Monday, May 28, 2012

Steve Calamars- Three Poems

after lorca
an inch from
the bottom
and i’m already
rising to new
but the view
induces vertigo
and i’m quickly
back to where
the sun sleeps
and the stars
shrivel like
raisins . . .
i’m throwing money
out the
the crows
pick it
like stale
moldy bread
after midnight
a mexican girl
with thighs thick
as cough syrup
sleeps in
my bed . . .
short bio: Steve Calamars lives in Texas. His first collection of short stories, six years of relative happiness, is available from Calliope Nerve Media. He blogs @ He is currently looking for a publisher for his recently completed chapbook manuscript.

Friday, May 25, 2012

Stephen Caratzas- Three Poems


I can see taking Monday off too
to get yourself psyched up
and turn the whole thing into
a long weekend

You owe yourself that much
having bought your own ring
then convinced your mother somehow
this guy was a spectacular catch

After all her years of worry
that you might die uncleansed of sin
or abandoned just as she was
there is now a measure of relief

In the iPhone pictures taken
outside the City Hall chapel
you smile on a Tuesday like it's a Friday
your snared husband is all nerves and sweat

Your mother looks the most frightened
but not by this more by life in general
she is genuinely happy inside
that you are not yet showing

*  *  *


The fortune cookie thinks 
you need to be punished
for years of "in bed" codas

If you came to see the sea
well the water's closed today
and tomorrow too possibly

There is an office killer loose
crouched near the fax machine
some people call her boss

I'm a monsieur for hire
I'll give you French attitude
out the ass all day long

How many times have you
wandered beneath the dark
only to emerge into darker?

*  *  *


No I was full and nobody 
for all with a sigh
"It will be nice."

They didn't mean anything 
tying up a gay, prancing
ponderous God

seen always trotting along
tired not caring
what happened to me

in this world I feel 
that going through
whatever happens

some in society knew
how I feel with God

my spirit didn't consider
the matter at all
I feel sure like that

it settled here
a few years ago
and has been its own 

ever since the street 
spread out and mothers 
here go hovering 

to the fourth generation 
lots of young boys scramble 
out of the nests 

go off and decide
to grow up their will
heard by the world

*  *  *

Stephen Caratzas is the author of It Will Be A Train (2004), The Incredulity Tour (2005), and Past Present Suture (Drifting Man Press, 2011). His work has appeared in the tiny, Terra Incognita, Maintenant 6, and numerous online journals. He plays guitar in the band Gert Fröbe and currently resides in Hastings-on-Hudson, New York.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Nicole Taylor- Three Poems

A Dancing Dream

Janet smiles and lumbers forward.

Cheryl downstairs usually walks steps
forth, body straight, and stomps

Janet leans right, left. We follow 
simultaneously. Arms and feet stay,
remain forward. Drum beats fill
the dance room.

Cheryl sometimes listens to loud music
or radio sermons.

Her front apartment door shuts loudly. I 
awake ignoring neighbor’s loud music
and footsteps.

Footsteps and Janet’s wheelchair
were in my dance dream.

Later I was weeding, cutting, sweeping,
I was dancing outside with rake and broom.

In Stride
in stride,
in hop.

He usually takes it 
all in stride.

He is wanting a home in California,
         a girlfriend.

He usually takes it in stride
that I have not accepted to be his girlfriend yet,
after making out again New Year's Eve.

Gothic Black
Black is her short bob
  with brown roots.

Black is her leather choke collar
   with silver rings.

Black is her short sweatshirt 
   with gray lining and stitching.

Black is zippered cargo pants 
  with zippered pullouts.

Black is her small shoes
   with black suede and laces.

Nicole currently has no MFA's, many hopeful projects, a variety of styles and a wide variety of subjects. She is an artist, a hiker, a poetry note taker, a sketcher, a volunteer, and a dancer, formerly in DanceAbility. She has been accepted at 4 and 20 Journal - online nature poetry, Camel Saloon, Denali Literary JournalGloom CupboardHyperlexia Journal - nature and campingJust Another Art Movement - New Zealand, KenAgainMiller's PondMonkey BicycleNeglected Ratio - two surrealistic poems, Outlaw PoetryPemmican Journal, Phantom KangarooPortland AllianceQueen Bee Collective - online nature journal from Eugene, Red Fez - Canada, Snow MonkeySymmetry Pebbles,Tiger's Eye, Wordgathering, and many other publications. She blogs at and at, a collection of Oregon poets with written and audio poetry available online through Lewis & Clark College in Portland. 

And many more in waiting, to Eugene and Oregon journals and  many online publications, journals.

"A Dancing Dream" was published in Creative Space Journal, May 2009
"In Stride" was published in Red Fez
"Gothic Black" was published in PigeonBike, February 2011

Linda M. Crate- Two Poems

citrus & arguments 
you sweat of citrus, I’ve always 
been fond of the fragrant fruits —
but never of you; we fight like
two pears grappling for the same
ray of sunshine, instead of taking
the high road and deciding it’s
nothing to argue about; neither of
us wishing to concede that we’re
wrong; you glare at me with the
force of walnuts dropping on my
head hurtling with the speed of time —
it’s a good thing that looks couldn’t
kill for you’d have killed me several
times now; I’d be a ghost lingering
around the smell of citrus, drinking
in it from a distance so I didn’t
have to converse with you again.

death by linnet 
you ate my soul, so I ate your heart;
it only seemed fair, you syphoned out
the part of me full of hope, so I would
wrench free that part of you always 
wishing that it could be freed, your
pretty white teeth flashed in fury at 
this admission of mine; just be grateful
than I can put up with you voodoo man;
not all could stand that hunchback 
wart that you call a face, I only stick
around because I like to hear the secrets
of the ghosts wailing in the wind, you
tell me it’s rude to eavesdrop, but their
lives are more enthralling than your
tales of bloodshed and terror that 
could bore an owl into an unintelligible 
stupor; linnets wings flash upon your
tongue, he traps you in his void belly;
then marries your goat and runs away —
I am left in the wake of your face hanging
in every crevice of white fog night kisses.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Jay Coral- A Poem

On Why I Don't Often See Wildness

it's not the bear
that is elusive
the sand on my throat
the frosted beats that will maul
the slumber in my lung

it's not gonna fall
not tonight - never
for you already are
the star that blankets
the song on the campfire

it's not gonna happen
to steal a cheap kiss
under the marauding pines
on this precarious night
- my tongue-tied karma

for i will always be 
doe-eyed, a listless lover
smelling the air
the damp sweetness
of a stream nearby.

Jay Coral adores fireflies and hummingbirds at rest. He sometimes blogs about winged and grounded thoughts at

A.g. Synclair- A Poem

An Ordinary Madness

There is nothing very ordinary in this madness
in the way we devour each reconstructed day.
Ordinary is the simple movement of a clock
or the weary assumptions of life that push
us upward each morning. Madness is the act
of conversing with birds, of drinking in a 
well-lit bar. One day you will find yourself
surrounded by trees, surrounded by the 
madness of a solitary life, surrounded by
a vast army of debuts and farewells.

© 2012 A.g. Synclair
A.g Synclair is the editor & publisher of The Montucky Review, a journal of poetry and prose. His work has appeared in numerous online an print publications. He lives, writes, and otherwise collaborates in southwestern Montana with his partner in crime, the artist and poet Heather Brager.


Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Ali Znaidi- A Poem

Sonnet 3
midday devoid of
sunlight full
of solar eclipse
filled with opacity & black fog
butterflies blinded
went astray
collided with each other
smashed against the walls
like colourful glasses
dead butterflies
stuck on the walls
afternoon filled with sunlight
walls filled with butterflies corpses
a canvas astounding Salvador Dali

Ali Znaidi lives in Redeyef, Tunisia. He graduated with a BA in Anglo-American Studies in 2002. He teaches English at Tunisian public secondary schools. He writes poetry and has an interest in literature, languages, and literary translations. His work has appeared in The Bamboo Forest, The Camel Saloon, phantom kangaroo, BoySlut,, Otoliths, and is upcoming in The Rusty Nail, and Yes,Poetry. He also writes flash fiction for the Six Sentence Social Network—

Monday, May 21, 2012

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Shrimp in Lobster Sauce
Tucked in a booth in back,
the last customer of the day
cracks a fortune cookie,
sips Oolong as Mr. Hong
locks up. It’s time for his supper. 
Two tall sons bear
from the kitchen dishes
his wife won’t allow
on the menu.
Platters of meat
red, green, brown
huddle and steam
in the middle of the table.
When the Hongs
drop in their seats
chopsticks fly
like beaks. So many bright teeth,
quick as piranha.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Emily Smith-Miller- 3 Poems

Firecracker to the Dome

Pulling my bones apart, fingers are supernatural beings
And the breaking is a back stab building bomb
Beaching whales with napalm flames
Loving in a heat wave
My occasional misadventure
With the wrong man
Under graveyard dirt
Rolling in the Puget Sound
Don’t you smell like a teen romance?
You can freelance me to the end
I won’t keep these secrets plain
Ill lace them in my mercury saliva
I’m alive it seems
Today is such a themed trip on daisy dukes
In your back seat, don’t we keep each other down?
Drown baby
In the coldest
Salty lungs scream silver in the moonlight
Crushing with a knife point and your crowbar
Sliding up my leg
Good thing this M80 love affair
Only packs a pinching punch
Knock my breath out
Blow my hand off
Leave me splintering,
Not until I wake up
On blood soaked carpets
Will I tell you
What it means


I lather myself with the lavender soap
I imagine the essence of a sunflower
And I hope when he spreads my legs he smells the fields of Provence
Instead of cheap cherry lube
When I was a child I had simple rules
That only a child can follow
We are worn husks of organic produce
We lie to ourselves about the emptiness
We use and we hate
I hate and I am used
On starch sheets
In crochless panties
With a reaching hand of hope extending from my loins
Reverse birthing
Shedding the skin of this cumbersome twat
I will be as children are
I will love without question
And I will save myself

Southern Reasons

So still breathing for Jesus
Neon red cross and fingers crossed
I don’t believe in god
I don’t believe in the earth or purpose
It’s only to be happy
I smiled
You are so naive
Don’t know nothing
That cross isn’t salvation
Listen to the brush lullaby
Listen to my heart
We’re warm blooded
So we can bring each others bodies close
When death cold spreads its
Ice cracking spider veins
Over the weak white
I don’t believe in anything
I believe in everything
Reasons and being and you and me
We’re so wrong for each other
But I know why I'm here
Sometimes you need a little
Proof of faith
To make them stars shine
Other wise
It’ll all go dark
And I choose the light
Always the light
On these city nights
Truck stops with your buddies
They give you different reasons
Wild turkey and a trailer
You could do better
But you never let yourself
I take your hand
Run my Swiss knife
Down the center
I push your blood in my blood
Those headlights
They’ll bring you back to me
Run free
I can follow your blood
You’re a piece of me
And if I believe
Then you’ll believe
Preaching isn’t my job
And praying isn’t yours
That’s why we belong together
And why I've got to save you
From this field of briars you’ve thrown yourself into

G. Emil Reutter- A Poem

I travel the road

dark battered
lights dim, tarnished moon
crows cackle

bloom mist
falls, road
jars unopened
pealed rots

under trees empty canopy
one bud
I travel the road
look, listen
walk as sun rises
view falls

on the corner of 13th and Chestnut
a vet stands on titanium
cup empty
grateful nation doesn’t cry


fades as invisible unemployment
lines fill cyber space
university graduates hold
empty diplomas

eighty one homicides in my city
in eighty four days
and no one protests
as the blood soaked sun sets

I travel this road
under setting sun as
dim moon rises
daffodils limp fall
to ground
fruit rots
crows cackle
empty cup
on ground
shots fired
hope dissipates
promise unfulfilled

g emil reutter lives and writes in the Fox Chase neighborhood of Philadelphia. Eight collections of his poetry and prose have been published. In 2007 he founded The Fox Chase and Fox Chase Reading Series. You can find him at

Thursday, May 10, 2012

David S. Pointer- A Poem

Big Apple Drones

Early economic consequences
came armed with one lone
sputtering propeller crashing
to ground before arriving in
Washington D.C. to bomb or
strafe the people caught up in
1919s race riot, but in 1921
Tulsa, some blacks had bombs
dropped on them, and lots of
rich guys now know there’s
not enough airspace set aside
for injustice as the new drones
arrive to babysit protesters in
New York, and this isn’t the old
aerial machine gun corps auditory
commentary coming on in fast
manless flight with chemical
loads possible that would crash
Lady Liberty to protect corrupt
commerce and the paymaster’s
property that an underling mayor
and a middle man police chief
would program them to do so

Bio: David S. Pointer has new work at "Gutter Eloquence" in the blues issue. He has work forthcoming in "Bleeding Ink Anthology" and elsewhere. A new chapbook "Sinister Splashplay" is coming from "Virgogray Press."

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- A Poem

When I rub my hands
together I could
manipulate the clouds
and fill the skies
with rain.

When I rub my feet
together I could
make the clouds disperse
and make the sun
flare up.
When I do both at
the same time, earthquakes
open up the earth and
fill our lives with

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Hermit's Confession

So I never go out 
but I'm never at home
so that's why I never 
answer the phone.
You can believe me. 
I'll tell you why.

The caller might be
someone I never  
want to see, 
someone who never  
wants to see me.
Or so we agreed.

The truth can remain 
hidden for years
till hung in the sun
along with the wash
to startle the neighbors
like a red brassiere. 

So I never go out 
but I'm never at home
so that's why I never 
answer the phone.
You can believe me. 
I've told you why.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Jamie Grefe- Three Poems

Parted lips speak of tremolo-dusk, but:  
the whine punctures: a vibration to leak pink
silence, while we worm the heartless gash.

Grains of language: froth, fester,
coat the tongue. The abysmal other
in sound, meaning lace, blood-bites,
ginger kisses. Simmer words to none.

Sleet bites down nibbles skin
pillows affection an exploded now
awake mewling noise is all in the
stroke of a paw lick of a paw