of a plane
swallowed by a hungry sky’s mouth.
Thunder. Lightning. & a cigarette
between two frigid fingers—
I was beginning to wonder if
these lights would hold;
if I would hold.
I wonder if light tonight was
administered to fit into
the austerity measures.
Folk Remedies for Blue Throat
by Tracy Koretsky
Grasp tongue in clean handkerchief
for four fingers’ breadth; press
a rock against your fish border:
these, they say, will all cure
Blue Throat. Some hold the belief
that mud is responsible, so to kiss the eye
is beneficial. It will, they say, make
it pulse red so that the blue might
surprise into purple. Upon this point,
there is important wavering by our venerated authorities
whose sharp and public disagreements
also include whether swinging a bag
of frogs might help. Obviously, to hug
a dog will free the epiglottis,
but should no dog happen along
it is best to dream of the perfect curve
of the waning moon and the song she might
whisper if she sang only for you.
Grasp tongue in clean handkerchief
for four fingers’ breadth; press
a rock against your fish border:
these, they say, will all cure
Blue Throat. Some hold the belief
that mud is responsible, so to kiss the eye
is beneficial. It will, they say, make
it pulse red so that the blue might
surprise into purple. Upon this point,
there is important wavering by our venerated authorities
whose sharp and public disagreements
also include whether swinging a bag
of frogs might help. Obviously, to hug
a dog will free the epiglottis,
but should no dog happen along
it is best to dream of the perfect curve
of the waning moon and the song she might
whisper if she sang only for you.
Henry
by Alyssa Nickerson
Henry, I had only wished for your
body made mine in twilight, some
heat beside me. The scattered factors
crammed in your theses were made
moot by moon and Southern midnight.
In the youngest moments of a year, performed
twice, your thin limbs (scraggly as mountain pine)
caught mine; and, draped over wrought balustrade,
I could see Venus through your kiss. And if, boy,
I saw your lines draped across Carolina
skies, I might subscribe to novel alphabets
of bliss. But even so, you are not missed.
Henry, I had only wished for your
body made mine in twilight, some
heat beside me. The scattered factors
crammed in your theses were made
moot by moon and Southern midnight.
In the youngest moments of a year, performed
twice, your thin limbs (scraggly as mountain pine)
caught mine; and, draped over wrought balustrade,
I could see Venus through your kiss. And if, boy,
I saw your lines draped across Carolina
skies, I might subscribe to novel alphabets
of bliss. But even so, you are not missed.
Not Just A Name
by Vinodkumar Edachery
Onchiyam-
It is not just a name
A passion, a synonym for resistance
Against oppression
It seethes once again
With utter rage
Shouting fiery slogans-
Always proud of its brave sons
You, the last of martyrs
True inheritor of the spirit
No lesser than an idol
Posed a menace to the corrupt
Never compromised with principles
Sacrificed all prospects for the ideal
Throughout your life
They followed you like cowards
Under cover of darkness
To inflict 51 gashes on the face
In a calculated move
Giving no chance even to scream
Oh! Brave Martyr
They really feared you
Your idealism, steadfastness
Integrity, compassion, commitment
And the indomitable will
You inspired the crowd with frenzy
You were riding a bike, they, an Innova
That shows the difference, true
You wanted them to correct their ways
To stick to the ideals
Like true Marxists
For you felt they had gone too far
From its fundamental tenets
But it was hard for them-
A going back to fundamentals.
So they took the easiest way
They decided to eliminate you
With brutal barbarity
You were hacked to death
There were 51 stabs on your lovely face.
You were not ready to relent a bit
They too….
You will not deviate from tenets
They, from rashness
You could attract the crowd from their fold
Like a magnet
Mingled with laymen like old comrades
Came to their help in all their needs
No matter whether wedding, feast or funeral
Shared their joys and their woes
Like one of them, you were a brother to them all
They began to lose parliament seats
The party had to bow its head
All arrogance gone
You reminded what they had forgotten
A going back was hard for them
So there was no other way
They did just what they could.
You couldn’t forgive their deviation
They couldn’t forgive your fervour
Your death created a furore
You grew in stature, bigger than ever
Ready to devour them all
It exposed the wicked, the selfish
The vested interests
The betrayal with a wedding letter
How your name turned a hymn of hope for all
Deemed more dangerous than the bourgoise
The common enemy of all Communists-
Racked none their brains to analyse
They tried hard to deceive the cops
And blindfold the eyes of Truth
With all wiles, like the sticker ‘Masha Allah’
To shade it all a communal hue
Maligning air with blatant lies
Sieging courts for trying convicts
Blocking normal life with hartals
Snubbing martyrs as renegades-
Sheer gimmicks to calm the sheepish ranks
How vile it’s all, what a shame!
That you were called a renegade, how perverse!
Fie upon them! They are incorrigible.
They unleashed terror to destroy you
Disfigured your face with 51 stabs
Which really disfigured their own faces
True, it is they who really lost their face.
I always wondered at your power
Listened to the speeches in amazement
Anxious to see how you challenge a Titan
A David against Goliath
You started soon the mending work
When they derailed from the tenets
Still you could do more than Hercules did
Who had really inspired you
But who can trust they will mend their ways
As Hercules did?
No, they can not.
You said to them, ‘this is not the way’
Certainly, you had the right
You were in their fold from your teens
You were well-versed in Marxism
Instructed the rank and file about true path
They cut you into pieces in your 51st year
When you turned a rebel
You were the true son of Onchiyam
So you could not compromise like others
They were aware of your prowess
Feared the welcome you enjoyed
They in jeopardy found their ways
When you formed a new outfit
And people flocked round the pen
Seeking shelter under the roof
And saw a saviour in your words
Then they came to win you over
With a lot of allurements
But you stood adamant
Refused to make adjustments
To you, ideals were more important
Than anything else.
That night I couldn’t sleep
For several nights sleep didn’t come to stay
The evil had the victory-heart throbbed
It is as if they plucked the Sun from the day
Moon from the night
You knew the murderers were after you
Still you took no caution
They came in a group with weapons
You travelled alone, armless
Riding a bike, that made things easy for them
The whole state was terrified
Everyone deplored the act in severe terms
The mighty tree was felled
But your death was not in vain
It exposed the real culprits
Brought their ugly faces to light
The fire it instilled in raging hearts
It will take time to extinguish
You became a martyr
Like a true comrade of Onchiyam
The land of martyrs
For denouncing corruption in strong words
You lashed at the vices
From toe to crown
They tried to make you look like them
A ploy that didn’t work, like Masha Allah
They didn’t think that you are invincible
That you had no death-your ideals
That you had a charmed life
Like Caesar you proved stronger in death
You are not just a name
A symbol, a stone, a stubbornness.
The Drought
by Ayeni Tolulope
shadowy lies,
drawn across the skies,
a darkened temptest,
brewing on for miles,
the threat of an out-pour,
the air; still yet charged,
our herds, look on longingly,
children scamper for safety,
we hope, pray, then beg all gods,
a few drops, the earth groans,
the shrill cry of our shaman,
joy, rejoicing; finally rain,
lightening draws from the heavens, our ancient groove struck,
songs stolen in second stanza; speechless,
the rain trickles then stops,
sighs..... moans....... sobs,
the drought never ends.
shadowy lies,
drawn across the skies,
a darkened temptest,
brewing on for miles,
the threat of an out-pour,
the air; still yet charged,
our herds, look on longingly,
children scamper for safety,
we hope, pray, then beg all gods,
a few drops, the earth groans,
the shrill cry of our shaman,
joy, rejoicing; finally rain,
lightening draws from the heavens, our ancient groove struck,
songs stolen in second stanza; speechless,
the rain trickles then stops,
sighs..... moans....... sobs,
the drought never ends.
You breathed my name into the air
I never knew I existed until then
by Trina Tan
Maybe we exist only in exhalations maybe
there is no us. Maybe we are six billion people
surviving on the voices of (six minus one) billion people
each of our breaths a consequence of
someone else uttering our names in stories of
sometime adventures. There is no gravity we exist in a flux
of cause and effect. Suspended in the middle of cotton quilt
and stone graphite we are always reaching towards the red-hot baton of
another’s sorrows, they say warm air rises and we are not cold. Our names
condense in the winter and crystallize into signboards of love the way
angels clothe themselves in air, navigating us into one another’s arms. (Today
I met a man who pinched nail-deep into his elbow every ten minutes
to stop the pain and I imagined that
no one had uttered his name in a long time.) I thought maybe
this is why poets say they are immortal maybe
God is powerful simply because so many people have uttered His name
since time immemorial maybe
the moments I felt I could not breathe was the result of someone
censoring my name from the screening of a filmstrip memory. There is only
a world whose song is a recurrence relation of an infinite number of names
articulated in a finite number of breaths. We die the moment
our names are said for the last time, our souls finding
a deficit of memory and there is little choice but to default upon
bankruptcy. There is no life or death no rich or poor only
the number of breaths we have conquered only
the melody of our names on
each other’s lips.
Maybe we exist only in exhalations maybe
there is no us. Maybe we are six billion people
surviving on the voices of (six minus one) billion people
each of our breaths a consequence of
someone else uttering our names in stories of
sometime adventures. There is no gravity we exist in a flux
of cause and effect. Suspended in the middle of cotton quilt
and stone graphite we are always reaching towards the red-hot baton of
another’s sorrows, they say warm air rises and we are not cold. Our names
condense in the winter and crystallize into signboards of love the way
angels clothe themselves in air, navigating us into one another’s arms. (Today
I met a man who pinched nail-deep into his elbow every ten minutes
to stop the pain and I imagined that
no one had uttered his name in a long time.) I thought maybe
this is why poets say they are immortal maybe
God is powerful simply because so many people have uttered His name
since time immemorial maybe
the moments I felt I could not breathe was the result of someone
censoring my name from the screening of a filmstrip memory. There is only
a world whose song is a recurrence relation of an infinite number of names
articulated in a finite number of breaths. We die the moment
our names are said for the last time, our souls finding
a deficit of memory and there is little choice but to default upon
bankruptcy. There is no life or death no rich or poor only
the number of breaths we have conquered only
the melody of our names on
each other’s lips.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
A Shayira of Sorts
by A.V. Koshy
O Rumi
intoxication with the divine
is not the only way
O Ghalib
the way of the senses
is not the only one
Brothers, you know
the body of my love
also has on it cartography
that gives me the map:
I alone have the key
to open its hidden door
Before me spreads
the unending vistas
of her Keen Delight
O Rumi
intoxication with the divine
is not the only way
O Ghalib
the way of the senses
is not the only one
Brothers, you know
the body of my love
also has on it cartography
that gives me the map:
I alone have the key
to open its hidden door
Before me spreads
the unending vistas
of her Keen Delight
APOLLO’S GIFT
by Michael H. Brownstein
My dear Cassandra, I must punish you. From this day on you will only speak the truth, but no one will ever believe you.
—Apollo to Cassandra after she broke one precept or another
My name is Cassandra,
But you believe me to be someone else,
And, yes, I am a woman.
Listen! My eyes are green,
My hair is black,
Greeks do hide in the belly of the horse.
I live here, behind that wall,
My bedding, that corner.
I need not latch my door
Nor do I need clothing during sleep.
Legs gapped open, I wait for you.
Always.
My dear Cassandra, I must punish you. From this day on you will only speak the truth, but no one will ever believe you.
—Apollo to Cassandra after she broke one precept or another
My name is Cassandra,
But you believe me to be someone else,
And, yes, I am a woman.
Listen! My eyes are green,
My hair is black,
Greeks do hide in the belly of the horse.
I live here, behind that wall,
My bedding, that corner.
I need not latch my door
Nor do I need clothing during sleep.
Legs gapped open, I wait for you.
Always.
monster evening
by Mike Foldes
the monsters came from everywhere
to sing, to dance, to copulate,
to pen their poems in shadowy halls
where monsters go to procreate.
the languages they spoke were one,
a blend of blood and sand and snow,
of crystal skies and perfect fruit,
of guttaral, pachyderm and crow.
the monsters came from everywhere
and when the shiraz began to flow
unscheduled breaks, a spark, a spore,
their fecund minds, flint and steel
lay lightly on the feathered plain,
throats parched, riven to the core.
the monsters came from everywhere
to sing, to dance, to copulate,
to pen their poems in shadowy halls
where monsters go to procreate.
the languages they spoke were one,
a blend of blood and sand and snow,
of crystal skies and perfect fruit,
of guttaral, pachyderm and crow.
the monsters came from everywhere
and when the shiraz began to flow
unscheduled breaks, a spark, a spore,
their fecund minds, flint and steel
lay lightly on the feathered plain,
throats parched, riven to the core.
To the killer hiding
in the back seat of my car at 10 p.m.
by Jessica Otto
Hello.
Who’s back there?
Lovely night, isn’t it?
I was going to go home
but now
I want to treat myself
to an adventure;
something I can sink
my teeth into.
Get away from me! Stupid
driver! I hate it when people
get right up my ass
like that. I hate it
when people don’t get out
of the way for ambulances
and fire trucks;
Mr. Tough Guy
with a cigarette behind his ear
and an elbow sticking
out the window like the
biggest asshole in the world.
Wait till you start speeding 90,
100 miles in the wrong direction,
am I right? Splatter
brains all over the highway!
Seriously, you need to
speak up if you’re back there
because I hate it
when people call me crazy.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Newark
by M.N. O'Brien
I know about scarcity, I know
the dreamy truths that fact cannot pervade
on both wings. Man is left to fly and think.
The television is American
and eccentric. I must be on my guard.
Standing on the fringe of contradiction,
a quiet life bellows at a funeral. The weather never says
a thing. It says hello and asks about your condition without
caring, expecting good and nothing more.
The crumbs of concrete
lie on the side of the road, lost in thought,
resisting the automatic life. Shopping carts, faded signs,
hotels, shadows, and the hot car seat
presses back into yourself.
I was in Newark long enough
to know the color dark blue and the comparison
of white light and yellow light, and the rumors
that white light can only be felt. I have heard
more serious charges in my lifetime of watching.
I was in Newark long enough
to know clouds behind a neon light,
funeral homes, police cars, trains,
discount fires, and believe
little boys still love
spikes and explosions.
I was in Newark long enough
to know the planes fly low, shaking
all the buildings down and throwing
the garbage in the air like a child celebration,
to know how the people walk dry mouthed
and await the opening of fire hydrants.
I know about scarcity, I know
the dreamy truths that fact cannot pervade
on both wings. Man is left to fly and think.
The television is American
and eccentric. I must be on my guard.
Standing on the fringe of contradiction,
a quiet life bellows at a funeral. The weather never says
a thing. It says hello and asks about your condition without
caring, expecting good and nothing more.
The crumbs of concrete
lie on the side of the road, lost in thought,
resisting the automatic life. Shopping carts, faded signs,
hotels, shadows, and the hot car seat
presses back into yourself.
I was in Newark long enough
to know the color dark blue and the comparison
of white light and yellow light, and the rumors
that white light can only be felt. I have heard
more serious charges in my lifetime of watching.
I was in Newark long enough
to know clouds behind a neon light,
funeral homes, police cars, trains,
discount fires, and believe
little boys still love
spikes and explosions.
I was in Newark long enough
to know the planes fly low, shaking
all the buildings down and throwing
the garbage in the air like a child celebration,
to know how the people walk dry mouthed
and await the opening of fire hydrants.
Science Experiment
by Kait McIntyre
Every scalpel has a silver lining
and I take it sterilized
with vodka and a blue lighter.
Glass rings grin from your oak
counter. Nothing counts.
Not even your tender.
A woman serves me and I take it
on the rocks, on the house,
on a wink and a whim
to explore a man-
like woman.
I swallow, not spit
her juice, knowing
it will curdle by morning.
Every scalpel has a silver lining
and I take it sterilized
with vodka and a blue lighter.
Glass rings grin from your oak
counter. Nothing counts.
Not even your tender.
A woman serves me and I take it
on the rocks, on the house,
on a wink and a whim
to explore a man-
like woman.
I swallow, not spit
her juice, knowing
it will curdle by morning.
With You on Rainy Days
by Shenan Prestwich
With you on rainy days, I always think
of Alstadt-Lehel in September.
Just like that, I feel its slick stones
like I still feel the summer’s swamp upon my eyelids these days
when they close beneath your shadow in July.
Still hear the buzzing of the air
filtration motor, like a swarm of flies.
Though it’s never repeated
its incredible feat, its coup de grace,
not a single pass of your palms over my hips
from June to August goes without stirring
in me how I saw my head split open,
crown to nose, and felt myself burst from it,
floating in the still blue without a sound
except the distant buzzing of the flies
from miles below me somewhere.
But when with you on rainy days,
I think of Alstadt-Lehel in September.
I make a point to think of it.
Because someday when the rain has shepherded us in
by plinking on the windows and the air
conditioning like mallets on a xylophone,
tinny and uneven,
and your hands are tired and my eyes are tireder
because the kitchen’s sat there darkened, dumb
for three days because we haven’t changed the bulb,
I’ll feel my right arm spattered damp,
my unprotected side opposite the one
beneath the shelter of your rib,
our shared umbrella.
I’ll look upon our house as one of sustenance,
cultivated and consumed with every day,
like full, fat pumpkins, like tomatoes,
like the bierhauses—Weissen, Hacker,
Fischer Vroni—we waded into then,
floored by warmth, by the embrace
of ancient tender arms.
By the ache and creak of wood, the sting of salt on lips.
The sweat of wheat and water curving
down the belly of the glass and pooling
in the wet feathers of napkins.
With you on rainy days, I always think
of Alstadt-Lehel in September.
Just like that, I feel its slick stones
like I still feel the summer’s swamp upon my eyelids these days
when they close beneath your shadow in July.
Still hear the buzzing of the air
filtration motor, like a swarm of flies.
Though it’s never repeated
its incredible feat, its coup de grace,
not a single pass of your palms over my hips
from June to August goes without stirring
in me how I saw my head split open,
crown to nose, and felt myself burst from it,
floating in the still blue without a sound
except the distant buzzing of the flies
from miles below me somewhere.
But when with you on rainy days,
I think of Alstadt-Lehel in September.
I make a point to think of it.
Because someday when the rain has shepherded us in
by plinking on the windows and the air
conditioning like mallets on a xylophone,
tinny and uneven,
and your hands are tired and my eyes are tireder
because the kitchen’s sat there darkened, dumb
for three days because we haven’t changed the bulb,
I’ll feel my right arm spattered damp,
my unprotected side opposite the one
beneath the shelter of your rib,
our shared umbrella.
I’ll look upon our house as one of sustenance,
cultivated and consumed with every day,
like full, fat pumpkins, like tomatoes,
like the bierhauses—Weissen, Hacker,
Fischer Vroni—we waded into then,
floored by warmth, by the embrace
of ancient tender arms.
By the ache and creak of wood, the sting of salt on lips.
The sweat of wheat and water curving
down the belly of the glass and pooling
in the wet feathers of napkins.
Wooden Songs
by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
The wooden owl
opens its beak
and sings
wooden songs.
I can’t tell you
how well it sings.
The trees
like the songs.
The trees bleed sap
like blood and tears.
The owl
bleeds as well.
The wooden owl
smiles and opens
its beak
and sings for
the bleeding trees
who gave birth to
the owl
long ago.
The wooden owl
opens its beak
and sings
wooden songs.
I can’t tell you
how well it sings.
The trees
like the songs.
The trees bleed sap
like blood and tears.
The owl
bleeds as well.
The wooden owl
smiles and opens
its beak
and sings for
the bleeding trees
who gave birth to
the owl
long ago.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
A CLAN OF FIVE AND A HALF MEN
by Ayeni Tolulope
sound the gong, call forth to meet,
the five and half men who rule our meat,
sound the gong, call forth corruption,
the marauding bastard milking our nation,
sound the gong, call forth poverty,
the eater flesh and taker of purity,
sound the gong, call forth theft,
the beast, high and lowly takes all that we've kept,
sound the gong, call forth murder,
the masqurades with guns who make widows our mothers,
sound the gong, call forth the sick preachers,
the maker of bombs with leeches as teachers,
sound the gong, call forth the half,
a hope for tomorrow? We five scoff and laugh.
sound the gong, call forth to meet,
the five and half men who rule our meat,
sound the gong, call forth corruption,
the marauding bastard milking our nation,
sound the gong, call forth poverty,
the eater flesh and taker of purity,
sound the gong, call forth theft,
the beast, high and lowly takes all that we've kept,
sound the gong, call forth murder,
the masqurades with guns who make widows our mothers,
sound the gong, call forth the sick preachers,
the maker of bombs with leeches as teachers,
sound the gong, call forth the half,
a hope for tomorrow? We five scoff and laugh.
Cliches Get Stuck Under Your Fingernails
by Jennifer Recchio
I didn't believe you when you stood
on your toes, said, "Hell is other people
when I only want you," and I told you not
to quote things you don't understand.
I didn't save you when you held out
the smooth palms of your hands,
your tears in your mouth, med school
dreams dead at your tennis shoes.
I didn't come for you when you called
that morning from the side of 260,
everything you knew in the trunk
of your Honda, except the hairclip
you left with me.
You didn't believe me when I said,
"Hell is us together," and you didn't
understand that what Sartre really
meant is, hell's full of people like
me running from people like you.
I didn't believe you when you stood
on your toes, said, "Hell is other people
when I only want you," and I told you not
to quote things you don't understand.
I didn't save you when you held out
the smooth palms of your hands,
your tears in your mouth, med school
dreams dead at your tennis shoes.
I didn't come for you when you called
that morning from the side of 260,
everything you knew in the trunk
of your Honda, except the hairclip
you left with me.
You didn't believe me when I said,
"Hell is us together," and you didn't
understand that what Sartre really
meant is, hell's full of people like
me running from people like you.
Drinking with El Greco
by Seth Jani
In Spring you slowly sip a porter,
One Sunday night
While the voices in the wind
Are grave and rocking.
You grow intently
Upwards from below,
The root-sop of the soul
Surging to your mouth.
You kiss a poster
Of some dark city in Spain,
Tracing the lineaments
Of steel light
Which seem to slip
Through chinks inside
The photo,
Reaching out
To touch you
In your room.
You look out
At your own
Most haunted city,
The old jazz-blare
of traffic
Dipping and diving
Through the night,
The same uneasy darkness
Nodding from above.
In Spring you slowly sip a porter,
One Sunday night
While the voices in the wind
Are grave and rocking.
You grow intently
Upwards from below,
The root-sop of the soul
Surging to your mouth.
You kiss a poster
Of some dark city in Spain,
Tracing the lineaments
Of steel light
Which seem to slip
Through chinks inside
The photo,
Reaching out
To touch you
In your room.
You look out
At your own
Most haunted city,
The old jazz-blare
of traffic
Dipping and diving
Through the night,
The same uneasy darkness
Nodding from above.
Pixie Talk
by Rafi Miller
Do me a favor?
Rub your buttercup
On my chin
Let’s stick spoons in the lemon chiffon
Lick white-hot sugar from our lips
It will be fun
cum on
Lie with me
to me
Beneath a phoenix sun
lend me your magnifying glass
let’s burn ants and watch them struggle up
from their ashes
Blue smoke curls from our lips as
The ash from our shared cigarette falls
on their dead little heads
Dmitri, dahling, isn’t it just so wonderful
-ly pointless?
What should we do with our day?
There’s another bottle of wine left
there has to be
No? Well let’s just run to the shore
To stare at the sharp steel of the horizon
let it laugh at us
remind us
remind us
we mean nothing, we are
nothing
Where the salty winds will
burn my cuts
Shift the seas
in my favor
my favor
Do me a favor?
Rub your buttercup
On my chin
you dirty bastard
Imbue hues of crumbling pollen on bare skin
tell me you love me, liar, liar!
Let’s just lieLet’s stick spoons in the lemon chiffon
Lick white-hot sugar from our lips
make faces at the fat maid
behind her fat back
Come onIt will be fun
cum on
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Bastard
by Elisabeth Smith Wood
I didn't want to want him
just because he never called me someone else's name.
I wanted to snub his squared off fingertips that
covered his winter face.
I needed those hands to feel lizard commanding and
that face should have been goombah stupid or
truculent or a little too feminine.
I needed to remember that no dignified human
would sit on his sofa no matter how the cushions were turned.
I wanted him to be damaged, diseased and resistant to
my music. He should've used pretentious words that
would make me itch to slap him.
He should've smelled of sweat and cynicism or
filthy laundry and
he needed to never reach for his wallet
or my hand.
I willed him to be a lamb, a wuss or just
some fat Buddhist with a limp ponytail and
Oh God, I really needed him to be a lousy lay so
I could move on, relieved that I'd escaped the
ridiculous mistake that he would certainly become.
I wanted him to be haggard and spent, jaded
and unforgiving. I set out to hate him or ignore him,
to run from his crumbling corpse but
I haven't gotten what I wanted at all.
I didn't want to want him
just because he never called me someone else's name.
I wanted to snub his squared off fingertips that
covered his winter face.
I needed those hands to feel lizard commanding and
that face should have been goombah stupid or
truculent or a little too feminine.
I needed to remember that no dignified human
would sit on his sofa no matter how the cushions were turned.
I wanted him to be damaged, diseased and resistant to
my music. He should've used pretentious words that
would make me itch to slap him.
He should've smelled of sweat and cynicism or
filthy laundry and
he needed to never reach for his wallet
or my hand.
I willed him to be a lamb, a wuss or just
some fat Buddhist with a limp ponytail and
Oh God, I really needed him to be a lousy lay so
I could move on, relieved that I'd escaped the
ridiculous mistake that he would certainly become.
I wanted him to be haggard and spent, jaded
and unforgiving. I set out to hate him or ignore him,
to run from his crumbling corpse but
I haven't gotten what I wanted at all.
Explosion in the afternoon
by Marian Veverka
Our old man can explode with anger
Over the smallest dumb thing
Like a gallon of milk left sitting on
The table
The fridge door not closed all the way
Someone’s shoes sitting empty in
The middle of the living room
And the TV still on
He’d use real cuss words
So loud the neighbors could hear
And scream back for him to shut
The ----- up
And our baby sister woke up crying
And mom yelling because we woke
The baby
I’d take off running through the back yard
Down by the old bridge where the train
Tracks crossed the swamp
And imagine myself a hobo swinging aboard
A slow train to China
Or any place far enough away
Where all you’d hear was the chatter
Of crickets in the tall grass
The ghost of a whistle from the days
The trains still ran.
There weren’t so many babies
And Mom and Dad would shut
The doors and be as quiet as the night.
Our old man can explode with anger
Over the smallest dumb thing
Like a gallon of milk left sitting on
The table
The fridge door not closed all the way
Someone’s shoes sitting empty in
The middle of the living room
And the TV still on
He’d use real cuss words
So loud the neighbors could hear
And scream back for him to shut
The ----- up
And our baby sister woke up crying
And mom yelling because we woke
The baby
I’d take off running through the back yard
Down by the old bridge where the train
Tracks crossed the swamp
And imagine myself a hobo swinging aboard
A slow train to China
Or any place far enough away
Where all you’d hear was the chatter
Of crickets in the tall grass
The ghost of a whistle from the days
The trains still ran.
There weren’t so many babies
And Mom and Dad would shut
The doors and be as quiet as the night.
galileo’s finger
by John Grochalski
watching
the two shithead americans
touch 18th century artifacts
in the galileo museum
then laugh when they get yelled at
by one of the docents
it’s hard to imagine a time
when intelligence
and artistic license ruled the earth
stranded here in florence
and tripping over every cobblestone along the way
i try to picture leonardo walking around
with math and science on his mind
or a young michelangelo
on his way to worship at
the basilica of santa croce
but i’m inundated with american boys
strolling down the street
wearing boxer shorts showing
the david’s cock on them
chanting and laughing
and making a spectacle of themselves
in that absolute american way
so it’s hard not to think of the these giants
as more ancient myth
than actual flesh and blood
but they must be real
or else the history books be damned
and all of this architecture and sculpture be for not
i like to think of these masters
in the florence of their day
donatello watching the sunset over the arno
dante sitting in his spot and brooding
galileo tinkering with telescopes
and seeing the moon for the first time
instead of dead and cut to pieces
by the catholic church
his middle finger and one tooth
left for posterity in a glass jar
for american girls to ewwwww at
before begging their mothers
to buy them a gelato and a leather handbag
from the san lorenzo market.
watching
the two shithead americans
touch 18th century artifacts
in the galileo museum
then laugh when they get yelled at
by one of the docents
it’s hard to imagine a time
when intelligence
and artistic license ruled the earth
stranded here in florence
and tripping over every cobblestone along the way
i try to picture leonardo walking around
with math and science on his mind
or a young michelangelo
on his way to worship at
the basilica of santa croce
but i’m inundated with american boys
strolling down the street
wearing boxer shorts showing
the david’s cock on them
chanting and laughing
and making a spectacle of themselves
in that absolute american way
so it’s hard not to think of the these giants
as more ancient myth
than actual flesh and blood
but they must be real
or else the history books be damned
and all of this architecture and sculpture be for not
i like to think of these masters
in the florence of their day
donatello watching the sunset over the arno
dante sitting in his spot and brooding
galileo tinkering with telescopes
and seeing the moon for the first time
instead of dead and cut to pieces
by the catholic church
his middle finger and one tooth
left for posterity in a glass jar
for american girls to ewwwww at
before begging their mothers
to buy them a gelato and a leather handbag
from the san lorenzo market.
MEN IN COSTUMES WATCH CARTOONS
by Quinn White
I paint my face like a duck and you
you paint your face like a mouse and you
you paint your face like a dog.
Don't forget drop cloths.
Keep an eye on the trash. At all costs avoid
Penny's beach trinkets: the wooden sailor, the Ziploc
of ocean water, a dried seahorse, a snow globe.
You brought the beer?
Right, a duck would bring brandy. Hold on,
she's got my snifters stuffed with newspaper.
Faces on. Episodes queued.
Nobody take a picture.
Well, somebody has to take a picture.
Why can't we be duck, mouse, dog
and not tell? Do your Donald.
Who's got the sweetest disposition?
One guess, that's who!
I stand, wag my white ass feathers.
Who never, never starts an argument?
Who never shows a bit of temperament?
Penny needs to put in air purifiers or something. I'm winded.
Who's never wrong, but always right?
Who'd never dream of starting a fight?
Take over. I need my inhaler.
Mouse-face pops up, brandy in hand.
Who gets stuck with all the bad luck?
No one... awawawhahaha!
You're nailing it. For a mouse, you're classic duck.
But Donald Duck.
This is a good one. We all sit down.
I paint my face like a duck and you
you paint your face like a mouse and you
you paint your face like a dog.
Don't forget drop cloths.
Keep an eye on the trash. At all costs avoid
Penny's beach trinkets: the wooden sailor, the Ziploc
of ocean water, a dried seahorse, a snow globe.
You brought the beer?
Right, a duck would bring brandy. Hold on,
she's got my snifters stuffed with newspaper.
Faces on. Episodes queued.
Nobody take a picture.
Well, somebody has to take a picture.
Why can't we be duck, mouse, dog
and not tell? Do your Donald.
Who's got the sweetest disposition?
One guess, that's who!
I stand, wag my white ass feathers.
Who never, never starts an argument?
Who never shows a bit of temperament?
Penny needs to put in air purifiers or something. I'm winded.
Who's never wrong, but always right?
Who'd never dream of starting a fight?
Take over. I need my inhaler.
Mouse-face pops up, brandy in hand.
Who gets stuck with all the bad luck?
No one... awawawhahaha!
You're nailing it. For a mouse, you're classic duck.
But Donald Duck.
This is a good one. We all sit down.
Names in My Phone
by Jordan Jamison
Abbi
Adam
Alex
Amber
Andrew
Ashley
Austin
Bentley
Bitch
Braden
Bradford
Bre
Brian
Bryan
Caleb
Cam
Chris
Christian
Cinder
Courtney
Darryl
Devin
Dunch
Dustin
Dylan
Eric
Gabe
Grandpa
Gumball
Hayden
Hunter
Jackie
Jarred
Jeff
Joey
Jon
Justin
Kaila
Maddie
Molly
Mom
Racheal
Ramsay
Ryan
Sarah
Shaun
Shenker
Slade
Stefan
Swankie
Talia
Tanner
Tony
Victor
Abbi
Adam
Alex
Amber
Andrew
Ashley
Austin
Bentley
Bitch
Braden
Bradford
Bre
Brian
Bryan
Caleb
Cam
Chris
Christian
Cinder
Courtney
Darryl
Devin
Dunch
Dustin
Dylan
Eric
Gabe
Grandpa
Gumball
Hayden
Hunter
Jackie
Jarred
Jeff
Joey
Jon
Justin
Kaila
Maddie
Molly
Mom
Racheal
Ramsay
Ryan
Sarah
Shaun
Shenker
Slade
Stefan
Swankie
Talia
Tanner
Tony
Victor
Paris-Shiraz
by Sana Khalesi
beneath the spell of your hazel eyes breathing
when right-or-left choices of
death or dying
arise
a glare
a caution
with a respite on the cushion of your lips
or when
the innocence of your heart
rips
my only belonging
and departs
with a 4-foot hole
in my still stale moth-eaten soul
oh trail me
regale me
seek this sick-me
with your equilateral longing legs
seek your poison snogs
on my lost-in-smoke-and-ashes lungs
TRASH me!
and turn this crude cremation
into Louisiana Iris
and TRASH
all the bridges
from Shiraz to Paris
and TRASH
memories, reveries, treacheries
all gracious photos
and post-hardcore songs of EMERY
while nodding your hideous head
while sipping your afternoon coffee,
while listening to your only insanity-plea
peering to your vicious voice, uttering:
"oh oui oui!"
there's no ME,
NO WE!
and you are propelling
another mistress, Dionysus
with curly creamy short-cut hair
smiling
lost in her castle-in-the-air
smiting
peeling avocado pear
with your tender solicitous care
and I –
now dust –
beneath your steps
and missteps
giving an ear to Joan Baez's "Diamonds & Rust":
"...smiling out the window of the crummy hotel over washington square"
I dare
I dare you
pretermit me
by giving your fictitious look
a more factual gloss
in my loss!
beneath the spell of your hazel eyes breathing
when right-or-left choices of
death or dying
arise
a glare
a caution
with a respite on the cushion of your lips
or when
the innocence of your heart
rips
my only belonging
and departs
with a 4-foot hole
in my still stale moth-eaten soul
oh trail me
regale me
seek this sick-me
with your equilateral longing legs
seek your poison snogs
on my lost-in-smoke-and-ashes lungs
TRASH me!
and turn this crude cremation
into Louisiana Iris
and TRASH
all the bridges
from Shiraz to Paris
and TRASH
memories, reveries, treacheries
all gracious photos
and post-hardcore songs of EMERY
while nodding your hideous head
while sipping your afternoon coffee,
while listening to your only insanity-plea
peering to your vicious voice, uttering:
"oh oui oui!"
there's no ME,
NO WE!
and you are propelling
another mistress, Dionysus
with curly creamy short-cut hair
smiling
lost in her castle-in-the-air
smiting
peeling avocado pear
with your tender solicitous care
and I –
now dust –
beneath your steps
and missteps
giving an ear to Joan Baez's "Diamonds & Rust":
"...smiling out the window of the crummy hotel over washington square"
I dare
I dare you
pretermit me
by giving your fictitious look
a more factual gloss
in my loss!
Persephone
by David Appelbaum
and do you, Demeter
she’s about to walk
naked in the north wind
enrobed in might
surely Celestine
to underworld eyes
what will you bring
an eye to spy
with nectar and laurel
while they to Hypnos
now leaves wither
to hide your ash
and soon your howl
with the jackals
night bees swarm
unaware of menace
and do you, Demeter
she’s about to walk
naked in the north wind
enrobed in might
surely Celestine
to underworld eyes
what will you bring
an eye to spy
with nectar and laurel
while they to Hypnos
now leaves wither
to hide your ash
and soon your howl
with the jackals
night bees swarm
unaware of menace
THROWING LIGHT AT THE DARKNESS
by Seamas Carraher
Throwing light at the darkness that
seems more bright
lit with loudness like bones cracking,
throwing light like bread at birds
and light in its love, breaking,
his head in this prison hanging
(this head with no price),
now all the night in its religion
beats bellies into my wounds.
Throwing light at the darkness
this freezing darkness, its foreign light,
its arms broken with embracing
its skin calloused with caresses
its mouth washed clean and its teeth heartbroken,
throwing light like water at fire,
and light violent at this dead field
(with its chest in medals,
all its father fat with generals)
and this field which is home
to these dogs feet
and throwing light on the deafness
and light on these heads with their tongues removed
finally, in this birth half lit with life,
throwing light at the moon
with its anger in cancers
that grow like all sisters in his net,
throwing light away, useless
in its nutrition,
creased with these crumbs and democratic in dregs.
It has all stuck like a sermon in her throat
on this dull day weathered with employment.
Here is one without a name, random, mouthless,
without measurement:
entrance for a hospital?
textbook for an engine?
suffering for these angels with their covers like sex,
another inquisition for the holy fathers
another murder for life!
additional light for the dark, with no
lament for the dead,
here is a dog's life half lit by the dark
for this one here
who is neither pat nor joe
who is as we was
and half as bright.
And here are walls extended by the thumb
and hearts hit daily by their hammer
here is a belly who grieves silently
with its light sodden and bit with parts.
Here is our hunger.
Like a fat man burning
with fuel.
Here is a sad man masked,
more naked, and
weathered with unemployment.
And here is meaning. On the hour. Impenetrable in its factions
with its spokes steel as nerves
with its brain bursting
here are all answers with my question in chains.
And in this hole i lie down and dig
coming from beneath to where the past has no shape.
Here the morning grieves and the bottles weep.
Here the children throw their fangs at the sun
brightening the day with their torn copybooks.
Here is their bible, its economy in silence,
and the stock exchange proud,
its budget and construction in corpses.
Here, equally virus and infection
is another meaning,
like a message in a bottle
this bright spark carved into a head
and chattering with teeth
for throwing light all these long years
like coins
at. all. them. dead. eyes.
Then Mrs. President, with your life lit with lips
in the dark dressed with suits
in the secret dark and
our light hid in bottles,
in this criminal time
with the sun measured in pesetas, in drachmas,
in deutschmarks and dollars,
and its calling in mothers, in mourning,
more shopkeepers! and thieves!
in a dog's life,
in a lousy life, with a stone for my name,
and a stone for a chest,
and dead as a rock,
and my truth for a cigarette, and our sun silenced,
with no place for these legs,
and no priest to absolve me
here we stand with our war much in ruins
and this multitude, our mass, and its eyes set in stone,
and our flag still in shrouds, with its hammers blunt,
here we stand legless, and stumplike,
with our tools in the dark
foreign to ourselves, like a shadow to the light
blinded by gold, and greedy like a machine
all that money imprisoned in their paws,
all grain, wheat, and produce, in their wallets,
murdering with their automobiles
more vaults, prisons, executions,
more factories and funerals,
these bulbs blinded with commerce
these ribs cracked open by that dark lie
raising these arms here, now
heir to my labourer, reverselike,
nailed in concrete,
sinking in clay, sinking in suns, drowning in air, infreedom,
in fear.
Like my corpse surprised in explosion,
who is already dead!
And this man, this nameless man
in an hour no longer content,
this man with a knife for a liver,
with his brain in guns
and his tongue in chains,
this rising man still sleeping,
and this sorrowful man, and
this man with his face no longer a mountain
and his furniture hard with rent
and his rooms investigated
and these bones, after all their surveillance,
indicted, censored, subverted
cracking like roofs, like veins, like hope,
all ruins
raining with light on his head
and these loud men and this envious man and this greedyman
and fearful of the light
calling the night day and the darkness light.
And it is dark, no matter what they tell me
and a train travels the length of
my artery
and i am travelling without a name
in all our forgetfulness
carrying the dead ones who are
as nameless as myself
going nowhere in all our digging.
And you there listening, with your ear to the dark.
This is the dog's life
and a song for the dog's life
and a bitterness broken and the light still
rationed
and the food is still stale and all this noise
and this still mysterious dark
and these weapons
and all of this
this is where we are sinking, who are civilised,
where we are rising in all our drowning.
This is the dog's life and here without a map
this is the wound walking legless,
this is what lights our longing,
this is terror!
and this longing like life in all
this blinding
and all these stones, and all their limits,
and these
cities and in this dark with its differences
like a tourist
this must be the terrorist life and the
surgeon's life
and these feet tied in circles, their ankles, and joints
like hinges to wood
in here the day is not even day,
the dark more dialectical in knives
our sickles sharp, and sickening
and always our hunting, and beating
and the one half eats
and the other watches.
And here is a song looking for life
strong as a stone, furious like a fist,
but then these swollen bellies!
these backs bent, these chests beating,
and nailed into their boxlike muscle
and soft and engined with these sacklike lungs
and lives singly like a moth, in pairs like a child,
multiplying like a face, emptied by the wind
and all the rot seeping from this officeblock
it looks like the world
is falling
for this light feeds no one.
Who else owns hunger?
And this crowd that gathers
its feet in ropes
and these sounds that are silenced in wood
and this ache chestlike
without a nationality
but diplomat in denial, with no brother to forgive me,
and no president and no absolution,
and no State and
here strangling in the dark, the invisible dark
full of helloes, and no healing
and it is all we are
all throwing good light after the bad.
It looks like, here, the rain will never stop.
And these sacks full of children
are too hard to carry
and these objects defy me in its shape and their size,
and this tongue is not even mine
and i do not have a name for this dead friend
nor a place to bury him we can call our own
and i can walk this way no longer
in the dark.
And always for us
the dark and more of it
travelling backward in search of a name.
Then this weight must be the dead. The decent dead.
The forgotten dead.
Dying in the darkness
for want of the light.
And so it must always be sunday
and the children sleep
and the sour drink settles
and the moon lies dead
and the clock explodes
and the walls are no less prisons
and we are here ticking, we are drifting,
fuselike and patient,
and the war goes on
and the hungry groan
and no one knows how to say it, to speak it, emptying,
and the earth shifts swallowing our seed
and i have been dead a long time now
and the wheels no longer make revolution
and them priests steal the drink from our bottle
the blood dries to dust
and the time changes but we no longer change
and the old books bleed
and all our questions dry up
and with this almost life in continual ruins
and the wounding grows
in one hand here
i am throwing this light that cannot light the dark
i am throwing it away
and here
now is the last point of the dark
where my heart stabbed itself,
thinking there could be more
after all our digging.
She is throwing the light like
the end of all life,
in its beginning, like a lover
into the cold,
wordless.
Throwing light at the darkness that
seems more bright
lit with loudness like bones cracking,
throwing light like bread at birds
and light in its love, breaking,
his head in this prison hanging
(this head with no price),
now all the night in its religion
beats bellies into my wounds.
Throwing light at the darkness
this freezing darkness, its foreign light,
its arms broken with embracing
its skin calloused with caresses
its mouth washed clean and its teeth heartbroken,
throwing light like water at fire,
and light violent at this dead field
(with its chest in medals,
all its father fat with generals)
and this field which is home
to these dogs feet
and throwing light on the deafness
and light on these heads with their tongues removed
finally, in this birth half lit with life,
throwing light at the moon
with its anger in cancers
that grow like all sisters in his net,
throwing light away, useless
in its nutrition,
creased with these crumbs and democratic in dregs.
It has all stuck like a sermon in her throat
on this dull day weathered with employment.
Here is one without a name, random, mouthless,
without measurement:
entrance for a hospital?
textbook for an engine?
suffering for these angels with their covers like sex,
another inquisition for the holy fathers
another murder for life!
additional light for the dark, with no
lament for the dead,
here is a dog's life half lit by the dark
for this one here
who is neither pat nor joe
who is as we was
and half as bright.
And here are walls extended by the thumb
and hearts hit daily by their hammer
here is a belly who grieves silently
with its light sodden and bit with parts.
Here is our hunger.
Like a fat man burning
with fuel.
Here is a sad man masked,
more naked, and
weathered with unemployment.
And here is meaning. On the hour. Impenetrable in its factions
with its spokes steel as nerves
with its brain bursting
here are all answers with my question in chains.
And in this hole i lie down and dig
coming from beneath to where the past has no shape.
Here the morning grieves and the bottles weep.
Here the children throw their fangs at the sun
brightening the day with their torn copybooks.
Here is their bible, its economy in silence,
and the stock exchange proud,
its budget and construction in corpses.
Here, equally virus and infection
is another meaning,
like a message in a bottle
this bright spark carved into a head
and chattering with teeth
for throwing light all these long years
like coins
at. all. them. dead. eyes.
Then Mrs. President, with your life lit with lips
in the dark dressed with suits
in the secret dark and
our light hid in bottles,
in this criminal time
with the sun measured in pesetas, in drachmas,
in deutschmarks and dollars,
and its calling in mothers, in mourning,
more shopkeepers! and thieves!
in a dog's life,
in a lousy life, with a stone for my name,
and a stone for a chest,
and dead as a rock,
and my truth for a cigarette, and our sun silenced,
with no place for these legs,
and no priest to absolve me
here we stand with our war much in ruins
and this multitude, our mass, and its eyes set in stone,
and our flag still in shrouds, with its hammers blunt,
here we stand legless, and stumplike,
with our tools in the dark
foreign to ourselves, like a shadow to the light
blinded by gold, and greedy like a machine
all that money imprisoned in their paws,
all grain, wheat, and produce, in their wallets,
murdering with their automobiles
more vaults, prisons, executions,
more factories and funerals,
these bulbs blinded with commerce
these ribs cracked open by that dark lie
raising these arms here, now
heir to my labourer, reverselike,
nailed in concrete,
sinking in clay, sinking in suns, drowning in air, infreedom,
in fear.
Like my corpse surprised in explosion,
who is already dead!
And this man, this nameless man
in an hour no longer content,
this man with a knife for a liver,
with his brain in guns
and his tongue in chains,
this rising man still sleeping,
and this sorrowful man, and
this man with his face no longer a mountain
and his furniture hard with rent
and his rooms investigated
and these bones, after all their surveillance,
indicted, censored, subverted
cracking like roofs, like veins, like hope,
all ruins
raining with light on his head
and these loud men and this envious man and this greedyman
and fearful of the light
calling the night day and the darkness light.
And it is dark, no matter what they tell me
and a train travels the length of
my artery
and i am travelling without a name
in all our forgetfulness
carrying the dead ones who are
as nameless as myself
going nowhere in all our digging.
And you there listening, with your ear to the dark.
This is the dog's life
and a song for the dog's life
and a bitterness broken and the light still
rationed
and the food is still stale and all this noise
and this still mysterious dark
and these weapons
and all of this
this is where we are sinking, who are civilised,
where we are rising in all our drowning.
This is the dog's life and here without a map
this is the wound walking legless,
this is what lights our longing,
this is terror!
and this longing like life in all
this blinding
and all these stones, and all their limits,
and these
cities and in this dark with its differences
like a tourist
this must be the terrorist life and the
surgeon's life
and these feet tied in circles, their ankles, and joints
like hinges to wood
in here the day is not even day,
the dark more dialectical in knives
our sickles sharp, and sickening
and always our hunting, and beating
and the one half eats
and the other watches.
And here is a song looking for life
strong as a stone, furious like a fist,
but then these swollen bellies!
these backs bent, these chests beating,
and nailed into their boxlike muscle
and soft and engined with these sacklike lungs
and lives singly like a moth, in pairs like a child,
multiplying like a face, emptied by the wind
and all the rot seeping from this officeblock
it looks like the world
is falling
for this light feeds no one.
Who else owns hunger?
And this crowd that gathers
its feet in ropes
and these sounds that are silenced in wood
and this ache chestlike
without a nationality
but diplomat in denial, with no brother to forgive me,
and no president and no absolution,
and no State and
here strangling in the dark, the invisible dark
full of helloes, and no healing
and it is all we are
all throwing good light after the bad.
It looks like, here, the rain will never stop.
And these sacks full of children
are too hard to carry
and these objects defy me in its shape and their size,
and this tongue is not even mine
and i do not have a name for this dead friend
nor a place to bury him we can call our own
and i can walk this way no longer
in the dark.
And always for us
the dark and more of it
travelling backward in search of a name.
Then this weight must be the dead. The decent dead.
The forgotten dead.
Dying in the darkness
for want of the light.
And so it must always be sunday
and the children sleep
and the sour drink settles
and the moon lies dead
and the clock explodes
and the walls are no less prisons
and we are here ticking, we are drifting,
fuselike and patient,
and the war goes on
and the hungry groan
and no one knows how to say it, to speak it, emptying,
and the earth shifts swallowing our seed
and i have been dead a long time now
and the wheels no longer make revolution
and them priests steal the drink from our bottle
the blood dries to dust
and the time changes but we no longer change
and the old books bleed
and all our questions dry up
and with this almost life in continual ruins
and the wounding grows
in one hand here
i am throwing this light that cannot light the dark
i am throwing it away
and here
now is the last point of the dark
where my heart stabbed itself,
thinking there could be more
after all our digging.
She is throwing the light like
the end of all life,
in its beginning, like a lover
into the cold,
wordless.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
A Dying Lust
by Ali Znaidi
a flicker of a candlelight was waltzing,
and quivering, as it was caressed by a gentle wind—
an endless orgasmic trembling
of lust
a comet dancing
through the dark
once again
only the wasps
next door were singing
the beat
symmetrically
went on
lust
went away, and helplessly thawed
with the appearance of the first sunlight
a flicker of a candlelight was waltzing,
and quivering, as it was caressed by a gentle wind—
an endless orgasmic trembling
of lust
a comet dancing
through the dark
once again
only the wasps
next door were singing
the beat
symmetrically
went on
lust
went away, and helplessly thawed
with the appearance of the first sunlight
After His Death
by Anastasia Placido
She smells of smoke again
It's not just on her clothes
but surrounds her like an aura
hangs in her hair
she is trying to replace her grief.
The smoke clouds her emotion
As she inhales vast amounts
fills up her lungs
attempting to feel anything but
the emptiness.
She cannot cloud her eyes.
The heaviness is there
and her face sags under hard glances and
newly forming worry lines
I can see it
the shift
It hurts to just look at her
her hugs make me cough
the acrid smell of sorrow makes my eyes water
But I hold tight.
Squeeze her like a bellows
and stoke her back to life
I've followed the smoke to the dying flame
And
I'm not about to watch another one
go out.
She smells of smoke again
It's not just on her clothes
but surrounds her like an aura
hangs in her hair
she is trying to replace her grief.
The smoke clouds her emotion
As she inhales vast amounts
fills up her lungs
attempting to feel anything but
the emptiness.
She cannot cloud her eyes.
The heaviness is there
and her face sags under hard glances and
newly forming worry lines
I can see it
the shift
It hurts to just look at her
her hugs make me cough
the acrid smell of sorrow makes my eyes water
But I hold tight.
Squeeze her like a bellows
and stoke her back to life
I've followed the smoke to the dying flame
And
I'm not about to watch another one
go out.
Belly Up
by Lisa Vihos
I bellied up
to that hard place
where you belly up
when you carry
the whole weight
of every sad, sick
thing that ever
happened to you
and ask to have it
rinsed off
in fire water
moonshine
one fifty proof something or other
I really don’t care what; just anything
to cauterize the
gaping wound
ripped open
every time
I have to see you
and think about
how we once were
and how we are
not now.
Canyon in the Cold
by Travis Campbell
There upon levels so high, they stand out
Hanging heads over edges with wide eyes
To witness below the growing of sprouts
That bloom and die before the dark does apply
From these fantastic heights, they have no control
Able to offer no help to lives fall down
Underneath their world with rope bound souls
Forced to witness new buds choke and brown
And then comes the strong rooted warrior
Explode through boneyards of decayed stem
Toward the watchers, a fresh carrier
Reaching branches to touch as god did Men
Snap twigs and break limbs and pile them as tinder
Strike the flint; throw the spark, the chill night ender
There upon levels so high, they stand out
Hanging heads over edges with wide eyes
To witness below the growing of sprouts
That bloom and die before the dark does apply
From these fantastic heights, they have no control
Able to offer no help to lives fall down
Underneath their world with rope bound souls
Forced to witness new buds choke and brown
And then comes the strong rooted warrior
Explode through boneyards of decayed stem
Toward the watchers, a fresh carrier
Reaching branches to touch as god did Men
Snap twigs and break limbs and pile them as tinder
Strike the flint; throw the spark, the chill night ender
Hard Whiskey
by Devlin De La Chapa
It’s 11 in the morning
I’m sitting in a bar
drinking hard Whiskey
Everyone is talking but
I hear nothing but the sound
of heavy breath fucking my ear,
fucking with my Whiskey breath
A nice old man, around forty or so
but not for this girl who is all but sweet of sixteen
who loves hard Whiskey in the morning
when her mama thinks I’m learning in school,
while her daddy sinks his big rig in the dirt
all to support my secret filthy habit.
It’s now 11 something in the morning
I’m lying on a bed in a motel room somewhere
beneath the seedy ruins of LA’s misbehaved
A bottle of Whiskey resides beneath the pillow
as the thick of some prick’s dick drowns my sorrows
My pussy, a vacant hole beaten to a tender rawness
is absent of no tender mercy, just detached from pleasure
I contemplate going Cold Turkey but the measure
of hard Whiskey is no challenge from its promiscuity;
I am a drunk, I am a teenage whore, I have a problem
It’s 11 in the morning
I’m sitting in a bar
drinking hard Whiskey
Everyone is talking but
I hear nothing but the sound
of heavy breath fucking my ear,
fucking with my Whiskey breath
A nice old man, around forty or so
but not for this girl who is all but sweet of sixteen
who loves hard Whiskey in the morning
when her mama thinks I’m learning in school,
while her daddy sinks his big rig in the dirt
all to support my secret filthy habit.
It’s now 11 something in the morning
I’m lying on a bed in a motel room somewhere
beneath the seedy ruins of LA’s misbehaved
A bottle of Whiskey resides beneath the pillow
as the thick of some prick’s dick drowns my sorrows
My pussy, a vacant hole beaten to a tender rawness
is absent of no tender mercy, just detached from pleasure
I contemplate going Cold Turkey but the measure
of hard Whiskey is no challenge from its promiscuity;
I am a drunk, I am a teenage whore, I have a problem
I'm Better with Numbers
by Sheldon Lee Compton
Let me count the ways. Allow me that, and listen closely. Please.
One. Through and through, a blessed stone arrowhead beneath the tree root to the far end of the ridge.
Two. Miles suspended in all the water the earth offers while seconds, for once, gear down and step away, giving in. Just this once, in this life.
Three. While spinning in a ramble like a blackbird breaking the morning, even then, more then maybe. Never less. Dark-walking across those words, my fingertips chopping at the places where light once lived. Rambling with my heart slipped from shoulder to sleeve to palm.
Let me count the ways, and count and count and count. I'm better with numbers when your breathing can be heard.
Let me count the ways. Allow me that, and listen closely. Please.
One. Through and through, a blessed stone arrowhead beneath the tree root to the far end of the ridge.
Two. Miles suspended in all the water the earth offers while seconds, for once, gear down and step away, giving in. Just this once, in this life.
Three. While spinning in a ramble like a blackbird breaking the morning, even then, more then maybe. Never less. Dark-walking across those words, my fingertips chopping at the places where light once lived. Rambling with my heart slipped from shoulder to sleeve to palm.
Let me count the ways, and count and count and count. I'm better with numbers when your breathing can be heard.
No Heroics Near Cars No More
by David McLintock
Bauble configurations of metal, plastic, glass,
Cushions, radios, air-bags, stashed on low radials,
Squeezed round a magnificent empire-owning face
Whose little brow flickers in the mirror above the dash.
How they harry me, horn up behind me, pursue and pass
At puddle-splashing speed as I hunch in the thin width
Of pavement edging their city-piercing whooshing traffic.
How they hector constantly blurring by, how they hoot.
How can I walk a reverie, when every route
Walks me toward their flow? I hear the hum, and the air
Congests rubber, diesel, metal, a thick, sickening
Perfume, loud to the back of the throat. I lose bravery,
And seek the Green Man, a pagan atavism.
What committee commissioned him, mooing tradition?
I press on hm, and wait. Finally, engines tamp down. I cross:
A frail man targeted by impatient lions.
Bauble configurations of metal, plastic, glass,
Cushions, radios, air-bags, stashed on low radials,
Squeezed round a magnificent empire-owning face
Whose little brow flickers in the mirror above the dash.
How they harry me, horn up behind me, pursue and pass
At puddle-splashing speed as I hunch in the thin width
Of pavement edging their city-piercing whooshing traffic.
How they hector constantly blurring by, how they hoot.
How can I walk a reverie, when every route
Walks me toward their flow? I hear the hum, and the air
Congests rubber, diesel, metal, a thick, sickening
Perfume, loud to the back of the throat. I lose bravery,
And seek the Green Man, a pagan atavism.
What committee commissioned him, mooing tradition?
I press on hm, and wait. Finally, engines tamp down. I cross:
A frail man targeted by impatient lions.
This Place
by April Salzano
You ask how much I want you. With a consistency
that tears at my skin, centrifugal spin
to my core. I want your touch on my body my mind
your breath in my mouth, open,
quiet. I belong to you already. I remain still,
uneasy, unsettled. How often can I
touch you before you vanish like light edging
at the blinds, before the sullen fog of morning reaches
in to take you back, leaving me wet from your tongue,
drunk from your smell, tracing my way back to my own
reality, a place I barely recognize.
Ask me tomorrow. Ask me a year from now. Ask me
to describe how it feels once I’ve gotten
what I wanted, taken what wasn’t mine.
Ask me then when you know my fear of failure
overrides my stubborn refusal to relent. Ask me when
we’ve finished consuming each other, breaking silences into
sound, heroically battling each other’s ghosts
back down where they came from. Ask me
when we’ve finished memorizing
our respective lines, scars, the place
I twice tore open and was sewn back together,
the eyes inked into your weathered skin, watching
me watch you. Ask me when
the engine has finished killing the track. I cannot
define my reasons while I am still
carrying you around, a half formed idea, something
I created on my own. I cannot
reach you where you are. I am again consuming
leftovers, half eaten ghost rations, discarded.
And I am tired. I have already waited through this season
in another life, its weather blowing a restless black wind,
its sun scalding my skin, which I would sooner crawl
out of than be this untouched. I have been here before
crouched in a dark hole waiting to be found. Waiting through
the words of a language
I do not know, a dialect I never learned, cannot
translate or articulate, whose words promise to bring you here,
to make you rush headlong to where
I exist, waiting.
Waiting for you to come,
not back, but forward, to this place you have never been.
This place is who I am. I am this place.
It is where I will be, waiting. In spite of myself.
I am inside this place and I do not
know how to
find my way back out.
You ask how much I want you. With a consistency
that tears at my skin, centrifugal spin
to my core. I want your touch on my body my mind
your breath in my mouth, open,
quiet. I belong to you already. I remain still,
uneasy, unsettled. How often can I
touch you before you vanish like light edging
at the blinds, before the sullen fog of morning reaches
in to take you back, leaving me wet from your tongue,
drunk from your smell, tracing my way back to my own
reality, a place I barely recognize.
Ask me tomorrow. Ask me a year from now. Ask me
to describe how it feels once I’ve gotten
what I wanted, taken what wasn’t mine.
Ask me then when you know my fear of failure
overrides my stubborn refusal to relent. Ask me when
we’ve finished consuming each other, breaking silences into
sound, heroically battling each other’s ghosts
back down where they came from. Ask me
when we’ve finished memorizing
our respective lines, scars, the place
I twice tore open and was sewn back together,
the eyes inked into your weathered skin, watching
me watch you. Ask me when
the engine has finished killing the track. I cannot
define my reasons while I am still
carrying you around, a half formed idea, something
I created on my own. I cannot
reach you where you are. I am again consuming
leftovers, half eaten ghost rations, discarded.
And I am tired. I have already waited through this season
in another life, its weather blowing a restless black wind,
its sun scalding my skin, which I would sooner crawl
out of than be this untouched. I have been here before
crouched in a dark hole waiting to be found. Waiting through
the words of a language
I do not know, a dialect I never learned, cannot
translate or articulate, whose words promise to bring you here,
to make you rush headlong to where
I exist, waiting.
Waiting for you to come,
not back, but forward, to this place you have never been.
This place is who I am. I am this place.
It is where I will be, waiting. In spite of myself.
I am inside this place and I do not
know how to
find my way back out.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
A Thousand
by S. E. Hart
stretched between myself
a thousand ways within and without
a twisting contortion that blooms
iridescent in your sight
with a thousand heartbeats inside of my chest
flutters of moments and seconds
crescendos of life and atoms smashing
together in perfected sequential order
I give way under the
weight of your thousand stares
lost somewhere in your eyes and
traversing an elliptical ring around
your misplaced dreams
take hold of me and we can
live and make love in ecstasy
a collision of senses and sensations
just you and I
and the heartbeats beneath our chests
for a thousand years before we die
stretched between myself
a thousand ways within and without
a twisting contortion that blooms
iridescent in your sight
with a thousand heartbeats inside of my chest
flutters of moments and seconds
crescendos of life and atoms smashing
together in perfected sequential order
I give way under the
weight of your thousand stares
lost somewhere in your eyes and
traversing an elliptical ring around
your misplaced dreams
take hold of me and we can
live and make love in ecstasy
a collision of senses and sensations
just you and I
and the heartbeats beneath our chests
for a thousand years before we die
All of You
by Kufre Udeme
All of you speakers of truth
Beaten and hated with passion
Casted out into the hungry storm
Without a shield over your bleeding heads;
All of you sowers of true seed
Sent into jungles of pagans
Attacked by cannibal monsters
Without an eagle to swoop down for your rescue;
All of you figures of laughter
Noahs of today's century
Stoned like Stephen of old
Without the council to appeal for your sake;
All of you lambs among woves
Steadfast in the warfronts with evil
Yet charged for holding your swords
Without trial, impede and cut short like John the Baptist;
Continue in diligent while you sow the goodnews
In my father's house you'll have eternal rest
Your present agony shall never stand against your joy
And your crown shall surpass His Excellency of White House.
All of you speakers of truth
Beaten and hated with passion
Casted out into the hungry storm
Without a shield over your bleeding heads;
All of you sowers of true seed
Sent into jungles of pagans
Attacked by cannibal monsters
Without an eagle to swoop down for your rescue;
All of you figures of laughter
Noahs of today's century
Stoned like Stephen of old
Without the council to appeal for your sake;
All of you lambs among woves
Steadfast in the warfronts with evil
Yet charged for holding your swords
Without trial, impede and cut short like John the Baptist;
Continue in diligent while you sow the goodnews
In my father's house you'll have eternal rest
Your present agony shall never stand against your joy
And your crown shall surpass His Excellency of White House.
Angels & Coyotes
by Kallima Hamilton
Leonid meteors pepper the western sky
where eagle chicks hide in the belly of pine.
Smoke signs gone, I'm
confused by the strong shaman dust
of old peyote buttons and broken bones.
The pain
of lonely cloud whisperers
is echoing their silence with arrows of forever.
Here, along tear-stained trails,
angels & coyotes
dance hungrily
high on the ridge, moon-drunk, howling.
Vision quest, shape shift,
our minds luminous from fasting,
we see through vast canyons of stars,
straight to the heart of Earth Mother
who lives on this dangerous rim.
Some strange ghost glitters
at the far edge of lodge pole, skims
sage, speaks vaguely about rain
for blue corn. Caught between
flesh and earth, we shudder under
shadows of loose feather and stone.
Leonid meteors pepper the western sky
where eagle chicks hide in the belly of pine.
Smoke signs gone, I'm
confused by the strong shaman dust
of old peyote buttons and broken bones.
The pain
of lonely cloud whisperers
is echoing their silence with arrows of forever.
Here, along tear-stained trails,
angels & coyotes
dance hungrily
high on the ridge, moon-drunk, howling.
Vision quest, shape shift,
our minds luminous from fasting,
we see through vast canyons of stars,
straight to the heart of Earth Mother
who lives on this dangerous rim.
Some strange ghost glitters
at the far edge of lodge pole, skims
sage, speaks vaguely about rain
for blue corn. Caught between
flesh and earth, we shudder under
shadows of loose feather and stone.
By All Counts
by Joan McNerney
Proper and improper fractions
have distinctive differences
Proper fractions study at
prestigious universities. They
attend cultural events and play
at least one musical instrument.
Proper fractions step aside
for ladies patronizing only
haute couture shops.
Improper fractions are hooligans.
Each one guzzles cheap beer,
crunching potato chips while
screaming at wrestling matches.
Improper fractions knock over
seniors to reach clearance racks.
Beware of mixed figures. These
hybrids can not decide what they are.
Medication might help them plus
talking therapy so popular today. Never
allow children to associate with them.
Negative numerals should be avoided.
Those will only subtract from your life
flinging freezing rain in your face.
Conversely, positive numerals are
delightful handing us glowing statistics
and bright bouquets of fragrant daisies.
Never take integers for granted. Do not
allow yourself to be divided but let
all quotients be fruitful and multiply
until that day when your number is up.
Proper and improper fractions
have distinctive differences
Proper fractions study at
prestigious universities. They
attend cultural events and play
at least one musical instrument.
Proper fractions step aside
for ladies patronizing only
haute couture shops.
Improper fractions are hooligans.
Each one guzzles cheap beer,
crunching potato chips while
screaming at wrestling matches.
Improper fractions knock over
seniors to reach clearance racks.
Beware of mixed figures. These
hybrids can not decide what they are.
Medication might help them plus
talking therapy so popular today. Never
allow children to associate with them.
Negative numerals should be avoided.
Those will only subtract from your life
flinging freezing rain in your face.
Conversely, positive numerals are
delightful handing us glowing statistics
and bright bouquets of fragrant daisies.
Never take integers for granted. Do not
allow yourself to be divided but let
all quotients be fruitful and multiply
until that day when your number is up.
The royal palace in Hyderabad
by Jagannath Rao Adukuri
The palace was luminously wet reaching out to sky
In its shadow lay the kings and their faceless women
Whose fine drapery interrupted their noses and eyes
Under many big-vaulting domes and resounding halls.
Their noises went up to ceiling to return empty
Like their noses and eyes lost from their faces.
They were not lost really but had never been there.
When the silks arrived they forgot w omen’s faces.
The women sat there gossiping about other women,
Other women in the harem and their fine draperies.
Their men’s bloated egos did not show on the faces;
Their man’s egos showed on the woman’s stomachs,
On the little heirs to the throne who came from there.
A fine bangle, a glittering necklace and some pearls
Hushed talk about the latest addition to the harem
And the scraps of conversation went on as it rained.
They had no faces for the evening conversation,
Only bodies fully draped in the finest gilded silks.
In the beginning they sat on the ground huddled.
Later the West grew on them in white man’s land
They sat on sofas and high backed chairs presiding
Tea ceremonies just like the sophisticated women.
They still did not have their noses on their faces.
What He Finds
by Mather Schneider
First came the men
who carved figures in rocks
on the hills in the
desert.
Eons later the art teachers came
like lizards slinking
from the sea.
The teachers soon dominated the land.
Their philosophy:
the soul is a spring
you have to pay them to drink from.
They couldn't understand
how anything had survived
so long without their
instruction
and they institutionalized art
so that it would never slip
from their sticky
paws.
They brought it all inside
the safety of the yellowed walls
and stuck stiff
to the single agenda:
preservation of the status quo.
Every once
in a great while
a student will summon the courage
to walk away to the
desert
and fend for
himself.
What he finds
out is how
strong those first
men were,
how small one feels
alone under
the stars, and how hard
that rock is.
First came the men
who carved figures in rocks
on the hills in the
desert.
Eons later the art teachers came
like lizards slinking
from the sea.
The teachers soon dominated the land.
Their philosophy:
the soul is a spring
you have to pay them to drink from.
They couldn't understand
how anything had survived
so long without their
instruction
and they institutionalized art
so that it would never slip
from their sticky
paws.
They brought it all inside
the safety of the yellowed walls
and stuck stiff
to the single agenda:
preservation of the status quo.
Every once
in a great while
a student will summon the courage
to walk away to the
desert
and fend for
himself.
What he finds
out is how
strong those first
men were,
how small one feels
alone under
the stars, and how hard
that rock is.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
