Michael Mc Aloran- A Poem

Scene Eleven is rupture:

Headlong, torn vast, till shimmer, asking of until to numb’s becoming, scarred unto existing, barely a life, in void of naught’s shadow, claustrophobic traces, endless, subtle then…

Claim/ claim then, in night’s devour, breaking the bone dice laughter of violent appraisal, skinned lest the hollow bleeds, trace of desire, a trace of desire, flesh upon flesh, scars upon scars…

We laughter long, the breathing of the I deeper than emptily, deeper than the ice in the veins cleft as the bereft static of following on from, -what step, as if it could…

(Rupture will…headless arc…restless the eye’s bleed…exhalation of some dead foraging…)

Pause, step back, back into no no way forwards, till step’s rupture redeemed, in an echo of shadowing, till silenced, a snag of broken lights, release/ absurdly the eye/ I/ we, drowning in the hearth of blind binding…

Cleft, then, till reek and havoc spell, in the bitterness of turning to face the one, the murmur, the twisted nerves in damage seasons of the membrane, all fallen, kaleidoscope of breath…

I/ eye, or none, in the spit of sun light,  we or else, breaking without laughter, skinned a-piece, such was the longing of, the rupture of, claimed or not claimed the fucking difference is none, balk and be done with it…

(said aloft…)



Michael Mc Aloran was Belfast born, (1976). His most recent work has appeared  in ditch, Gobbet Magazine, Ink Sweat & Tears, Ygdrasil, Establishment, Carcinogenic Poetry, Primal Urge, A New Ulster, Slit Your Wrists, The Galway Review, Turbulence Magazine, Unlikely Stories: IV, Eratio 16, etc. A second full length collection, 'Attributes', was published by 'Desperanto' in 2011. 'Lapwing Publications, (Ireland), also published a collection of his poems, 'The Non Herein', in 2012 & The Knives, Forks & Spoons Press, (U.K), will release an ekphrastic book of text/ art, 'Machinations' early next year. He also has projects forthcoming from Quarter After Press...He edits Bone Orchard Poetry, a webzine of the bleak/ the dark/ the surreal and the experimental...

Ross Leese- A Poem

try to smile

love was always
a lie

and the dirtiest
trick of the
ages.

there is no electricity
in a fleeting
brush of
skin--

no
telepathy

no
hope.

there are simply
sands of
time

and they wait
for no-
one.

Mark Jackley- Three Poems

BRIAN HAMMETT'S BLUES

 

In the weeds (and I do mean weeds) of Greg Allman's life
story, I thought of you when I read the part
where he posed with Red Dog, a roadie, at the crumbling
edge of the Grand Canyon, where once I also stood,
wearing a fake war bonnet, fake war paint on my face
like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now as you held the camera, 

shaking, green from drink, and I see the look you shared
with one of the better white boy singers of the blues, a style
best practiced on the edge of sin and fear, two things you had
in ample stores as you weaved your Ford Econoline van
through the desert to jump-start me as I thumbed back East,
fear and sin that bloomed like sage after rain or fire-
vomiting Martian demons after a tab of acid,
after tomorrow stubbornly came, again and again, along
with stories that started trickling in like the smoke-filled years:
you riding your ten-speed bike on Interstate 95,
or setting a roof on fire with an acetylene painter's torch
and jumping from the blaze, you actually being tarred
and feathered and I believing it might actually be true.
It's dawn and I am reading, friend, in a parking lot,
thanking Henry Ford for the unintended gift
of stillness. Every word is bright in the ear inside
my skull; the sun sets fire to dandelion heads. 
I'll never stumble upon the glossy story of your life
in library stacks or hear it moaned in twelve ensorceled bars
as drunks close their eyes and grin, and groupies sway. I leave you
with this little flame, what I’m waving in the dark.

DOG DAYS

 

Let us be dogs, lie around like dogs, pant, drool and hump like mutts,

for the dog days are here and honey, there is nothing else to do.

 

The summer storm that blasted through like a psycho-killer

named Jeb Wayne Lee or Jeb Lee Wayne has left us without power

 

and air conditioning and ceiling fans, has melted the coffee ice cream,

and the beer is getting warm. Let us lap it up like dogs.

 

Let us comfort our dogs, who whined, who whimpered and cowered in fear

as Jeb Lee Storm pulverized trees and flashed and roared because,

 

well, no one knows, not the weatherman babbling

about super cells and cloud-to-ground but who can never explain

 

violence, why it exists, how it bares its teeth like a dog.

Let us lift our legs on science. Let us snap and snarl

 

in boredom on this simmering day and woof when the other speaks

humorously. Darling, you can sniff me anywhere,

 

it's perfectly fine, why not, the TV is out and the stereo too

and both PCs, oh honey, let us do as they knew to do

 

when our ancestors grunted and dropped from trees

and barbecued dinosaurs.  I can almost remember the darkness,

 

what roamed its edge and howled.

 

DEAR SANTA,

Bring me a pile of pills as colorful and insane

as the Christmas lights that make my baby crazy and sad each year,

oh bring me a year, a new one, more May than January

hardening like a mound of snow in shadows and festooned
with motor oil and nameless crud, a hangover month, let's face it,
Santa, bring me some life, I am old but I am hungry
in the silvery mist that should be snow, which yes reminds me
it's mid-December and seventy-two, please bring a brand new planet,
we've fried this one. My sister, the one in lower Manhattan
dons a hazmat suit these days to rehab moldy homes
in the Rockaways and Santa, I'm sorry to piss and moan,
but I haven't bent your ear like this since 1967,
when all I wanted for Christmas was my balding daddy back
from the Central Highlands and the Delta in one piece
and you came through, never mind he spent a solid decade
in a piss-poor mood and pills were less abundant, but

thank god for booze! Santa, if in fact you're fiction,
will someone let the Easter Bunny know I have some questions?

Peace,

Mark

 

 

 

 

Mark Jackley is the author of several chapbooks, most recently Every Green Word (Finishing Line Press), and a full-length collection, There Will Be Silence While You Wait (Plain View Press). His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rougarou, Sugar House Review, Pebble Lake Review, Tirage Monthly, Body and other journals. He lives in Sterling, VA.

Kushal Poddar- A Poem

Agreeing To Anything Today

More tomorrows from one

who served leftovers lifelong-

happy New Year aunt sunshine. 

We passed the old tea shop

and will reach you by morning.

More tomorrows, you will insist.

More tomorrows we shall shove

under our dishes

since your faithful dog

died from too much medicine.

We will hear the wind howling

in your vegetable garden,

inane,

not willing to stir the things buried

beside some yellowed bones

waiting for a retriever.

More tomorrows, you will say.

We shall agree.

Kushal Poddar (1977- ) resides in the city of Kolkata, India. Apart from poetries, he has written fictions and scripts for television mini-series as well.

His English poems have been published in various online and print magazines all over the world. He is the author of “All Our Fictional Dreams” and been published in “Poor Poet’s Pantry: Collaborative Poems”. The forthcoming book is “Surviving Cyber Life” and “Five Poets: An Anthology”

Ross Vassilev- A Poem

cherry blossoms

don't know what I'm doing here

as the clouds swim through blue sky

it's good to drift through life

whether you're a cloud

a whale

or a Bodhisattva

and you can ponder the meaning of nothingness

till your eyes devour the Hiroshima sunrise

cuz it helps when there's nothing around

but screaming insanity

and angels are falling from the sky

on broken wings

and at times such as these

there's really nothing left to say but

OM.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Take Me to the Taxidermist

I told my wife the other night

when she came back to bed 

my feet were cold so now's 

the time for me to tell her  

not to bury me or burn me 

or give my body to science.

Take me to the taxidermist 

and have him dress me in  

Cary Grant's tuxedo, a pair 

of paten leather shoes

from Fred Astaire and a 

straw hat from Chevalier.

Once I'm a Hollywood star, 

stand me in the garden with 

that chorus line of blondes, 

brunettes and redheads 

I stationed there the day she

flew home to Mother in a snit.

Years later now, my dancers still 

kick high enough to lance the sun. 

I plan to hold a last rehearsal 

once my wife motors into town 

and finds a priest who'll say 

a thousand Masses for my soul.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in a variety of print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. 

Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

Jack T. Marlowe- Three Poems

still life with cubicle

by Jack T. Marlowe

a casket

without the

comfort of

satin or

silence

a burial

without the

undertaker's

kindness

or the

sweetness

of freshly

turned

earth

a stinking

corpse flower

rooted in a

tragic plot

a living

death 

a loss

without

condolence

you should

be more

appreciative

they say

as a light

rain falls

a drizzle

of nickles

and dimes

upon the

corporate

sepulchre

---

street salvation

by Jack T. Marlowe

a crusty

dumpster

catches

its slam-

ming lid

with the

grace of

a make-

shift kettle

drum, the

down-beat

of a would-

be street

preacher's

cryptic

hymn, a

mealtime

prayer

half-sung

half-mut-

tered, as

Jeremiah

leans

against

the Stop-

n-Shop

then falls

silent, fills

his mouth

with the

crumbs of

day-old

communion

a handful

of salvation

for a hun-

gry soul

his grateful

belly hug-

ging the

bible in his

waistband

while the

crack pipe

in his

pocket

still

aches

to be

fed

---

a dog named Silence

by Jack T. Marlowe

the sound of

gunfire

hasn't been

heard in this

neighborhood

in almost

four years

and the lady

next door

has a dog

named

Silence

the relative

calm here only

broken by the

occasional

boombox on

wheels, the

self-entitled

girlfriend

shouting at

her man, the

imbecile

laughter of

drunken

vatos, the

bearlike

mother call-

ing her child

to get your

ass in this

house NOW

the cartoon

music of los

paleteros,

the savage 

scream of a

motorcycle

down the

alley, and

the jarring

comfort of

passing

sirens on

this street

where

the lady

next door

has a dog

named

Silence

---

bio:

Jack T. Marlowe is a gentleman rogue from Dallas, TX.  A writer

of poetry and fiction and a veteran of the open mic, his work has

appeared in A Handful of Dust, Thunder Sandwich, Rusty Truck,

Red Fez, The Vein, Bone Orchard Poetry and other zines (online

and print). Jack is also the editor of Gutter Eloquence Magazine 

(http://www.guttereloquence.com).

Hal Sirowitz- A Poem

Downsizing the Relationship

I was excited about girlfriend number 12. The way she kissed me only added fire to my imagination. I kept singing before our date Neil Young’s “Tonight’s the Night” we would become intimate. But I had to keep altering the song to ‘Next Weekend Must be the Night” when she sent me home early because she claimed she had to study for a math test. The only math I cared about was one plus one equals two. But she was long past simple economics, wanting to engage in complex formulas. She worked for a financial analyst, whose specialty was downsizing businesses. I don’t know how much she helped him, but she certainly downsized our relationship until I had so little part in it there was nothing left for me to do but leave graciously.



Hal Sirowitz is the co-winner of the NoirCon 2012 Poetry Contest, selected by Robert Polito. He's also the author of a new book of poems from Backwaters Press, "Stray Cat Blues."
 

Clyde L. Borg- A Poem

THE TIMEKEEPER

 

The reaper keeps time,

Watching, noting.

Fools waste time.

The inane kill time.

The reaper keeps time,

Always.

 

 

Previously published in Infinite Windows Online Journal, September, 2010.

 

Clyde L. Borg is a retired high school teacher and administrator.  He has been writing poetry and nonfiction since 1998.  Some of his work has appeared in History Magazine, Fate Magazine, Vox Poetica and Capper's Magazine.  He resides in Fords, New Jersey.

Robert Demaree- Two Poems

CHRISTMAS NIGHT 2007

There are twelve of us for Christmas,

Three generations, ours the oldest.

A benign weariness:

Food and gifts, family jokes and tales,

Small stresses let quietly pass.

Cousins cavort, careen, compete.

Our daughters, friends too, consider vegetables;

Their husbands assemble a soccer goal

While the gravy cools.

As we are leaving, I think I see

Traces of a tear on Julie’s cheek;

Her smile lingers, quiet, faintly moist.

“Christmas Night 2007" appeared in Ad Hoc Monadnock, October 2009

WINTER SOLSTICE

 after hearing lectures by Steven Reinhartsen and Elliott Engel

Guys from the East, headed for Bethlehem,

Three of them, maybe more,

Educated men with expensive gifts.

Wait a minute, says one:

Perhaps this is not such a hot idea.

Whyever not?—presents for the new baby.

One day someone might use this

To excuse a TV spot

That urges men to buy their wives

A Lexus SUV.

Well, the other says, let’s do it anyway.

So Dickens inspired the Christmas card

And the snowy, cozy Yule:

What we believe, culture’s accretion,

Mistaken but not wrong,

At some remove from what happened

In a still blood-soaked land,

In a hot, late summer,

A long time ago.

“Winter Solstice” appeared in Hazmat Review, Fall 2009

Robert Demaree is the author of four collections of poems, including Fathers and Teachers (2007) and Mileposts (2009), both published by Beech River Books. The winner of the 2007 Conway, N.H., Library Poetry Award, he is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire in the eastern U.S. He has had over 600 poems published or accepted by 125 periodicals in the U.S., Canada and U.K., including Cold Mountain Review, Red Wheelbarrow, Miller’s Pond, MediaVirus, Bolts of Silk, Louisville Review and Paris/Atlantic, and in four anthologies including the 2008 and 2010 editions of Poet’s Guide to New Hampshire and Celebrating Poets over 70.. For further information see http://www.demareepoetry.blogspot.com 

Paul Hostovsky- Three Poems

Precedent

She threatened to sue him over his sonnet

for libel. Because he used her real name

in his poem about the good old days

when she was bad and beautiful. He went

into such poetic detail in the second half

of the octave, that the reader felt a sweet

gasp in the loins to read it. But he told her

he would be honored—it was quite the turn—

to be sued over a sonnet. Maybe it would set

a precedent. Maybe it would make him

famous. Then he argued that the poem praised

rather than defamed her, that if read properly

she was its hero, and that though he published it

in a magazine, they never paid him a cent.

Science

We’re doing the Periodic Table

of Elements and Mia got Aluminum.

I wanted Aluminum. I'm mad at Mia now

for taking Aluminum when she didn't

even want it. Not the way I did.

I really, really wanted Aluminum.

Because I like its name and its atomic

number. Which is 13. Instead I got Boron

which is boring and rhymes with 'moron'

and I just know somebody is going to

think of that. And everybody has to fit

their Element on an 8 x 5 index card,

with its name and chemical symbol

and atomic number on the front, and the story

of how it got discovered or isolated

on the back. Aluminum's chemical symbol

is Al, which looks like A-one, like A-plus

one. But Boron's chemical symbol is just B

which is blah, and its atomic weight is 11

which is the age of my older brother Josh

who's mean. And on top of everything Kelsey

got Carbon which is so unfair because

her father drills oil wells for a living,

and she's already like the most popular girl

in the whole school and she lives in a big

house on a hill and I hate science now because

it’s so unfair and it makes no sense at all.

Paul Hostovsky

H, O, S like Sam,

T like Tom,

O, V like Victor,

S, K, Y. My mother

always spelled it like that

whenever people asked.

I was an only child with many

imaginary friends to my name.

Rainer Maria Rilke said

we must all eventually

lay aside even our own name

like a broken toy.

Maybe for a man with

Maria for a middle name

this was something to look forward to.

As for me, my toy

is at the top of its game,

and I take my rightful place

in the organization

of living things. There are

many species in a phylum,

there are many Pauls in a phone book,

but there was always only one

Hostovsky in the class,

and only one Paul Hostovsky

in the whole kingdom.

(Paul Hostovsky is the author of four books of poetry, most recently Hurt Into Beauty (2012, FutureCycle Press). His poems have won a Pushcart Prize and two Best of the Net Awards. Visit him at www.paulhostovsky.com)

J. Williams- Three Poems

The Nothing that Returned

 

It was to return

Mightier than ever

With vengeance and determination

To destroy all that dares question it

All that disobey its ruthless abandon

I remain stubborn

Intensely stubborn

No fear for this mortal

I stood in its path

Arms stretched

Eyes clinched tight

Waiting for its wrath

Then it came with the strength of a newborn

The courage of a coward

And the success record of a blind bank robber

 

 

 

Everything to No One

 

He is the embodiment of narcissism

from breakfast to dinner

from day to day

the sun would set solely on his will

doing just as he orders

making life for those around him unbearable

Tasks become more daunting

Water levels rising

engulfing the earth

but he stands alone

above the fray

cheating death

king of the world at last

the lone survivor

no more noise

no more action

just loneliness

patiently awaiting for his own slow

and agonizing march towards a miserable death

 

 

 

Ruined

 

its a game of winner takes all

only the clear winner is greed

the desire to want for little sacrifice

the need to have without earning

no its not the only way

it is the easiest way

its how the world forms each day

lifting one to the top

while crushing those below

not too concerned with the damage

collateral or otherwise

its hope without the eternal

its summer without the fall

the ruins have been ruined

with nothing to show at all

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Feliz Navidad

Pedro swings a mop all night

on the 30th floor of Castle Towers

just off Michigan Avenue

not far from the foaming Lake.

The floor is his, all his, 

to swab and wax till dawn. 

The sun comes up and Pedro's 

on the subway snoring, 

roaring home to a plate 

of huevos rancheros, 

six eggs swimming 

in a lake of salsa verde, 

hot tortillas stacked

beside them. 

After breakfast, 

Pedro writes a poem 

for Esperanza,

the wife who waits 

in Nuevo Leon.

He mails the poem 

that night, going back

to his bucket and mop.

Pedro's proud  

of three small sons,

soccer stars

in the making.

On Christmas Eve 

the boys wait up

in Nuevo Leon

and peek out the window.

Papa's coming home 

for Christmas!

Pedro arrives at midnight

on a neighbor's donkey,  

laughing beneath 

a giant sombrero.

He has a red serape 

over his shoulder,

and he's juggling 

sacks of gifts.

When the donkey stops,

the boys dash out and clap 

and dance in circles.

Esperanza stands 

in the doorway

and sings 

Feliz Navidad.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in a variety of print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. 

Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

Joseph Farley- Three Poems

Heretic (5)

in any past age

I could have been burned

at the stake,

though I would have preferred

to be stoned.

all can be accepted

so long as you can find

the right grass

to be buried under.

Anime

I keep waiting for the robots,

the ones in the cartoons,

to rise up from Tokyo

like metal balloons,

and float from imagination

to the corner store,

where they will bag my groceries

or stomp upon my car.

Innocent Victims

The old man stepped out

from the optometrist's office,

vision blurred by drops in his eyes.

He walked passed the tall hedge

and sought to cross the street

not knowing the light had changed.

An electric company truck hit him,

and he lay there dead under the wheels

while the police and an ambulance came

to sort out who was who and what was what.

The driver was a former soldier

who had never killed a man before.

He stood there crying

until his boss told him to go home.

The newspaper boy saw it all

and testified so in court

where he had to relive a scene

that had haunted many of his dreams..

No one was convicted,

but those sturdy bushes were cut down.

They were silent until the end,

never confessing to any crime.

Now the corner is barren,

except for commuters waiting

in the frost for their morning bus,

stamping feet against the cold,

checking watches and passing time.

Bio: Joseph Farley edited Axe Factory from 1986 to 2010. His books and chapbooks include Suckers, For the Birds, Longing for the Mother Tongue, and Waltz of the Meatballs.

Paul Tristram- A Poem

Time For Ripeness

She coughed and shuddered

then out it came,

slipping perfectly

like a lollipop

being sucked the wrong way.

It hovered for a moment

then started to float upwards,

she sat in awe

watching the embryo

turn to a baby

within the ever growing

floating teardrop

before her.

She reached out her hand

but the baby changed to a tree

and before the tree had acorned

she had awoken, sat up in bed

and began to weave daydreams

and childhood memories

into the silken smoke

of her first cigarette,

deciding finally

to no longer eat the pill.

Published in the print West Memphis Witch Hunt Anthology in 2007

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who now lives on the Southern coast of Britain, has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Holly Day- A Poem

Block Captain

I got a call from God today.
He told me He was coming soon
and told me how to get things
ready.

The people next door were easy
to catch and convert. I had never
exchanged more than a passing "hello" with any of them
before this afternoon, but they seemed to think me
friendly enough
to accept my invitation to dinner.

I dug the furrows and trenches, overturned a half-acre of Kentucky blue
exactly how the Lord told me, turned my entire back yard
into a beautifully-plowed farm. Into each row
I seeded the families next door, the paperboy
the mailman too polite to turn down an offer of cookies
the old lady across the street. Soon

we will all be together. The pieces of me
fall and mix with the pieces of them. Rivulets of  blood
fill the fresh-tilled earth. The sunset turns it all
red. God
will be most pleased when He
drops by tonight.




Short bio: Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis,
Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes in the Minneapolis school
district. Her poetry has recently appeared in The Worcester Review, Broken
Pencil, and Slipstream, and she is a recent recipient of the Sam Ragan
Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her book publications include Music
Composition for Dummies, Guitar-All-in-One for Dummies, Notenlesen für
Dummies Das Pocketbuch, and Music Theory for Dummies, which has recently
been translated into French, Dutch, Spanish, Russian, Portuguese, and
German. Her novel, "The Trouble With Clare," is due out from Hydra
Publications in 2013.

Korliss Sewer- A Poem

Roadkill

At 3 a.m., a streetlight rests mortally wounded by the side of a quiet, rain-dampened boulevard. Ripped from the concrete in which it stood vigil for so many years, its stoic form lies silently tethered by a red wire and two splintered bolts. A casual passerby moves it to wet grasses; its fragments kicked curbside by a cowboy boot.

Tomorrow they will come to clean up the shards of glass and twisted metal. But tonight, its unblinking eyes stare upward into a star-filled sky watching satellites
streak distantly.

Korliss Sewer enjoys writing about off-beat topics while watching off-beat people doing off-beat things.

Publishing credits include:  BlazeVOX, SubtleTea, Orange Room Review, amongst a few others.

Ed Higgins- Two Poems

as i was looking back

recently you came to mind 

that summer afternoon 

we floated 

down the Yorba Linda river 

on separate inner tubes

you in a yellow bikini 

as yellow and black butterflies

flitted indifferently along the bank 

where we stopped on a sandbar 

bending back the warm grass 

under bare feet 

the blue sky streaked with white clouds 

as fleeting as our addictive youth

the sun’s heat rising on our lithe tan bodies

 

Self-deception As Self-knowing

It’s all a matter of

warped mirrors

like the mirror maze

I stood before once

as a boy

at the Fun House

in Playland

near Golden Gate Park

in San Francisco

with animatronic Laffing Sal

cackling her frightful

laugh at life’s very deceptions 

for whoever stood there

entranced trying to understand

life’s delusory concave

and convex images.

 

 

 

My poems and short fiction have appeared in various print and online journals including: Monkeybicycle, Pindeldyboz, Pen Pusher, CrossConnect, Word Riot, Foliate Oak, Dark Sky Magazine, Mannequin Envy, and Bellowing Ark, among others. My wife and I live on a small farm in Yamhill, OR, and I teach creative writing and literature at George Fox University, south of Portland, OR.