DEAD SNAKES

Linda M. Crate- A Poem

2012-03-06T01:16:00.000-08:00

oil spill

you treat me like an oil spill,

you squeeze your eyes shut

pretending to see the problem

yet ignoring it in the hopes that

I will drift away, yet like oil I

paint your life in inky black and

I will not float away like a piece

of driftwood bobbing in the sea;

you will clean up the messes

you’ve made, you will change

the way you’ve treated oceans or

I shall leave you in the cold and

lonely beams of moon silver.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

2012-02-23T01:01:00.000-08:00

A Southern Girl’s, Uncoiling

Whenever I mention you,

the doctor always asks

what do I see,

now that you’re gone,

when I think of you.

I say I see thighs,

tanned and gleaming,

kissed by the proper

Bonwit skirt, rising

through the terminal

toward me and above

your thighs

that smile,

a Southern girl’s,

uncoiling.

Linda M. Crate- A Poem

2012-02-22T00:36:00.000-08:00

destruction of the moon

you grew into a habit I could not break myself

of, left me bereft one day after allowing your stain

to pour forth in cherry blossom kisses as pink as your

lips which once fell over me in seasons of love; I

didn’t know what to do when you left me for dead —

my lungs burned as if I’d never breathed before,

as if the salt falling from my eyes was eroding them

instead of the vast plains of naturally rosy cheeks;

I chopped down the trees of your love and tore down

your monoliths of lies, I watched as they shattered

to be blown away as dust by the wind; I wandered

lonely as a star hung alone in a lazuline night

with only the cruel moon for company, I crumbled the

moon into the mouth of the hungry sea because it was you.

Ally Malinenko- A Poem

2012-02-17T04:44:00.000-08:00

Inside the Waiting House

Somewhere inside me there is a house,

with the windows thrown open.

The floorboards are split where the roots

have come through.

And both the sunlight

and the moonlight

make their home here together.

They do not argue

or vie for attention.

They bow and wend up the stairs,

polite,

with bent heads

and gentle words.

There is music playing

softly

something on violin

and it wavers in the air

like a memory

just about to surface.

There are also mice

and bent blades of grass,

there are flowers,

dew to drink.

But also

and most importantly,

inside this house

there is you and I,

untouched

by everything that is happening

outside

where I am lost miles from you

and you are thirsty

with the straw bent in the water,

slowly,

too slowly

dying.

Inside this house

is the night that I made up,

the day that I pretend,

the you I didn’t know,

and the me I should have been.

I remember the day you almost died but didn’t

and the feeling that came with that.

I thought it would last longer.

Longer than this night, at least.

Inside me there is a house,

and we wait.

We touch, lightly

and we wait.

We do not speak

and we wait.

And I want this house

to be real,

the way the song is real

the way your voice

used to be real, higher than mine, thicker.

The way

I am still painfully real.

Ally Malinenko is the author of The Wanting Bone (Six Gallery Press). Her second book of poems entitled Crashing to Earth is forthcoming from Tainted Coffee Press. She currently lives in the part of Brooklyn the tour buses don't come to and rambles on and on over at shipwreckedpoetry.blogspot.com.

John Grochalski- A Poem

2012-02-16T00:23:00.000-08:00

aspirin bottle

aspirin bottle

on the nightstand

mingling

with the alarm clock

and my insomnia

a sure sign

that i’ve been drinking

too much again

this aspirin bottle

reflecting in the

moonlight

shows me a lack of stamina

age creeping in

inability becoming manifest destiny

like my legs getting tired

on the walk to work

falling asleep

on the couch

to a bad book or movie

this aspirin bottle

housing the little white pill

that i must take

for the headaches

for the unrepentant hangovers

this plastic green bottle

that hasn’t left

the nightstand in months

that just plain sits there

like a statue

like home decor

like a harbinger of doom

a glittery talisman

or a beacon

letting me know

how much

i’m pushing

and pushing

and that the world

will only

push back harder

with each new

and passing

day.

Bio: John Grochalski is the author of two books of poems The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008) and Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010). Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where he constantly worries about the high cost of everything.

Kevin Ridgeway- Three Poems

2012-02-14T00:28:00.000-08:00

Little Bill

standing 4 feet nine

a hundred and two pounds

the king of the psych ward

dominoes tournament

fistfuls of loose

cigarette winnings

wig askew on his head

murmuring a raspy stutter

shouting glory hallelujah

he was dodging the bookies

with a staged suicide

hiding behind the

fresh linens and

lithium tremors

of these fluorescent

hallways

seventy years of stories

and failures

and only two

hours before

his release,

he crumpled up

his phone

number in

my free hand

and said kid

let’s go

play the ponies

sometime

Plague of Fear

widespread panic

people shivering in

all corners of the world

alerts that cause them to

hide underneath

shading eaves

televisions blaring

talking heads

warning them of

the doom in the hearts

and minds of

men pulling the strings

of fear, that eternal

black art form of

angry magic

that causes societies to

fall to their knees

and for all wheels

to come to a standstill

heavily breathing

these wide masses

embrace themselves

and implode

year after year

infomercials and politicians

empty their wallets

these silently weeping souls

drown in pools of lost freedom

while Chia Pets bloom

in this empty world

of broken promises

Shut-In

hiding in a suburban cave
on a ravaged easy chair
in long underwear
stained from
a dented can
of chili
with obscure old movies
lighting
piles of scattered dog shit

alone and avoiding
the fractured energy
of small talk
and the anti-cinematic
nature of the plastic
menace of
the ugly world
beyond the front door

the black and white
worlds reflected in
ashen eyes
the swollen moonshine
nose knob hucksters
egg headed dames
and dead celebrities
keep me company
on demand

Kevin Ridgeway is a writer from Southern California. Recent work has appeared in Underground Voices, The Camel Saloon and Carnival Literary Magazine. His chapbook "Burn Through Today" is forthcoming from Flutter Press.

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- 2 Poems

2012-02-13T00:50:00.000-08:00

NOTHING MATTERS

If I could sleep,
I would fall asleep
and never wake up.

Perhaps I am
scared of livng.
Nothing matters
without her in my life.

Things like this eat
at me. I eat my words.
But I'm not hungry.

I SHOULD BE HAPPY

I am crazy

to be drinking alone.

I should smash

my head on a rock.

Intoxicated,

it should not

hurt so much.

I should be happy

drinking sweet wine.

This thing called life

has me by the throat

with rough hands.

I should be ready

to fight against

the bad things

coming my way.

Linda Crate- A Poem

2012-02-09T22:35:00.000-08:00

you’re the one

you’ve made me recall the edges of

a smile whose topography before you

was eclipsed by rocks of maudlin grey —

you chase the darkness of days away,

cutting through the darkest clouds with

your light that resounds joy like a

Christmas carol; you’ve etched your

anthem in my heart, and the wings of hope

flutter in my chest beneath skeins of blood —

you’re the only one that I can trust;

I feel like I could tell you all my secrets,

but still you would fall over me in waves

of love, I’ve never entrusted anyone with

the key of my heart — yet I believe in

you well enough to let you crack that code.

David Pointer- A Poem

2012-02-08T00:11:00.000-08:00

One Marine’s Tale

Mike didn’t want

destabilizing democratically

elected governments on the

other end of his sniper rifle,

so he took his place

unemployed watching

lines grow like lions’ tails

watching his boys

video games making over

their easy going masculinity

into serviceable product, and

the post traumatic stress

disorder diagnosis

following him around had

nothing to do with war time

atrocities, or a well placed

shot, rather being deployed

by upward mobility

mapmaker bureau

so far down range at home as

to be a fringe area non-factor

David S. Pointer has recent acceptances for "The War and Peace Poetry Anthology," "Indiana Horror Anthology 2012," and "The 5-2 Crime Poetry Weekly."

Bryan Murphy- A Poem

2012-02-07T00:33:00.000-08:00

Missionary

Elke sets out her limbs

over Playa Chisme’s sand;

fitters and joiners intuit the call

to her expert assembly line.

Dark shoulders stoop to conquer;

firm hands do as they’re told;

lifeguards inspect her for danger, close-up:

beached Venus, pale as an overturned turtle.

Chismera housewives spit full and loud

at husbands’ empty shadows;

girlfriends hone nails to talons;

Elke flirts, blameless as afterbirth.

II.

Wheelchairs resound on red-earth paths,

overlaying laughter from within;

paradise’s emissary, surf-soaked mist,

welcomes them with joy.

Age has yet to set much mark

on pushing volunteers from ends of earth,

nor on their charges, who imbibe the universe

in a different light, if they see at all.

From the cool crisp edge of another world,

Elke has come to bestow her skills,

flex for them her full firm figure

in servitude, as therapy.

III.

The wheel-chaired children are loud at play;

nearby Elke flips a page.

The Maya men will soon be back

to test her concentration.

The nightclub toilet stinks. Lupita

swings it open, meets Elke’s gaze,

sees Lucy’s dark locks locked tight

between light-tanned thighs.

A pacific blue moon dazzles

Playa Chisme’s early risers, not Elke:

she’s gone on to the next hidden port;

the job was not for her.

Bryan Murphy is a former teacher, translator and frequent visitor to the Pacific coast of Mexico. He lives in Turin, Italy. A volume of his short stories, provisionally entitled "Out of Padania" is forthcoming.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

2012-02-01T03:04:00.000-08:00

Chino and Chambray

Forty years older than I,

Charles, in his tweed cap, stands starched

in gray chino and blue chambray.

For more than a year his broad tie

has let the same iridescent duck

fly against a vermillion sky.

Like a Vatican Guard

he oversees the parking lot

I cut through each morning

far corner to far corner

as I cleave two triangles of cars

parked in my wake.

I ask him one morning,

“Charles, do you mind

when I cut through your lot?”

“Not at all, sir,” says Charles

as he stares straight ahead

and starts the windmill

of his good arm to lead

the pearl Hummer

now pulling in.

Linda Crate- 3 Poems

2012-01-26T00:20:00.000-08:00

no reprieve

you dance your spondees

upon me in sea urchins

that tickle my fingers in

the depths of the sea, you

must impress your noxious

presence upon me even if

I am enjoying myself and

especially then; I want a

moment’s reprieve from

the world and you’re there

to force me back to the face

of reality riddled with his

garish scars and boring stories —

I would much rather roam

freely in the sea of my mind;

so if you would kindly remove

your foot from my imagination

I will proceed to live my life.

death

death comes in slants

he takes a little of you

bit by bit he steals a

little something from

you; a familiar face

that you once knew

a smile that once

stretched the length

of your face; the

topography of the

hands you once knew

so very well all those

years ago, it leaves you

a comatose wilted rose.

uncomfortable skin

he laughed at her as she

came pirouetting out in

her favorite gown sewn

by the hand of truth, he

tore some fabric out in

fissures so that only the

half truths and lies were

clothing her form; she

did not feel comfortable

in the solace of these

bones that gnawed at

the tissues of her heart —

burning fissures of black

into her silver soul, an

absinthe of sorts; but he

told her that it was all

going to be okay, that it

didn’t matter, that nothing

mattered; this moment

would be immortal, that

their love would spin out

a tale more well known

than any tale of Shakespeare.

Sarah E. White- A Poem

2012-01-25T23:38:00.000-08:00

Soaking and Drowning

I can always count on them

Always to be there

On them I can depend

A constant and a comfort

I know where they will be

Always right where I left them

Waiting patiently for me to arrive

Sitting quietly

They will never leave me

But I can leave them

And that I often do

Leaving them waiting

Just sitting there quietly

Helplessly

Patiently awaiting

Waiting for me to arrive

And give them attention

Returning to them

For I need them so

And they need me

They have to have me

The dishes that await me

Wash the dishes

They don’t do themselves

They don’t do anything

They sit and wait for me

Soaking slowly

Drowning me

Russell Streur- Three Poems

2012-01-24T23:47:00.000-08:00

TABLE OF DISCONTENTS #9

Time travel

Fatal accident

Crisis deepens

Payoff uncertain

Bad step

Terror laws

Holy war

Negative consequences

Deportation

“They must know,”

the scientist said,

“Something we don’t.”

Collateral damage

No mercy.

TABLE OF DISCONTENTS #10

Cold war

The wrong taxi

Feedback loop

Insider trading

Woes persist

New limits

Spring crushed

Substance banned

Hostile action

“The situation is grim,”

the coordinator said.

“It goes on for a very long time.”

No food

Choke point.

TABLE OF DISCONTENTS #11

How it all began

Alternate version

An invisible thread

Management shuffle

Exile

Blood of ordinary people

Unintended consequences

Parade of the rich

Stability maintenance

‘The big picture,”

the executive director said,

“is restricted visibility.”

Zero day

The usual suspects.

BIO

Russell Streur is a born-again dissident residing in Johns Creek, Georgia. He operates the world’s original on-line poetry bar,The Camel Saloon, catering to dromedaries, malcontents and jewels of the world at http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/ The beer is cold, the whiskey Irish, and the door is always open.

Jamie Grefe- A Poem

2012-01-24T02:17:00.000-08:00

YEARLY GIFTS OF EARLY DEATH

Draped in white, Beijing dust floats in

red clumps to fingertips, and itching, we

sing ourselves mad to February explosions,

for spring is coming.

The close family sunk, back from the hospital room,

a fevered child shoots a plastic pistol, I smoke circles,

scrape vomit, wipe black velvet to rings round the sky,

blow kisses for my enemy is here.

And, it's your birthday again, once on the second, but not

on the twenty third and you're bloated, escaped breath is a

womb and the child dream-sleeps through these firecracker nights

where gunshots and laugh-tracks are all we have.

But, two makes a family, Old Mother's bawling in

the kitchen over green beans or shaved beards and I'm gone,

outside with pig fur in the yard making sure they don't

accidentally eat one of those flakes of red rice paper, those

yearly gifts of early death.

Christopher Hivner- Three Poems

2012-01-23T03:27:00.000-08:00

Matter

I don’t know

was my stock answer

when she asked

a question.

Sometimes I did know

but didn’t care,

other times

I wasn’t really

listening to her.

She peppered me

with inquiries

about the world,

a place that had

left my insides

as sharp

as shattered glass.

On and on

her tongue

formed words

and the breath

in her lungs

pushed them out

for the nitrogen-rich air

to carry

into my ears.

I don’t know

was always

my answer

between puffs

of generic cigarettes.

One day

I would break,

I felt it

in the pit

of my stomach.

One day

I would answer

all of the questions

and then I would

cease to matter

to her.

I lit another cig

inhaling deeply,

preparing my

heart and lungs

for the day

she walks away.

Classic Rock

I waited in the car

through the Rolling Stones,

Neil Young,

American Pie and the Beatles,

I waited through

three in a row

from The Who

and a request

for Pink Floyd,

the 17 minute one,

I waited for her

to leave his apartment,

straightening her dress,

fussing with her hair.

I waited to see it

before I hated her,

had to experience it

so I could

let go of what

I held in.

I waited until

she drove away

to shed the tears

that had been living

under my skin,

to acknowledge the sick

that was eating

my stomach.

I waited through

Cheap Trick, Zeppelin

and until

the street was empty

to get out

of my car

and walk to

the apartment

where my wife’s

presence lingered

in the air

and on the bed sheets.

I hummed Ziggy Stardust

while I waited

for him

to answer the door

and sang

“Welcome to the Jungle”

as I put

a bullet in his brain.

My head

was full of static

as I walked

back to the car,

interference from somewhere

wiped my thoughts

to white.

I drove home

through weather reports,

traffic updates

and ticket give-aways,

all getting lost

in the noise

my mind

found soothing.

I waited in my driveway

through my

muttered prayer,

the neighbor’s dog barking

and the

chambering of a bullet

inside my gun.

As I turned off

the car,

the DJ

put on the blues.

As Secret Writing Flourishes

The news plays in the background,

CNN talking heads 24 hours nonstop.

I hear about the bombs that went off

and the bombs that didn’t.

4 a.m. and the pretty blond

is telling me the same things

that the pretty brunette told me

12 hours earlier.

4 a.m. and I still don’t sleep,

three days and counting.

I watch the images

and read the headlines

but turn the sound down

so I can hear what remains

of your voice trapped

in the cracks of the plaster.

The Sun rises behind the house

while the overseas stock markets gain

and you tell me again

why I’m an asshole.

A fire in Cleveland rages out of control

while I wait for the apology

that always came, but this time

it sounds insincere

because your voice is fading,

the remnants too slender to register.

Your old letters are spread out

on the floor, trapping me

on the couch

so I don’t step on them,

but I can’t read your words anymore,

written in French or Gaelic

or some secret code.

What were you trying to tell me?

A man breathless and sweating,

speaking frantically

of his daughter wandering off

in a crowded Wal-Mart.

Under his impassioned face

CNN is trying to tell me something

with scrolling words

but I can’t read them.

I pick up your letters

and I know

her name is Missy, and she’s 4 years old.

I look at the TV screen

and it says

I am all you need.

Missy is wearing red shorts

and a white top.

You wish I understood

when you cry.

Missy was last seen

looking at the fish tanks.

It might be a mistake,

but you need to leave.

I drop your letters and turn off the TV,

sad realizations driving me.

If I find Missy

maybe I’ll find you,

but I’m a thousand miles away

from Indiana

and if you were standing next to me

I wouldn’t know where you were.

David S. Pointer- A Poem

2012-01-18T01:12:00.000-08:00

Envy?

The rich grab up all the money

like a Mexican land grant, and

the bottom end poor are left

pondering early burial by

bottle,

crack pipe, or tiny paycheck,

Mitt Romney’s cross-border

bank roll

safe, secure, and insured as

his corporate raider retreats

Bio: David S. Pointer has recent acceptances at "Black-Listed Magazine," "Portland Occupier," "Rattle," and elsewhere.

Linda Crate- 3 Poems

2012-01-17T01:27:00.000-08:00

controller

you swallowed me into void,

the arms of black loneliness

circled me like vultures before

they devoured what was left

of me; I let them rip the fissures

of moon silver clean off the

bone, I could not force myself

to care until I saw her osculation —

against your own lips, I claimed

the birds of prey for my own;

I fashioned myself wings of black —

when you least expected it, I pecked

your eyes out piece by piece simply

to ensure you that I was the master,

and you had never controlled me.

you’re a boat

lovely face it is a

boat drifting out to

sea, gliding across

the water as graceful

as a swan; pirouetting

against a landscape

of melancholy, the

topography of your

lips pierces the white

of snow with a snatch

of crimson feathers, a

cardinal to rescue us

from the trite scene of

rolling white thundering

across the hills; I don’t

think I've ever loved

you more than I do now.

uncle jimmy

the moon is grey as your eyes and as

fractured as your yellowing bones;

I see you in every silver rain and every

melancholy grey day, I miss you when

I read Catcher in the Rye and wonder

why you liked it; I could never relate

to Holden, I’ve known the sting of

isolation and I’ve been the outcast for

several years and many moons, but I

still couldn’t understand the fascination —

you used to paint and I envy that, your

skill was extraordinary; I couldn’t do

the wondrous things you did with a paint

brush to save my life, but though we

used different mediums we’re both artists —

I wish I could make you proud, I wish

you could see my words; I wish that

you could be revived from death somehow

just so you could spend more day on this

earth with us, it seems unreal that twelve

spans of three hundred and sixty five have

already passed like you have; it seems

that you’ve been gone far too long.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

2012-01-16T01:34:00.000-08:00

Mixed Couple on the Morning Train

Chicago, 2009

Because he works in an office and is white

and because she who tans anyway has just

returned from a week at the Beach,

the commuters are certain she’s not black

yet they rustle in their seats.

They want to see her hands flick.

They want to see if rivers run dark

through ivory palms.

Martin may be dead

and Obama may have won

but in Chicago this morning at dawn

a rainbow of people

still rustle in their seats.

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

We have elected an African-American as president of the United States

and we have declared a national holiday in honor of Martin Luther King,

but some things may never change, and maybe that's normal

for the human condition, whatever the race.

http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

Sarah E. White- A Poem

2012-01-13T00:46:00.000-08:00

Silly Life

Boggled completely

I am utterly befuddled

And also thrown for a loop

Exasperated at the thought

My eyes are unbelieving

Uncomprehending it at all

What a joke

Lovely words and phrases for a dirty word

Silly life

Such a thorny rose

So sweet to breathe

As my fingers bleed

I pricked them deep this time

While I was distracted

By senses more powerful than beauty

Softer than the delicate petals

That encapsulates its essence

I take in the warm aroma of life

Of desire

To take it into me

It pierces quickly

And now I bleed freely

The blood flows in dark scarlet droplets

Streaks down the smooth pale skin of my fingers

It plummets in a freefall of redness down to the floor

Happily bandaging

Taking in the sweetness of its many layers

Savoring the sweet sting

And sucking the salty tips of my fingers

Utterly befuddled by life’s delicate balance

Linda Crate- 3 Poems

2012-01-12T01:13:00.000-08:00

my time is not now

silly boy you mistook forgiveness

with forgetting, I would be stupid

to loose my hold of those memories

that still cut like shards of glass, the

words you aimed at my head like a

rifle before pulling the trigger, I’ll

not hold your transgressions against

you, but I’ll never trust you again;

you wounded me deeper than the

ocean, eroded me worst than the

sea eating away at rocks; you burned

my heart into stardust the rest of me

will follow one day, but not by you;

I’ll go on my own day and terms.

a proton and a neutron

you trip over the syllables like a laughing girl,

like I always falter when I walk; I over or under

calculate each step, always such a klutz; but my

words flow like honey whereas you trip over your

vernacular and walk straight, perhaps, we could

help one another if we weren’t so proud to admit

that we have problems, maybe we were the two

hinges of a door separated at birth; maybe that’s

how we can complete each other so perfectly

without knowing how it is that opposites attract —

it’s like we’re back in science class and I’m a

proton and you’re a neutron, it’s like these bones

and lips and marrow have nothing to do with the

fabric of whom we truly are; it’s just window

dressing masking the skeletons of life that no

one wants to see, we shine as brightly as the stars

together, but as individuals we’re lacking, please

never send me back out there in the world alone.

the hold of winter

threadbare branches of wizened

trees hold their arms without leaves

so proudly, as if enamored by their

own strength which lends them

to stand without their children; the

cardinal sits upon them, cutting

across the dreary landscape of winter’s

alms thrust into the aorta of the land;

like the pieces of you that froze over

my heart in icy fingers; you were a

parasite like winter, stealing the marrow

from my bones and leaving me weary —

I dreamed of spring days coming to

thaw away all the damages that ravaged

against my brow; but you chased her

pastel skirts away for as long as you could;

you wanted me to suffer the crime of

loving you; I never understood why you

were so cruel, why you had to erode away

at my heart piece by piece before throwing

me to the mouth of jagged rocks; you say

I’m not always the martyr, but I’m not always

the one to blame, sometimes the facsimiles

spun pour from your mouth in absinthe not mine.

Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry has been published in various journals the latest of which including: Skive, The Scarlet Sound, and Speech Therapy.

Bryan Murphy- A Poem

2012-01-11T00:35:00.000-08:00

Dog Day Sundown

Far from winter and work, the sun still sets

on a perfect, dog-free bay in southern Mexico.

Filaments of eye-candy cloud

squeeze the horizon into layers,

then part the curtain on the evening’s stars:

Mars and Venus, crescent waxing moon.

A watcher on the beach sifts sand,

peers at what thoughtless fingers raise:

a leather collar, cut sharp, stained dark,

a name engraved - “Tigre, Posada Las Americas”.

Inside the town, once clouds reclaim the night,

the mayor sleeps deep and sound.

She’s paved the road outside her house, raised taxes,

“cleansed” the beach. A second term may come.

Bryan Murphy is a former teacher, translator and frequent visitor to the Pacific coast of Mexico. His poems "Rule of the Road" and "Bloody Student Cuts" appeared in Dead Snakes in March 2011. He lives in Turin, Italy. A volume of his short stories, provisionally entitled "Padania Blues" is forthcoming.

Maria Cristina De Guzman- A Poem

2012-01-10T00:27:00.000-08:00

Defense of the Ancients

In oblivion, she crawls, leaps,
runs, and spreads her wicked wings
to fly away from the warmth of home
to sneak into the dark and dismal town
where narrow paths lead to ecstasy,
camaraderie, death and victory.

Trailing the landmines buried by
the threesome trusted heroes
who feed her penchant for salve
that brings venom to her veins
yet lends a warming breath
from the savage torches, that ties
her willing arms to the filthy cape
of the mighty enchantress.

In oblivion, she retreats, runs away
from the raging battle of traitors
who dream to kill themselves
in the same cold war of the weakling
which enticed the enchantress to die
with a hero that casts both fire and ice
to hide their temple from the sinless snipers.

She invisibly…slowly… fakes a hallow death
to allure the scourges never to hinder
her righteous vow to defend the ancients.

Bio: Maria Cristina De Guzman loves to play DotA during her spare time. This poetry is about her struggles in defending what she considers as her ANCIENTS in real life.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

2012-01-09T00:56:00.000-08:00

Envelope in the Pigeonhole

This evening when I return to the hotel

I see in my pigeonhole

Angela’s writing

on a yellow envelope.

What excuse will she have for not writing?

Too busy, perhaps,

stirring cauldrons of soup

while the cats dash about licking her calves.

Or don’t the cats know enough

to lick at her calves?

Would that I were the cats

and the cats were taller.

-----------------------------------
Donal Mahoney has had poems appear in Dead Snakes and other publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.

Glenn W. Cooper- A Poem

2012-01-03T02:24:00.000-08:00

It Runs Through Me

Breakfast time and a scientist is spooning dark matter into a cereal bowl …
He has just a small portion of it in a cardboard box, caught in the lab in a device too terrible for articulation …
A never-ending expansion, beyond the cereal bowl, beyond the room, beyond even the house …
Why can’t you put that stuff away? someone says. You’re always playing with that stuff.
It runs through me as it runs through all of us, the scientist says.
What he puts in the bowl expands the bowl.
Galaxies pushed further and further apart …
Snap! Crackle! Pop!

Maria Cristina De Guzman- A Poem

2012-01-02T23:54:00.000-08:00

Memoir of a Mistress

Centuries of sundown mourned,
yet Manoah's loss was still a victory
for his tribe, set apart for light
from the impure warmth of unredeemed.

Upon his tongue lied the sweetest lie,
which tied her liberty to kiss and tell
the innocence that once conceived by
his younger days of abstinence.

Riddles and scribbles out of honey and bones
paved a destiny to his virgin braids.
Remember those knives on those papyrus
he needless to utter, for it were written long ago.

Old tribe sent plagues to her back,
reminding her of spoiled blood in lion's claws
that invaded the depth of his blameless soul
where the truth was hidden for centuries.

Hopes still cling to the twosome pillars
that broke her faith in his impeccable strength.
Stains on his mighty linear limbs
still haunt the remnants of her sanity.

The world has pierced her on the vineyard's earth
where past spat his royal blood,
that slowly turned into enticing green
once blown soft whispers upon in dawn.

Thou shall not blame her for Zorah's grief,
if his bones were crushed to a soiled carcass.
Caresses laid him to the depth of slumber
but her sinful hands did not cut his braids.

Bio: Maria Cristina De Guzman has been writing poems since she was six. She lives in Cebu, Philippines. Writing poetry is her first love. Her poem "Memoir of a Mistress" is actually written out of a very interesting event in her life that has completely changed her ideas about friendship, love and betrayal.

Jason E. Hodges- A Poem

2011-12-29T23:51:00.000-08:00

Technicolor Eyes

Out on the sidewalks
The sidewalks of this dirt covered town
I found myself fortunate
To find who the good book calls Christ
At least this is who her mind said she was at that moment
And her pills when she took them were as sweet as sugar-stick-candy
Their bright colors made them slide down with ease
They covered her world in bright Technicolor
Tunnel vision she said would allow me to see her
In the lower atmosphere
For now she was an astronaut
She was floating with her little box-doll and could see St. Frances
Along with St. Mary who was standing beside her
I smiled so kindly as she began to explain
I told you I’m on a different atmosphere
I feel fine in this place
Where my hair looks like Rose-Colored-Platinum
You can laugh and play with the stars up here
I tell you, I can sit in the curve of the moon
If you had tunnel vision you could see me up here
You have to have Technicolor Eyes
But you have to watch out for the devil
He’ll shoot you in the back
He did that to me
Then he stole my silver dollar
But now I’m okay because I am Moses
I’m not hungry at all
I’m in a different atmosphere with Technicolor Eyes

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- 3 Poems

2011-12-29T04:18:00.000-08:00

THE SHADOWS KNOW MY NAME

The shadows know my name.

I go by bird brain. I am not a bird,

but the shadows don't care.

When it's hot outside I always

find some shade by a tree or

a building. There the shadows

call my name in a soft low tone.

Sometimes it's the wind that talks.

I can't tell the two apart. I do not

listen to what the little birds say.

They gossip too much.

TREMULOUS SHADOWS

You cover me

with oblivion.

My heart is bare,

cold like the winter.

I feel nothing.

Life is precarious.

You cover me

with oblivion.

I’m the ashes

brought to be buried.

I feel transparent

like life’s silences.

Twilight shadows

fill my travels. You

cover me with

oblivion.

At night I contemplate

love’s nostalgia,

love’s oblivion.

Tremulous shadows

inhabit my dreams.

RED SUITCASE

I am only here to clear up a warrant

and then I am gone.

Do not mix me up with some crazed

lunatic, because

I am sane. I need to get my red suitcase.

My paperwork is

in it. My record contract is there.

I don’t want the cops

to continue to get away with their story

about me being

naked on the beach. That’s just bull.

I would say shit, but

I don’t talk like that unless I am mad.

You would not like to

see me get mad. I will do terrible things

to this place if I

do. I’m like The Incredible Hulk, but

I won’t get green or

big. I’ll keep my shirt

on. But don’t test me because I’m a hard

woman to handle.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

2011-12-27T23:40:00.000-08:00

PTSD

In the waiting room, I squeeze

this old rosary a nun gave me

the day I got back from Iraq.

I was still in a daze on a gurney

and I still had sand in my hair.

Some of it remains, no matter

how many showers I take.

Sand from Iraq lingers, I'm told,

until you go bald, and then

you are able to concentrate

on other things.

What might they be, I wonder.

But today, in this waiting room,

I squeeze the rosary tighter

when I hear, louder than

the gunshots crackling in my dreams,

the real screams of that little boy

right over there, the one who's

rapped his elbow off the radiator.

Lord, listen to him scream!

Each week he comes with his mother

for her follow-up appointment.

He sounds like the jet

that takes me back at night

to that little village in Iraq

where the sand puffs up

in mushroom clouds

above the bullets

as the children scream

in their hovels louder

than that little boy

screaming over there.

Maybe everyone

in this waiting room

listening to him scream

can come with me now

to that village in Iraq.

Sitting here, I know

that boy's pain so well

that in my fist

this rosary no longer

knows my prayers.

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

Donal Mahoney has had poems published in Dead Snakes and other publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.

Sarah E. White- A Poem

2011-12-27T00:19:00.000-08:00

Through the Forest

I was walking with you though the forest
You holding my hand in the most gentle way
But not just holding it
Caressing it, loving it as we walked
Your touch fills me with such sensation
A tingle that starts so small
Radiates from my hand that you hold so genuinely
It flows into my chest and pounds away at my heart
Pulsing, pumping, flowing
I breathe, try to breathe it in
The trees sway softly in the breeze as we walk
Soft morning light sparkles through the light green hue of the maple leaves
Sparkling all around us in this dazzling moment
Time standing as still as my eyes stare into yours
I am swept away by you and the way you hold my hand
It’s like you have held it for a lifetime
A lifetime that we have yet to live
The way my heart pounds at the thought of simply walking with you once again
Thinking about the next walk, next time
The joy of a stolen moment
This is our time
This forest is our place, the sanctuary where we hide
Where we are alone
Alone together
You and I and this forest
The sunlight and the trees
Hand holding and hearts pounding in the safety of this moment

Jason E. Hodges- A Poem

2011-12-20T23:46:00.000-08:00

Elephants

At times honesty a bitch
It seems now
There’s no comfortable room in my home
For there are elephants of unspeakable pain lurking in most
Sitting waiting
Waiting to pop into my mind
Waiting to crush me with all of their power
Push me down to the floor
So I walk
Quietly I walk past them
Tiptoeing while carrying this heavy burden
Ever so quietly I walk
Through the rooms that hold teardrops of sadness and uncontrollable shaking
For I have to keep walking through this place of my living
I have no where to go
Their dark eyes fall upon me
Their smiles pull softly as they wait for the discussion to begin
Their long gray trunks point at me
Gently, they motion to me
But I keep walking
I try not to see them
I’m thinking of how not to think at all
So I can make it into the few rooms that are left
That have no elephants
With memories of mind changing images
Rooms of safety where I can retreat
To my writing
To my Art
To anything that keeps these creatures at bay
If only for a moment
If only for a night

Jeffrey Park- A Poem

2011-12-19T00:58:00.000-08:00

PATTERNS

Watching him shuffle along the aisle
you think perhaps he sees things
that I never would see: hidden patterns,
designs created by the cigarette butts

and chewing gum wrappers
all this – unless – unless he’s just
a sly fox playing us all for fools
his bowed posture nothing more than a nod

to our expectations. Easier to just go along
with his little game. But if you ever
found a private moment between stations
you might have a quiet word,

not overplaying it, keeping in mind that less
is always so much more –
I share in your secret, friend. I won’t
be the one who spills your clever beans.

Bio:
Jeffrey Park currently lives in Munich, Germany, where he works at a private secondary school and teaches business English to adults. His latest poems have appeared in Subliminal Interiors, Mobius, Punk Soul Poet, The Corner Club Press, FortyOunceBachelors and elsewhere.

Amit Parmessur- Two Poems

2011-12-15T01:04:00.000-08:00

You Are No Cartoon Gal

Your hair is so curled in innocence

that it has fallen all over your right eye.

Or, is it an intended half

Peek-a-boo of a new, lively girlie?

I can see the milky moon in your face;

I can see your virtuous visage in the moon.

There is a plethora of magical black rivulets

going & tangoing all along your beautiful hair,

without your consent. There’s a wild

reverie in your veiled eye too but

I know you’ve learnt life’s not a comic cartoon.

On your lovely, naïve cheeks the wounds

of unfair battles and misfortune are still visible,

but now your melodic smile will flourish,

furtively, making you a most merry woman.

Always be as childish and multi-colored

as your Sammy & Molly tee-shirt, poetic gal.

Behind you it is blue paradise, behold,

filled with long episodes of freedom.

Whatever episode you choose you’ll

taste your dreams, and your scars will fade.

Your tight lips wrapped in pale pink wax

are singing so many hymns nowadays— lemme

hear you a bit tonight, before you start dreaming,

charming flower.

Remember, many men would love to be

your lucky wristwatch, without your consent…

Snake Hunting

As if he’d thrown his toned body

into the lush grass,

like a lame stone flying.

To see those shining muscles—

what if he were to coil around our ankles!

I had to ask myself why

he should dangle on

that mossy rock like that. He

was intimidating.

See, see if you understand the

watercolor stripes he’s

proudly sporting.

The burn in his throat,

I see nothing more mighty.

You care nothing for

his youthful eyes that plead

for a life smooth as the pieces

of Kraft Cheese left in our battered bags?

African friends, abandon this snake.

I am not a seasoned hunter—

let’s chase something else.

I’m just a few meters from him—

Wake up, now, big snake.

I’m holding the trembling stick,

running like a mad crab

towards him.

As if he would plunge into

the sound of the dull forest now!

There I go.

There he slithers away.

We followed.

Born in 1983 Amit Parmessur is one of the editors of poetry magazine The Rainbow Rose. Since 2010, his poems have appeared in around 100 literary magazines, such as: Ann Arbor Review, The Camel Saloon, Calliope Nerve, Damazine, Zouch Magazine and many others. He is nominated for the Pushcart Prize and lives in Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

2011-12-13T00:30:00.000-08:00

Whinny and Spit

When a man’s young,

this work is hard

but it pays well

and he can feed

the wife and kids.

In the morning

he throws crates off trucks,

and after lunch

throws crates again

till five or six o’clock.

But as he grows older,

and some say

ready to retire,

he has to stop

in the late afternoon,

mount his throne of skids,

let his legs drip over the side,

toss his head, inhale,

whinny and spit.

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

Donal Mahoney's father came to America from Ireland just before the Great Depression. A legal immigrant, he had jobs like the one described in the poem. That is why, many decades later, it is difficult for Mahoney to worry about whether an immigrant is legal or not when he sees one working his buttocks off in the noonday sun.

Jason E. Hodges- A Poem

2011-12-12T01:15:00.000-08:00

The Hyena

In this world, this world of ours
The Hyena stands with a sharpened grin
Gnashes his teeth, and digs in his claws
All while preaching his words and making his profit
Mother Mary, do they read your son’s words at all?
Or do they speak to the flocks with prewritten text of what better words might be? Promising plenty the Hyena will do and using all that he can
Then dropping from his followers heavy and full
Like a tick stretched to the limit by his consumption
How strange it all is to me
For I’m not one of these beasts, nor do I follow their way
So I naturally struggle when I encounter their masses
Constantly choking on all that they feed me
What they show me
For a Paper Rose looks like the best smelling flower
Perception is seeing what they want you to see
Like stained-glass telling its story with all of its bright and wonderful colors
Yet dull when the sun doesn’t shine its way
And the cast shadows of candles wash over beloved Mother Mary
But still we pray to her
Beg of her
Hoping she will reach out and touch us
Come to life in some miraculous way
Hold us
Reassure us
Make our world feel better than what our eyes see day after day
In this world
This world of ours
Where the hyena gnashes his teeth and the weak follow his way

Sarah Gamutan- A Poem

2011-12-09T03:02:00.000-08:00

Living With Avengers

Dilated capillaries were looking for you.

They wanted home deep inside your green

varicose veins. They crawled on such thin

bones, gargled blood and chewed marrows.

They gnawed like rats, spun around your

knees and gave so much pain each time your

head was higher in altitude. The mind and

heart debated as to “who should kill the rust in

you”. The way you tossed and turned like an
impish slug was hideous. But you were that

careless. That’s why they wanted to kill you -

Like another tell- tale heart. That’s why they

resided in your system, said you were special

but only crushed your bones slowly but surely.

That time, vengeance was hurtful and coercible.

Bio:
Sarah Gamutan's poems and stories are forthcoming in Poetry Space and Microstory a Week. She lives in Philippines where she works as a Customer Support Associate by night and a poet at heart by day.

Lee Stern- Three Poems

2011-12-07T00:52:00.000-08:00

A SPACE IN THE MISSING RAIN

Maybe there’s a space in the missing rain that I don’t know about.
And maybe you tried to tell me but I didn’t pay any attention.
Maybe there’re some directions I should have known about.
And if I had listened carefully to what you said,
I would have known what was going on.
But it’s the space in the missing rain
that compels me to tell you that I don’t know anything about the clouds.
If I knew anything about the clouds
I would stand on my feet and shout it out clearly.
I would write a new chapter about even the smallest ones
so there would be no misunderstanding.
And I would do all of that without even requesting payment.
Without standing in a place of benign memories.
Without asking why winter’s voices were lost
when the sounds of the faces were wet.

BREATHING

Maybe it was the strange way of breathing
that brought me to this place.
I was used to breathing with my mouth and my nose.
But these people used their words to inhale the air.
And it was that reason alone
that caused me to be attracted to them.
And sometimes the biggest words brought in the least amount of air.
In other words, just the opposite of what you might have thought.
It was like a whole language that was dedicated to their lungs.
And in between checking out other possibilities, that was what I thought.
And I also thought that the smallest words
held onto the air for the longest time.
And I didn’t want to become bedridden so I had to agree.
I had to measure the words I inhaled.
And the simple cloth upon which I recorded the edge of their days.

I CAN REMEMBER

I can remember most of the things you told me.
I can remember the playful things and the serious things.
When you told me that an oak tree
had to be planted somewhere,
I went out of my way to remember that.
When you told me that everybody had to ring a bell,
and not mistake it for anything else,
it was the same thing and the same reaction.
And when you told me that you were going to love me until the end of tomorrow,
I had no choice but to keep those words in front of me like little parachutes.
Dangling in the weather.
Colliding with hopes wearing thin.

Sarah E. White- A Poem

2011-12-06T04:21:00.000-08:00

The Creek

My life has come full circle

I have made it finally back

To my favorite place in the world

This place where my childhood was lived

Paths of adventure and intrigue

Where I romped and ran

Within the cool clay walls of the earth

This place was home

The cool water rippling through the hillside

Continually carving its path

The earthen smell of safety

Fills me with such life even now

Such security

A place where I felt most free

To be one with the earth, one with myself

Truly seeing the many layers

Finally eye level with the world

As time stands still

I gaze at the landscape from the creek bottom

I feel the energy around me

The trickle of water flowing beneath me

Beside me

Flowing through me

Washing over the bare bones of my soul

The crunch of rocks shifting under my feet

I trudge onward

My life flows forward

But my childhood is encapsulated here

In memory

In the creek

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

2011-12-04T23:12:00.000-08:00

Griggs' Bar and Grill

In two more hours I'll have to shower,

shave and coffee-prop my lids

and otherwise prepare for day. It's 4 a.m.

and now the barkeep, Griggs,

is rushing me, the first

to come, the last to leave,

the lad who just an hour before

was coaxed to quaff one more.

At work I'll cummerbund a smile,

hold my head and sit all day,

play another endless game

of solitaire or tic-tac-toe.

Griggs' apron's off. The neon's out

and now he'll set the locks in back.

The spittle, butts and half-slain beers

he'll leave for Willie who'll soon be here

to dance his broom between

the tables and the scattered chairs

as smoothly as Kelly or Astaire.

At 6 a.m., he'll climb the ladder

near the door and aim his broom

through the transom toward the sky.

Each morning Willie puts another

bullet through the eye of sunrise.

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

Donal Mahoney quit drinking many years ago as a preface to marriage. Today he doesn't miss the liquor, but he does miss the people he would see late at night while sitting at the end of the bar. At times, even when he was sober, the later it got, the more the whole scene seemed like a ballet, despite the raucous music from the juke box.

Sarah Gamutan- A Poem

2011-11-25T03:06:00.000-08:00

NO DOMINION

The trigger filled the barrel while the rest kept

inside guns of what they called themselves haters.

It was cold here that night when avengers invaded

this olden island. I knew what they meant when they

said death. They told me not only the jungle got killed

but the rest of the men, too. They said losers like me

had to be careful, get my canteen, walk sparely, act

unbeaten and stay strong - boned. I was drenched with

blood, but they just spat their wits on me, that they said

those were only tears and sweat, those got transparent

and numb, those got stupid too. They told me I'd never win

any battle, that I would only be a liability. At first, I discreetly

grabbed those armaments. Some of them are lethal. I saw them

looking at me dumbfounded. They snickered at my recessive

head - that head you knew which would always be bullied

and throbbed. They counted down my life. I conformed

to them, finally, so I'd live. I had to be dominated. I knew

this place lived for only once that we had to pull those

triggers, shoot the rest til birds on trees got awakened

that we made their sarcophagus, instead. Once again,

these triggers didn't stop laughing. I was still helpless.

Sarah Gamutan's poems are forthcoming in Sparkbright Magazine, Poetry Space and Subliminal Interiors Magazine. You can visit her website at www.poetrypoem.com/sarahgamutan or find her at www.facebook.com/sarah06142010.

Christopher Hivner- A Poem

2011-11-24T00:38:00.000-08:00

Revolutions

I rode the train all night
from the docks
to the avenues,
uptown to midtown,
past the projects
through industrial park,

and she slept next to me
for hours,
her head on my shoulder,
half-sentences
squeaking from
thin, naked lips,
her hands occasionally
grabbing at the air,
strands of soft hair
playing over
her forehead.

She had gotten on
at the avenues,
the seat next to me
the only empty,
she made a call
then was out,
sliding into my side
when we curled
past midtown,
entwining her arm
through mine,
her hand
resting on my wrist.

Between the rhythmic clacks
of the train
I inhaled
her perfume
wishing I was
whoever was in
her dream,
the man worthy
of being arm-in-arm
and receiving
her coos and moans,
not the one
who’d already pocketed
the phone
and rifled
her wallet.

I stood
to finally get off
at my stop
and she called me
Ray or Roy,
asked me
to come back to bed.

I stared at her,

wondered what
she was running from,
how many revolutions
would she make
before ending up
back home.

Scanning her phone,
I found Roy
at number two,
after mom,
left a message
for him
to come and get
his girl
before she
hurts herself
or someone else
does it for her.

I dropped the phone
back into her purse,
got off the train
and went home.

I fell asleep
staring at the ceiling
dreaming of gravity
and my face in the Sun.

bio: I live in Pennsylvania, usually write while listening to music and enjoy an occasional cigar outside on a star-filled night. A chapbook of poetry, "The Silence Brushes My Cheek Like Glass" can be read for free at scars.tv. A book of short horror stories, "The Spaces between Your Screams" was published in 2008. Details on all my writing can be found at www.chrishivner.com

Dylan Gerard Thompson- Poetry

2011-11-23T00:14:00.000-08:00

A girl
Her black hair
Her dark Kali skin
Sitting with her inside a hut shelter
Watching the rain for a time in silence
Walking with her through the rainstorm
On a dirt road through green mystery life
I don't know any names
Nameless to each other still
Soaked to the skin
We both stare
The fire between us is
The reason her umbrella
Hasn't been opened yet

When you meet Bukowski
At a bar, kill him
When you see Ginsberg
At the coffee house, kill him
I'm not them
I don't need to know
How to write poetry
For you, for them
I've been doing it
Before I knew
What poetry was
That's what poetry is
Soul truth release
Never let a mouth tell you
How it's done

Cascade of yellow leaves under a tree
Spread out in interlocking repose
Painted into life
This is the real art we try to capture
Light green water towers trying to hide behind
Uncooperative late autumn trees loom over lake lands
Ancient carousel pony ornate frosting now rust
Staked into someones tiny front yard square
Overgrown in withered winter husks
A shape moves in the black rain
Floating through the night
I can see it clear as my own face
Across the road then gone
In the overexposed morning light
Cascade of red leaves under a row of trees

Dylan Gerard Thompson is an artist of words and images. Today he gets by selling his images and performing for the Rennaissance Faire. From a very young age he knew art was his calling and the only career he could be happy with. His goal in life is to make this his sole livelihood. Recently his words were published in Electric Windmill Press and World Poetry Movement, his images in Electric Windmill Press, Station Hill Press, and Graffiti Kolkata. He just finished work on his first book titled VILE (forthcoming, Electric Windmill Press.) and a chapbook of his poetry and images. (forthcoming, Burning Apple Press) He has a showcase of some of his image work at http://swordofdoom.tumblr.com/ He's lived in Eagle River Alaska, Dun Laoghaire Ireland, and Medjugorje Bosnia & Herzegovina via charity work and back packing he currently resides in Ringwood New Jersey. He's a Outward Bound graduate and hopes to take a road trip across the United States someday soon.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

2011-11-22T00:26:00.000-08:00

Snapdragons Crackle

Snapdragons crackle

in the air for Maura

and her flowing gait,

a swagger neither Nora

nor Maureen would ever

let a suitor savor.

Maura knows

that in her wake

men with scythes

and burlap sacks,

creep like gators,

eyes afire, jaws agape.

Nora and Maureen

can smell these men.

Unlike Maura

and her flowing gait,

Nora and Maureen will smile,

take their time and wait.

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

The way young women (or mature women) walk has always been intriguing for most men. Before tattoos became an accessory almost as common as earrings, ladies who walked carefully were often quick to criticize ladies who did not. The problem is, some women have no governor to regulate their sway and unseemly admirers can sometimes be a problem.

Brian Le Lay- Three Poems

2011-11-21T04:14:00.000-08:00

All the Good Health in the World

When we cored the globe like an apple
(Me with my semantics
You with your stupidity)
I wished you (not in so many words)
all the good health
in the world

My eyes rusted over,
My toenails turned the black of a penny

My lungs collapsed like carnival tents
on the foot-flattened grass of a vacant churchyard,
having given you all the good health
        in the world

I became a crumpled dollar bill,
The doctor fixed me up
a synthetic lung from the stray hair
you left hanging from the ceiling

    Real nice, real nice,
My relatives from Pennsylvania say
over au gratin potatoes, glass gravy boats,
Salt and pepper shakers in the shape
of buildings that are long gone.

"So will you ever graduate from Easy Street?"

There are many lost shoes that swing from powerlines,
Hanging mist and flashing lights between us,

But at least you are far

and that is enough.

Gerrymandering

Black
And white
Brown and blonde

The shades
And coarseness
Of skin
And hair

The stars in Williamsburg Brooklyn
Versus the stars
in Abingdon Virginia at midnight

Man and woman
Especially
Man and woman

The disparities keep us
Pushing and pulling
For progress

The Nuyorican Poets Cafe
On East 3rd and the Grand
Old Opry in Nashville

Samuel Beckett
And Glenn Beck
On the same shelf

Nature has played
A terrible trick
On us all

My Archimedean Restlessness

I've abandoned literature altogether
    and become a mathematician
I wake up in the middle of the night, naked,
stubbing my toe on an end-table
    while looking for a piece of paper

Next day, at lunch with my friends, I say,
"Sorry I'm late, was awake all night.
Got an idea for the most badass equation ever."

Brian Le Lay is the editor of Electric Windmill Press. He wrote the books Don’t Bury Me in New Jersey (Electric Windmill Books), Please Make an Internet Catchphrase Out of the Headline Written to Report My Death (forthcoming, Piggybank Bandit Books, 2011) and Our Brick-and-Mortar Basement Apartment America (Piggybank Bandit Books, 2012). His poems have most recently appeared in The Prism Review, The Montucky Review, and BoySlut.

Jason E. Hodges- Two Poems

2011-11-18T03:05:00.000-08:00

St. Dymphna

The cold wind now blows in the night
An image of St. Dymphna etched in silver hangs from my neck
It’s all that protects me now
For there’s not much comfort in the world when you can’t escape your mind
The once calm world I knew as a child has receded with the tides of life
Black clouds hang over the moon
Blocking out the last bit of light in this darkened sky
Draped with thickness, it refuses to shine
For things change place as time drifts by
The straitjacket has taken the place of my security blanket
Its warm comforting hugs get me through the night
The padded room is as soft as my childhood bassinet
And I pray
St. Dymphna, draw your sword, wrap your wings around me
For the dark storm blows in with a chill
It freezes me down to my bones
For the warning label under the RX number
Now seems as melodic to read as a nursery rime
The helmet is now a necessity
For you get no where beating your head against the wall
The wall of humanity or at least what they say humanity is
And the bottle with once life giving drink is now in the business of life taking gulps
Gulps of drunkenness sustain me
At times, the only way to make it through the loneliness in life
But with each drop, the bottle seems to steal away any hope I have left
Drinks of despair are turning the bottle up and realizing it’s empty
Then passing out to the warm buzz of the streetlight above me
And I pray
St. Dymphna, draw your sword, wrap your wings around me
For the cold wind still blows in the night

Teardrops Of The Soul

　
Teardrops of the soul fall in the most honest of ways
Plummet from your eyes with joy filled emotion
For, nothing that is true could ever be hidden
Hidden by a smile saying, all is what it must seem
Seem to the watching
The watching gaze that caged you for much too long
Locked you away from the happiness of having
For bars of stress are far worse than bars steel
But one day your lock was finally broken
Your tears cut through the strongest words from the chaining
Binding your spirit no more
For, teardrops of happiness drop with such beauty
Such strength
Falling diamonds from your eyes screaming with whispers of joy
Whispers of freedom shouting from your insides laying softly on your out
Like a shawl of the shoulders holding you warmly
Shaking your world with the slightest of ease
At last you see freedom in the new eyes that behold you
Dripping from the eye, yet streaming from your heart
Dripping to the pool of consciousness
Smashing the pools surface with the softest of weeps
For weeps of happiness have the power to pierce the hardest surface
Creating waves in your mirrored refection
Distorting the face looking back up at you
The waves will finally fall into ripples
Settled are these waters of change
Gentle is the reflection from the pool right below you
As your face comes into focus and your teardrops stop falling
You see the new you looking up from the water
A new life for the having has finally come
　

Bio for Jason E. Hodges

I began writing in 1989. Shortly after I began, I saw the movie Drugstore Cowboy with William S. Burroughs. After reading his books, I was hooked. I would go on to discover Charles Bukowski, Harry Crews, Anais Nin, and Anne Sexton. My most recent work can be found at The Fringe Magazine, The Camel Saloon, Indigo Rising Magazine, Raven Images, The Dirt Worker’s Journal, Daily Love, The Rainbow Rose, Dead Snakes, Books On Blog, The Second Hump, Poetic Medicine, Catapult To Mars, CrossTIME Science Fiction Anthologies Volumes 8, 9, and 10, as well as an article based on an interview I did with Harry Crews that appeared in Our Town Gainesville Edition, Spring 2011.

Devlin De La Chapa- A Poem

2011-11-17T00:01:00.000-08:00

fatal love chase

radiator falters
the separation-
120 degrees

somewhere
in Texas,
a revolver spins

she wipes her nose
the hit is bad
tweaking hard

daylight breaks
thunder cracks the sky
blow melts the heat

from his hands
they glitter of gold
slugs plated of love

bio update: DEVLIN DE LA CHAPA has been published here and there, and is scheduled to appear elsewhere. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and has received an Editor's Choice at The Camel Saloon. Devlin edits @ http://boyslut.wordpress.com.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

2011-11-10T00:02:00.000-08:00

The Grammar Years

On that train an hour ago,

I saw a teacher I had years ago

but he did not see me.

A proper man was he

who in the margins of my papers

wrote his sermons in a script

so perfect and so neat

they looked like samplers.

But on that train an hour ago

I glowed in exultation when I saw

his index finger curl and pluck

a small erratum from his nose.

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

Decades ago, when tuition at a good university was $30 a credit hour,

I stayed in graduate school in English because I hoped to become

a writer. Then a professor told me that publishing fiction or poetry

would not get me tenure. Instead I had to publish criticism of other

people's work. Right then I quit because I knew I'd rather be carrion

than the hyena that eats it.

Christopher Hivner- Two Poems

2011-11-09T01:30:00.000-08:00

Medicine

I couldn’t give anyone

what they needed,

not in words

or with my hands.

No expression of my faith

gave them solace,

no encouragement

put the color

back in their eyes.

If I walked from here

to there and then back,

the stories I could tell

to strangers

gathered at my feet,

glassy-eyed and open-mouthed,

giving off the odor

of contempt

while licking the sweat

from my ginger skin.

The world reached out

across a sky

streaked with meteors,

blotted with comets

and debris,

satellites from the deep

coming home,

Klaxons blowing,

bells tolling,

bellwhethers bleating,

the world reached out

knowing the danger.

I walked from here

to there and stayed,

told no stories,

reached no conclusions.

The world

gathered at my feet

giving off the odor

of decomposition,

repeating prayers

with tongues

made from pages of the Bible.

When the sun rose,

a washed out blandishment

to the bleeding sky,

I still couldn’t give anyone

what they needed.

Any of Them

He spun the globe

with a tired finger.

Something broke

in the background.

The countries blurred together

in a miasma of ink and imaginary lines.

Glass covered the kitchen floor,

and protruded from a child’s foot.

His hand hovered over the globe,

deciding when to descend.

Screaming filled the house like water

while the mother tried to soothe.

He stopped the globe, Burkina Faso,

spun it again.

The glass came out,

cleanup began.

The globe slid under his finger,

South Bend, Indiana.

The mother is shouting his name

to come and help with the children.

He spun it so hard,

the blue and white sphere wobbled on its axis.

Mother shouting at him, pleading with the children,

children shouting at one another, pleading with him.

His index finger jabbed violently,

southern Portugal shuddered.

The injured child is running with fear,

trailing blood through the house.

His eyes cross painfully

watching the globe spin and spin.

“Why won’t you help me?

Why are you just sitting there?”

Fictional borders disappear

into the greedy oceans.

Why is the TV on when no one is watching it,

why must the kids scream every word they say?

He doesn’t stop it this time,

letting it choose for him.

The din becomes a hum

becomes an epoxy in the folds of his brain.

It stops under his pointing finger,

northern Pennsylvania, home.

Where did the quiet come from,

and why is it building in his ears?

He was pointing to his own house,

to his own beating heart.

He could feel them around him,

their voices fighting to get in.

He ended

where he started.

Jason E. Hodges- A Poem

2011-11-07T00:17:00.000-08:00

Black Magnolias

When a child is raised in nothing but darkness
Adulthood is cast in a constant eclipse
Darkness in the form of ridicule
This is one of the greatest sins on earth
Far greater than the seven that were laid out so long ago
For after this sin is committed
Everything that stands before them lies in ash covered memories
Living the rest of their life on the edge of existence
Diet pills take the place of what once was mother’s milk
A mother who set impossible standards of weight for what a young lady should be
That was incapable of hearing the words that she spoke so easily
For the bulimic ballerina bows beautify before the crowd
Accepting their cheers of approval
For not only her graceful flow of melodic dance movement
But her rail thin appearance
An angel is what she believes the crowd sees in her mind
Then backstage she shudders in shame as she undresses in front of the mirror
She knows what the refection will say
Its whispers of death scream in her mind, “One more laxative and all will be fine.”
Self-induced retching seems to bring to the surface all that needs to come out
Physical and mental
Both come deep from within
For everything’s a crutch, but the crutch can sometimes give way
Give way to a free fall of doubt
A free fall of the world that surrounds the ballerina
A world scarred by demons of the past
But now it’s show time
No time for worry
Exhaustively thin the ballerina twirls into her performance
Her pail skin stretched over her bones
Sparkle with glitter under the burning stage lights
Dizzy but still dancing for the show must go on even at the cost of her life

David Pointer- A Poem

2011-11-06T22:46:00.000-08:00

Bootstrappin’

Shaking hands with

the technological

talons attached to

the military industrial

complex—you’ve

got a spinal column

forged on project

bricks-the Presidency

seems out of reach

even though teachers

told you otherwise,

but platoon 1057

has a place for you,

and upon return

upwardly mobile

society does not

Bio: David S. Pointer was the son of a piano playing bank robber who passed away when David was 3 years old. David would later serve in the Marine military police. He has been publishing poems in the small press for 21 years.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

2011-11-01T01:15:00.000-07:00

Shoppers in Melee

State and Madison, Chicago.

Saturday, high noon.

Shoppers in melee.

Surrounded, I give up.

Against the curb, I see

suddenly the sea foam up

and in the distance

white birds soar and glide,

black apostrophes

cleaver split

but still tangential,

rising, falling.

Then the stoplight

flashes green and I

prepare to sally off

till I look down

and see against

the curb the great

white waters bowl

as one by one people

drop and drown.

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

Donal Mahoney remembers in this poem the first time he took the bus downtown from his little neighborhood on the South Side of Chicago. He wanted to see the sights at Christmas time. At 14, he was simply overwhelmed by the crowds amassed on all four corners of State and Madison, an intersection he still sees quite frequently, many decades later, if only in his mind. St. Louis, home of the world champion baseball Cardinals, and his home now, is a nice city but it has no intersection quite like State and Madison in Chicago any day of the year.

Kushal Poddar- A Poem

2011-10-31T03:29:00.000-07:00

Apparent Dissociation

The father stoops over the perambulator

and examines his child with lab precision.

Her nonsense words weigh less than

twenty-one grams.

His face reappears in the floating position

one day, while dusting a cabinet,

to no apparent association.

He comes down from whatever he is.

How much does he weigh now?

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 the 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”.

Kevin Ridgeway- Three Poems

2011-10-26T00:49:00.000-07:00

Dispatches from the Meat Locker

I used to cut the meat

at the town co-op

slicing the prosciutto

and dicing the preservative-free

locally grown ham

I didn’t know what prosciutto was

and I didn’t know the difference

between my hams

cutting away at

roast beef arteries and

smoking Newport’s in the alleyway

coughing up blood and sweat and vomit--

I was a vegetarian.

Sloppy nauseous

luncheon surgeon that I was,

I dazzled with my

product presentation that they

taught during orientation,

holding my hand up

in the air with of a hunk of cow

but faltered when told

they wanted thin sheaths

and not the bulging slab

rudely breathing in

my outstretched palm.

I don’t know why I stayed

on for two weeks,

or why I didn’t deck the

old, balding pony tail New Age stallion

who admonished me for

not changing my rubber gloves

as I stood there

with bacon

covering my arms

and shoulder blades

like wartime cold cut medals

Roughhouse Mind

within the depths
of my weary skull
ferries boats
of ill repute
steam along
rivers of blood
coursing through my brain
where artificial horses
round the bends of
dwarf track races
surrounded by
wooden shanty walls
adorned with
winking dollar ale signs
beer batter slowly
boiling off from
last night

women with long silk
stockings and salty mouths
keep rooms at
the front of my mind
sailors bite beer bottle
caps off of with their teeth and
spit them on the floor
amidst the stale peanut shells
drifting toward the back
of my mind and
down my spine
into no man’s land

these snub nosed
cracker jack box
cartoon crooks,
sloppy hot belly gamblers,
and beautifully ugly prostitutes
fight over the
winning horse’s ticket
slowly burn my mind down

and put it out of business

America the Weird

The older, weirder America is

what sends my seceding mind

into the clouds

above a continent

that holds

a mammoth anthology

of wisdom’s misadventure

my head scratched into chipped

dandruff queries regarding the mystique

of the music in its bayous, its rivers

its trains, its highways, its mountains,

its deserts, its decorations, its corner

liquor store politicians, its hustle

bustle in funk urban mazes, its rallying

cries of freedom from every direction.

When I can smell America,

when I can taste it coming

off a Greyhound regardless

of north-south east-west

those are the times when

the art that lurks behind

its wide curtains surges

through the veins leading

to my third-generation

mutt immigrant heart

and a flow of joy and

rivers of rage and grief

join together in unity--

these are the times

when I’ve had my eternal

passport stamped

and I’m an American

again.

Bio: Kevin Ridgeway is a writer from Southern California, where he currently lives in a shady bungalow with his girlfriend and their one-eyed cat. Recent work can be found in The Camel Saloon, Underground Voices, Dark Chaos and The Legendary.

Lee Stern- Two Poems

2011-10-25T02:47:00.000-07:00

MOBILITIES

I am afraid there are mobilities
upon which I can no longer stand.
And telling you this doesn’t upset me as much as I thought.
I thought that I would be able to stand there
with both feet on the ground,
using up my energy as a last resort.
When it became apparent that it wasn’t going to work out like that,
I panicked and started shredding all of my favorite books.
And I was so used to doing that, and saying that,
that every time I tried to move away from you
I only ended up further away from myself.
What the mobilities needed, I guess,
was a different way of determining if life
was to be lived full of advantages.
Or, if not advantages, reasons
that left when the world was restored.

THE LADY IN THE RED DRESS

Maybe the lady in the red dress knows what to say.
It’s been my experience that, if they’re wearing
a red dress, they know exactly what’s going on.
And the shoes don’t even have to match.
Or the bonnet or the gloves.
It’s the red quality of the dress.
And you can trust me on this.
I’ve investigated this very carefully.
Because once there was a woman who saved the world.
And she was wearing a red dress.
And when she took it off there were daisy chains
looking for mementos in cabinets that couldn’t be stilled.

Bio: Lee lives in Los Angeles. On average he writes ten poems for each one that is submittable.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

2011-10-24T00:22:00.000-07:00

Caseworker: Yams and Plantain

Cabrini-Green

The Housing Project

Summer in Chicago

Bienvenido’s comin’ over,

says his wife,

to ‘splain me

why the kids

have got no rice,

no beans,

how the landlord’s

shovin’ notes beneath

the door again.

In Puerto Rico Bienvenido

dug up yams,

was paid in plantain,

came over here,

brought his wife,

then his kids.

First New York,

then Chicago,

gave up yams,

gave up plantain,

just to drum

and make a living.

Oddly, this is another poem that came out of real life. When I was a pup fresh out of grad school and didn't want to teach, I took a job as a caseworker in the projects--458 families in two gigantic buildings. Kennedy was president and there was hope, real or false, in the land. But I'll never forget talking to those families. Believe me, times were tough for them back then but times right now are tougher for the country and especially for people like Bienvenido and others. They seem to have no hope. Today, white as I am, I could not go into those buildings if they still existed because I'd be robbed or shot. I understand the problem but I have no solutions. I simply fear that things will continue to get worse. And I see no solution in either political party. Some day I hope to do a piece about the guy in the projects caught barbecuing in his bathtub on the 14th floor. That was a humdinger.

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

Donal Mahoney has had work published in Dead Snakes and other publications in the United States, Europe, Asia and Africa

Sarah E. White- A Poem

2011-10-20T00:07:00.000-07:00

Honey

He calls her Honey
In a casual way
Out of habit really
From years of practice
It rolls off his tongue without thinking
About the meaning
She has been his Honey for a long, long time
Now he speaks the word
Without emotion
Saying it without feeling
Honey is just who she is
Or rather who she used to be
His sweet, sweet love
Something delicious
Something pure
Through each passing year though
His Honey has turned sour
Age and anger have changed her
Until all that sweetness was gone
Curdled and turned
Into something he can’t quite describe
Something without beauty or love
Something different
With a strange and ugly name
So he calls her Honey
For lack of anything better to say

Melanie Browne- A Poem

2011-10-19T23:39:00.000-07:00

Effigy

I drag you
in from the field,
you tell me
you swallowed
a crow,
it tickles your throat,
causes a tightness
in your chest,
I meditate
on the word
Snow,
then walk you
back to the field,
lie down beside you
and wait for the
wind to sing,
for the straw to fly
through the air,
until we disappear,
our shoes
still warming
beneath
the tangerine
sun

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

2011-10-18T01:12:00.000-07:00

Mostly Basie with a Little Bach

Whenever I see a new woman, I know

I should look at her hair and her eyes and her smile

before I decide if she's worth the small talk

and the dinner later

and whatever else she may require

before she becomes taffy,

pliant and smiling.

But that never works for me.

Whenever I see a new woman,

what matters to me is never

her hair or her eyes or her smile;

what matters to me is her saunter

as I stroll behind her.

If her moon comes over the mountain

and loops in languor, left to right,

and then loops back again,

primed for another revolution, then

I introduce myself immediately

no matter where we are,

in the stairwell or on the street

and that's when I see for the first time

her hair and her eyes and her smile

but they are never a distraction since

I'm lost in the music of her saunter.

Years ago, tall and loping Carol Ann

took a train to Chicago,

found a job and then one summer day

walked ahead of me on Michigan Avenue

while I surveyed her universe amid

the cabs screeching, horns beeping,

a driver's middle finger rising.

Suddenly she turned and said hello

and we shook hands and I saw her smile

dart like a minnow and then disappear

as she frowned and asked

why was I walking behind her.

I told her I was on my way to the noon Mass

at Holy Name Cathedral and she was welcome

to come along. The sermon wouldn't be much,

I said, but the coffee and bagels afterward

would be plentiful, enough to cover lunch.

And Jesus Christ Himself would be there.

She didn't believe me, not at all,

and she hasn't believed me since.

That was thirty years ago and now

her smile is still a minnow

darting here and there but now

it's more important than her saunter

which is still a symphony,

mostly Basie with a little Bach.

And I no longer traipse Michigan Avenue

as I did years ago looking for new moons

swirling in my universe. Instead,

I take my lunch in a little bag

on a long train from the suburbs

and I marvel at one fact:

It's been thirty years since I first heard

the music in her saunter

and Carol Ann and I are

still together, praise the Lord.

Who can believe it? Not I.

Carol Ann says she knew

the ending from the start.

Lord, Almighty. Fancy that.

Sarah E. White- A Poem

2011-10-17T02:05:00.000-07:00

Coats of Paint

Thick coats of paint, white paint
Can make anything look clean
Slathering it on
Cleaning it up to a shiny new beginning
Globing it into the holes and crevices
Letting it seep down in
Filling in the darkness
Making it all so fresh and new
Paint
Painting
Starting again
A brand new layer of layering is done
The thickening of your skin
The sound it makes as you slop it around
Is a sound of music
So fulfilling
Conducting this symphony
Covering up what’s dirty
Covering the dust with utmost perfection
Sealing in its secrets
History is now another level deeper
Stroke after heavy stroke
As you lay them smoothly down
Coats of paint
How many of these have you worn?
Painting until your hands ache
Can’t stop until it’s done
Paint
Painting
Starting again
Another coat of paint
On an already thick old skin

Bio for Sarah E. White
My first published work was in 1994. I’m influenced by the works of Anne Sexton, Zora Neale Hurston, Shel Silverstein and Ogden Nash. My previous work can be found in The Devil’s Advocate, The Camel Saloon, The Fringe Magazine,The Rainbow Rose, Books On Blog and Going Dark.

Craig Scott- A Poem

2011-10-12T01:27:00.000-07:00

GIMMIE GIMME GIMME

I want a theme song that plays every time I enter the room. I want
raspberry-flavored frozen yogurt. I want to be prolific. I want to
take a nap. I want to go camping. I want to drive across country. I
want to see Iceland. I want to sell you a bridge. I want for once to
be in the loop. I want to rip someone’s throat out like Dalton in Road
House. I want to fake an orgasm. I want to hike more. I want to fart
less. I want avocado on my sandwich. I want to chase away the geese. I
want to burn my credit cards. I want a less awkward smile. I want my
dog to miss me when I’m gone. I want to help. I want a new car. I want
to go where no one knows my name. I want to find a good Indian
restaurant. I want to be taller. I want a newly discovered bacterium
to be named after me. I want a cool nickname. I want to stop snoring
in my sleep. I want to witness the year 1 Billion. I want to read Moby
Dick. I want baklava for breakfast. I want clear skin. I want to kick
a hole in the tv. I want to know what you’re thinking right now.

Bio: Craig Scott recently saw the publication of his collaborative
collection Tales From a French Envelope, written with Catfish McDaris.
It is available through Lulu.com.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

2011-10-11T00:04:00.000-07:00

So Fingertips Kiss

Five kids, eight years.

And then one day my wife

shouts to me on the tractor

roaring in the field:

“I’ve had enough.”

And like a ballerina,

she rises on one foot, sole

of the other foot firm

against her knee

and with arms overhead

so fingertips kiss,

she smiles,

pirouettes,

and then like a helicopter

lifts into the air,

whirls over the garage

and keeps rising.

I can do nothing now

but curse

and be proud.

As if at the ballet,

I applaud from the tractor

and blink at the inferno

as she hits the sun.

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

Donal Mahoney has worked as an editor for one publication or another for most of his life, probably because words are the one thing he can handle without making too many mistakes. Tools and mechanical things have always buffaloed him. But give him a blank page, and he'll happily step back and throw words at it like buckshot. And then he'll step forward and keep rearranging them until the deadline, real or imagined, arrives.

David S. Pointer- A Poem

2011-10-10T00:39:00.000-07:00

Among The Unhired

Employment deprivation

unequally applied

throughout the society

to certain invisible

individuals-applicants

more likely to taste

Snakeslayer .45 lead

than lead a life thought

to be guaranteed by

their academic credentials

any small paycheck

could put one of these

people back in the bi-weekly

pressure chamber world

of low paid life, but some

have wives, or parents

or inheritances: others

fend off bottom level

boredom and stress by

sporadically hearing the

spray of bone spreading

bullets peppering their

dilapidated neighborhoods

Bio: David S. Pointer has recent acceptances at "Popshot," "Ottawa Arts Journal," and seriously misses "Beatlick News" since the passing of Editor Joe Speer.

Jason E. Hodges- Three Poems

2011-10-07T00:27:00.000-07:00

Windows　　　　

Drips of rain slid down my window
The hospital’s window in the room of my waiting
Waiting in my room
Waiting and watching for what is to come
Looking out this pane of glass high in the skyline
It holds my refection all too well
Showing me off without any shyness
My life as real as reality gets
Stranded stares from nights of unrest
Lines of time now show in my face
Wavy from the water and rain
Running down the window’s outside
But not nearly wavy enough
Distorted but far from disillusioned
Of the task ahead of me now
For the rain keeps falling outside and in
Storming on both sides of the window
Once again storms have blown into my life
Breached the levees that have held in my mind
Moaned and creaked from the stress I’m under
But sometimes it’s good for the dam to finally give way
Spill into the spillway of new beginnings
Holding no more hidden secrets of hiding
For one day it has to stop raining
And the sunsets of hope will set in the sky

Seeing The Unseen

Seeing the unseen is sometimes difficult
What matters most to the writer
Should be
The art of the unspoken word
The only thing that matters at all
Speaking and thinking the new idea
The dream that lives in your head
If written on a napkin
For only a waitress to find at the end of her shift
When her legs want to give out
Write it
Uplift her
Move her
Or the busboy scraping unwanted food for minimum wage
Wondering how he will pay rent and tuition
Wondering how he will eat as he throws good food away
Write it
Express it
Give him hope tomorrow will be better
Your audience will find you
This is the life I’ve chosen to live
Writing for the world of the blue-collar
The world of the scarred not of the scarring
Scratching the earth with my poet’s plow point of words
For living your life on a path not of your choosing
Is not living your life at all
Ruled by the ruler
From the kingdom of timecards
The land of quotas and cubicles
Is a land not really alive

Those Dirt-Hearted Blues

The strings of my guitar bend and moan
Stretch with sound
Slide with the glass bottle that covers my finger
Melt away into the backwoods of Mississippi
The back woods of The South
Melt and flow into the sweet water of the delta
Mix with the fog that creeps in on the dance floor
Slides around long legs a dancing
High heels a stepping
Men and women movin’ with all that they got
To the sound I’m playin’ tonight
My fret board covered in sweat
Dripping from the hot air around me
And the lights casting the stage
My guitar sings out
Speaks so clearly to the people in the crowd
As my fingers move with all of my feelings
Good?
Bad?
None of it matters tonight
For tonight is takin’ what we're given
The worries of that day smear into the night
Into the notes I’m a playin’
Notes carried on the exhale of a cigarette
Up to the tin roof that shakes from the bass drum behind me
Notes carried from the first sip of the last drink of the night
When the dew settles on the bud of a blue morning-glory
Waiting patently for the new day to arrive

Lee Stern- A Poem

2011-10-03T03:09:00.000-07:00

DANCING

Maybe there’s somebody dancing tonight
And he seems to enjoy it.
Maybe the music, because it’s just right for him,
is encouraging him to dance like he’s a dreamer.
Maybe this person that I’m talking about
is dancing because everybody else is dancing
and he doesn’t want to be left out
and made into an example.
And, yes, maybe, if you asked him,
what the purpose of dancing was,
he’d stop for a few minutes and have to think about it.
He’d have to think what it was like to move from one place to another.
And then move back again to the place where you may have started;
the place where motion was born.
The place where distance became a commodity that never ran still.

Bio: Lee lives in Los Angeles and tries to write a poem a day. He's published over 200 of them, many on the internet.

Jason E. Hodges- A Poem

2011-09-30T02:58:00.000-07:00

The Flake of Snow

Sometimes the good moments in life can be measured in seconds
Seconds, smearing into minutes
Minutes clicking through the clock wheels of time
Falling from the hour hand that moves quickly toward the mundane everyday
But these minutes lived far out weigh the everyday
Moments lived much like the life of a snow flurry
Weightless stars of ice floating in perfect beauty
Glistening crystals suspended
Drifting in a snowdrift
Unstressed by the hand of the dealing
Untouched by the world at that moment
A moment that can’t be taken away
But away the moment will fade
Or melt by time passing too quickly
By circumstances out of our control
But as one moment fades
The next is starting to build
Perfect conditions to float on nothing but feeling
Coast through the day
Waft wildly without restrictions that sometimes clutter our sight
One tiny moment
One tiny flake of possibility
One after another
Moments of happiness are built by the building
The goodness will eventually keep coming
Changing your life for the better one moment at a time

Melanie Browne- A Poem

2011-09-28T00:41:00.000-07:00

Texas Gothic
 
At the head shop,
we buy incense,
skull beads,
tarot cards,
 
She starts to cry
 
“I’m lost,” she tells me
 
“I feel like I'm
in a corn maze
but all the corn is
on fire,” she says
 
I try and guide
her out,

we take all
the wrong turns
 
but in the end,
I discover
its more
fun being
lost,
 
we stand there,
searching the sky
for the southern cross,
smoking cigarettesin another crowded theater 
of the absurd

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

2011-09-26T00:01:00.000-07:00

The City Editor

Each morning,
he sits at his desk,
lights a cigar,
starts looking around

like a bear on a waterfall
looking for salmon. He growls
for raw copy, anything typed,
anything with errors in it.

Each day he comes to the office
honed to rectify wrongs.
Suffer the little stories
to come unto him.

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

Before computers were invented, Donal Mahoney worked as an editor for the The Chicago Sun-Times. During that era and since then, he has had poems published in The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal Magazine, Catapult to Mars (Scotland), Public Republic (Bulgaria), Revival (Ireland), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), The Camel Saloon, Dead Snakes and other publications. Revising poems on a computer, he says, beats the hell out of revising them on a typewriter.

Sarah Gamutan- A Poem

2011-09-23T00:00:00.000-07:00

Sarah Gamutan's poems have been published in many online literary journals including Carty's Poetry Journal, Western Australia Poets Inc. , The Beat, Literary Kicks, Haggard and Halloo Publications, The Camel Saloon, Rainbow Rose, Voxpoetica and The Sound of Poetry Review. She lives in Philippines where she works as a Customer Support Associate by night and a poet at heart by day.

Anti- Light, Down

The thunders are all creeping
in the dark thinking I can't hear
them. They peer into the window like
small monsters begging for some light.

I keep shooing them away- the howl they
make and the way they uproar the oceans
nearby. At night, I keep listening to the radio
to subdue the music that these corpuscles produce-

their grin makes the kittens at the pet room sick
and their loud cries make my eardrums burst into
animalistic craziness. They do the same thing
all over, in this dungeon, where my soul is trapped.

Jason E. Hodges- A Poem

2011-09-18T23:11:00.000-07:00

The Thief

The Thief who steals a moment from your day
Leaves behind something wonderful
Your innermost feelings in a fluttering bliss
Emotions once held so tightly
Bound in your heart for safekeeping
But this Thief needs no key
For he swings in on your heartstrings
Pulls them in a way you adore
No fingerprints to be found at the scene
Just memories of happiness left in return
He pries with love lasting leverage
Stirring you into a spiritual awakening
Self-aware of the self longing inside you
To be wanted completely is what you were needing
So the Thief steals all of you
Holds in his hands the jewels of your soul
For the thief has not picked your pocket along a crowed street-way
He’s merely stolen a moment from your everyday life
Because it was necessary
Necessary for his very survival
A moment so precious to him
A moment never taken for granted
Like the ones that turn a deaf ear to your days voice of frustration
The ones that look at you blindly, simply unable to see
See the weight of the world bearing down on your shoulders
But the Thief sees the treasures of need that are there for the taking
He sneaks past all of the bars put up by the barring
Creeps over the walls that surround you
Into the depths of your soul locked away for far to long

　

Bio for Jason E. Hodges-
I began writing in 1989. Shortly after I began, I saw the movie Drugstore Cowboy with William S. Burroughs. After reading his books, I was hooked. I would go on to discover Charles Bukowski, Harry Crews, Janet Frame, Anais Nin, and Anne Sexton. My most recent work can be found at The Fringe Magazine, The Camel Saloon, Indigo Rising Magazine, Raven Images, The Dirt Worker’s Journal, Daily Love, The Rainbow Rose, CrossTIME Science Fiction Anthologies Volumes 8, 9, and 10, as well as an article based on an interview I did with Harry Crews that appeared in Our Town Gainesville Edition, Spring 2011.Leaves behind something wonderful

Joan McNerney- Three Poems

2011-09-15T00:17:00.000-07:00

All Fall Down

Leaves toppling from trees fiery
leaves red yellow green flames. Only this
remains...smoky ends of days.

Days like leaves crumbling, shriveled,
tumbling down, falling to the ground.
Scattered into an acrid mound.

An acrid mound of sour roots. Our garden
was seeded from the wrong side of the moon.
Brackish vines will be harvested there.

Flowers of despair grew a single fruit.
It tasted bittersweet. My laughter became
harsh. My eyes grew oblique.

I want to curse and cry against this world.
Fine dreams stolen...ragged and torn
like leaves blown in storm.

Storm winds strangle treetops, shaking,
foliage pulled from boughs. Broken
by thunder pummeled through long nights

Long nights heavy rains spilling black ink
stains. There is no solution, another day
done, another piece of the puzzle gone

Ashes ashes all fall down
what is lost can not be found.

The Search

We are the lost who have
climbed hillsides...gathering
innumerable and unnamed
stumbling over sharp rocks
searching for our long shadows.

Tracing darkness with
vagrant fingertips
tasting the disdain of dust
we are long shadows
moaning with open mouths.

Eating bitter food grown
on the wrong side of this moon
our hearts caged in fear
fearing we have been cast off
fearing we have no destination.

Sands burning our feet
whipping our unnamed faces
we are long shadows crossing
this dessert longing for
an end to our thirst.

We are losing our shadows
entering empty caves
now listening for echoes
now finding wells of memories
innumerable and unnamed.

When the Moon Is New

If you touch Medusa
her serpents will wrap
themselves around you.
She soars through water
with giant wings gold fins.
Hundreds of snakes
crawling from her head.

Some long to be near
Medusa to hear her hissing
lisping songs forgetful.
She can suck blood from
throats coiling minds
past infinity before
they breathe again.

Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, 63 channels, Spectrum, and three Bright Spring Press Anthologies. She was recently nominated for "Best of the Net". Four of her books have been published by fine small literary presses.

Devlin De La Chapa- A Poem

2011-09-14T00:50:00.000-07:00

Yellow Bus

Rock paper scissors,
your hand on my knee
I stare out the fingerprint stained window

people are staring at our tiny yellow bus
trapped beneath the rain
mud puddles kick up, staining clothes

pretending I don’t feel you
I occupy myself with thoughts
that don’t pertain to you

only to your touch
now easing its way
sluggishly up my bare thigh

I wonder what my mother would say?
Or what my father would do
to you. . .us?

Or if our family priest will force me
into countless ‘Our father’s’ and ‘Hail Mary’s’
if I confessed enjoying this-you touching me?

I want to say something
about the rain, about you
but the bus skids to a sudden stop

and one of your fingers
accidentally pokes through
my flimsy cotton panties

I catch my breath
you catch yours
time stops, including the rain

except for your sweet
berry glittered lip gloss-
it continues to sparkle

DEVLIN DE LA CHAPA has been featured in Mademoiselle, Fangoria, Bloodlines, Orion Headless, The Camel Saloon, The Rainbow Rose, Catfishgringoriver, PostCard Shorts, The Carnage Conservatory, Black-Listed Magazine, and is scheduled to appear in Horror Sleaze Trash, Daily Love, Weirdyear, Drunken Absurdity, and Raven Images. She was recently awarded Editors Choice at The Camel Saloon. Devlin edits at http://boyslut.wordpress.com.

Ben Nardolilli- A Poem

2011-09-13T00:02:00.000-07:00

Give Me Some Twilight

All the warm spots of you are gone,
I search for pictures
But there is always a third beside us,
Or your back is turned,
Or you have red eyes
And I can’t see the rest of you.
I make do with some common objects,
Things you probably have in your home.

You must have a fork,
A knife, and a spoon, I imagine
You seeing yourself upside down
As I am now seeing myself,
And maybe thinking
How good it would be for someone
To look ugly with right now.

I remember you in the water,
When I ran to you with a towel
And we were strangers,
Can you think of me now
As anything other than an enemy?
I am scared I can remember it so well,
Not knowing you, your name,
Your weight, the color of the hair you were hiding.

You told me you loved me once,
It was just once,
And it was on the phone,
Without me in the room with you,
You let it slide out, like a button popped
From the front of your favorite blouse,
Something you didn’t expect me to pick up.

The shell from the beach,
Salty reminder of an ocean trip
We said we would repeat,
In my ear it sings
With the ambient noise
It brings the sea to me,
And I’m happy waiting for it to come.

I hold the phone
When it is a cold little rectangle,
A prism of telecommunications
And I feel I can hear you
Trying to reach me, trying to come through,
There is ringing in my ears
And I hope it never stops.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

2011-09-12T00:22:00.000-07:00

Husk of a Horsefly

It's the last day of September

as I carefully toe

the husk

of a horsefly

out of my office

onto bright tiles

Stella will buff

to a sheen

while I am at home

surveying my supper.

But now I have time

to sit at my desk

till it's time for my train.

I can lean back in my chair

and listen to the day

drone near the ceiling.

Soon it will

helicopter down

like a horsefly,

touch ground

and taxi awhile

before braking.

Donal Mahoney

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

Donal Mahoney has had poems published in Dead Snakes and other publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.

Vivian Faith Prescott- 3 Poems

2011-09-06T00:39:00.000-07:00

Vivian Faith Prescott lives in Sitka and Kodiak, Alaska. Her poetry appears in Catapult to Mars, Yellow Medicine Review, Gutter Eloquence and Turtle Quarterly. Follow her on Twitter @poet_tweet Her website is http://www.vivianfaithprescott.com and she blogs at http://planetalaska.blogspot.com

Smolder

For Charlene

Winter in this island town where dreams are spent

like snapping kindling, the cold shakes us into the

roar of hoses spraying, water falling in sheets, red

emergency lights rotating across snow. We wait

until the firemen find her body—our niece. Not

another one—another one. The expectancy of fire

ignites within us, around us—our old houses, faulty

wiring, wood heat, and empty pockets, rage through

us with a flash of heat and choking ash, and the

New Year's siren hail.

Captain Jack’s Head

I passed the fire-eaters, the fat lady,

sword swallowers to stare at your head,

Kintpuash—Red Judas—Captain Jack,

your closed eyes searching inward

following the Lost River.

Yet, I thought of another: St. John,

his head parading around the tent revival

circuit; their halleluiahs, his war cry.

St. Jack, embalmed in history, a guest

of betrayal at King Herod’s banquet

in the Smithsonian Carnival.

The Real Story Is Not What She Told Her Father

How she met Raven in the forest,

when she first heard his invitation

croaking through trees—low-throated cluck,

ear tufts upright, his black eyes pooling

like paint in an artisan’s cup. She felt

the brush of hair feathering across her back,

tree-pitch sticking her thighs.

He plucked a hemlock needle from her

slickened skin, placing it upon her

tongue and with it she swallowed earth,

allowing his flight toward her center.

Inside, his wings caressed those ancient

carvings, plucked clusters of red berries

dangling from branches, tasted the tang

of her luminosity—an explosion loosened

from the bentwood box. And later he would

remember that the flash of light carried

a scent of freshly carved cedar, that he cried out

as the floor beneath him shifted. It was

not the lover who let slip, but her father

who altered her myth—tattling on Raven,

that trickster who stole the sun, moon, and stars,

releasing her light into all the world.

*In Northwest Coast myth, Raven transforms himself into a hemlock needle

and falls into the Head-man’s daughter’s drinking cup, and the girl becomes pregnant.

Raven is then born into the household holding the sun, moon, stars in a box, where he

uses trickery to release their light into the world.

Brigitte Barton- A Poem

2011-09-01T23:27:00.000-07:00

~A Quick Note To Misogynist Poets of the Underground~

Why don't you get a damn job,

work with the homeless,

spend some time with

your kid,

learn to fold napkins

into works of beauty,

walk out into

the night sky

and be thankful

for all the other

misanthropes

that came before you,

will come in droves after,

your bones

have become

brittle,

just some powder

in another pine box

Steve Calamars- A Poem

2011-08-31T23:23:00.000-07:00

ice water

in my veins

streams up into

my skull

leaving me with

a brain freeze and

cold thoughts

that melt down

to wet dreams

of curvy girls

with nice legs and

mean high heels

who try to walk

all over me

but only end up

tripping over their

own words

after i sweet talk them

into swallowing

bitter pills

that paddle thru

their blood streams

finally detonating

deep in their chests

like depth-charges

scarring them on

the inside and

breaking their hearts—

Steve Calamars lives in Texas. He has a BA in Philosophy and works in a grocery store. His first collection of short stories, six years of relative happiness, is available at Calliope Nerve Media & Lulu. He blogs at dirtywordsoncleanliving.blogspot.com

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

2011-08-29T00:29:00.000-07:00

Slovak Widow On 59th Street

She’s 84

and when she stands,

everyone can hear the chiropractic crack

of eon bones

and everyone still tries hard

not to look

that half second when

the chamois’s taut

across protractor features.

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

Donal Mahoney, an immigrant from Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has had poems published in Dead Snakes and other publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.

Devlin De La Chapa- Two Poems

2011-08-28T22:58:00.000-07:00

Seven Splinters on Saturday

My son is 12.

Saturday morning
feeding the dog
mowing the lawn
edging the curves
trimming the
bougainvillea
tossing debris
into the janitor grade trash can

the sun
is burrowing down on his back,
but he doesn’t complain.
he moves a board leaned up
against the fence for the passed week
and seven splinters prick themselves
into the left of his mid-size palm

he comes inside
asks for tweezers
fifteen minutes later
he’s still removing splinters
particularly a big one
which tends to grow stubborn
by remaining in place

a bout of frustration
creases between my son’s
large brown eyes
then he looks at me and says:
‘May I say a bad word?’
I nod my head, ‘Yes’.

‘This is a bitch!’

thank heaven for boys.

GoldFish

I woke up one morning
to an empty place with
an abundance of space
for the life of me I could not fill.

So these walls suddenly became
the material, the immaterial
the existent, the non-existent;
I was buried within.

Yet, no one knew or cared
to consider me lost
no flyers, no milk cartons, no billboards
not a trace of my importance existed.

I was dead

Or was I?

This is how it starts:

She yells, you yell.
She threatens to leave, you leave.
She takes the dog, you take the cat.
She calls a lawyer, you represent yourself.

Then, the dog runs away with the cat
‘cause it considered you two morons.
And her lawyer screws the hell out of you
because you like screwing women.

And that’s how it ends.

Now back to these walls.

I’m alive again.

My space needs a woman’s touch
then I remembered, ‘No it doesn’t,
it needs a man’s touch, goddamnit!’
so I leave these walls blank.

I take a ride out to IKEA
since every single divorced man tends to shop there
sorting through colors, patterns, lamps,
things square and oval and all around boring.

But after two hours of trying to recover things lost,
things I care not to buy, I say ‘Fuck it!’
and storm out the store to the store next door
and buy what every man should buy after a divorce:

A goldfish.

DEVLIN DE LA CHAPA has been featured in Mademoiselle, Fangoria, Bloodlines, Orion Headless, The Camel Saloon, The Rainbow Rose, Catfishgringoriver, PostCard Shorts, The Carnage Conservatory, Black-Listed Magazine, and is scheduled to appear in Horror Sleaze Trash, Daily Love, Weirdyear, Drunken Absurdity, and Raven Images. She was recently awarded Editors Choice at The Camel Saloon. Devlin edits at http://boyslut.wordpress.com.