Richard Schnap- A Poem

MARKED DOWN HEART

She dressed like a porn star
Hoping it would bring love

But it only attracted wolves
Eager for her willing flesh

Yet the more they devoured her
The more she craved their touch

As if becoming a whore
Was the only way to feel wanted

Gregory Liffick- Three Poems

WHIPPED

 

Turning

what hurts us

into sources

of only

pleasure.

Not rising

to joy,

but

going down

to a

rock

bottom

of peace

in bad

treatment.

 

 

PUFF

 

Smoked

a pipe

that didn't

make

peace.

Got

in the eye

of the

guest

and

brought

tears to

the

talk.

The air

was

thick

with

unwelcome.

 

 

DAMAGE

 

The rock

through

the

window

was just

the

start

of how

he felt.

The first

date

was blind,

and her

charms

were always

suspect.

She broke

it off

with a

hammer

and left

a lot

of pieces

to pick up.

B.Z. Niditch- Three Poems

 London, 2000

A century turns over
and I feel like Pip
with great expectations
at the turn of the new year
with justice on my mind
scaling weights in my room
not wanting vodka
to celebrate midnight madness
watching Garbo
long suffering in a silent film
not expecting Marx
Karl or Harpo to speak to me,
falling out of love
by twin beds and mirror
in a rainy wet dream
dislocated out of a room
inhaling an earful of noise
outside my window
putting on the Beatles
a Hard Day's Night
to get a metamorphosis
yet not become Kafka's giant bug.

PARIS VACATION

Passing dusty streets
doing a student paper on Renoir
on my cake walk by the Louvre
morning dances to a French tune
of the out sung bell hours
I'm all bundled up
in an Oxford tweed and scarf
a Christmas gift
from an ex who thinks of me
better than I am
but dropped me
for an older man,
as muddy shadows
turn on a few icicles
under my outcry
trying to cradle my time
when I am still young
not to forget the good will
at this refugee season
here among all the exiles
who look to art for solace,
and forget the past
in your own nature.



AT CAMBRIDGE, 2000

Listening to Coltrane's "Evidence"
on a jazz radio station
home from a writer's colony
the blanket of snow
in my wet dream
is second hand by now,
my bicycle is abandoned
and I have a shower conversation
for my coming lecture
on the Canterbury tales
about the wife of Bath
being an authority in marriage,
straight talking to myself
passing in and out
of brief encounters
in jazz and love
at the rapid
space of a school vacation.

Dennis Villelmi- A Poem

"The Ballad and the Back Road"

I sang the ballad corrective to myself on that frantic
Night; the night I was called at work and told that our
Home had just become some malignant Cathar
Stronghold and therefore I should leave my labors in
Haste and race back, as Satan was waiting, silently. 
I call it the ballad corrective because grandmother sang
It after taking the switch to me whenever I'd stood as a
Bad brat, fallen from her grace.
Doing fifteen over the speed limit, I saw myself as a droplet of
Blood coursing through the vein off the main highway, bound
For the backside of the Almighty, where the malignancy was;
Saw night as the side God hides from the faithful, where
Heresy is laid bare against the orthodox forward which
A hideous number of bloodlines have bowed down before,
Never having once been corrected with the switch, or the
Belt or denial of supper...Supper!  Yes, Satan chose me
For his Last Supper before the Lord turns his back to the
Sun and begins singing into His shadow of the genesis
Collective where another world will be made in six days, with
The punished returning to work. 



Dennis Villelmi is a writer whose work has appeared both on online magazines, such as Dagda Publishing and Dead Snakes, as well as in anthologies.  He lives in Appalachia, home of the rattlesnake and the copperhead.

Ryan Hardgrove- Three Poems

give in, and join the crowd!

I fill up these notebooks

with all these words

but what’s the use?

the sky is blue

and everyone knows it

sometimes it’s grey

and everyone knows that too

deep into the night

saddled at the bar

the autumn crowd

is typically a bit more boisterous

it’s easier to lie to yourself

when the weather is pleasant

a barroom pal

lands the stool next to mine

mumbles something about a dart game

and too many 50 cent tacos

he drops a couple pills

into my cramped pen hand

I toss them into my mouth

without inspecting them

and bite down hard once

before swallowing the bitter shards

with a mouth full of flat beer

after the pills kick in

and enough beer is swallowed

the barroom gets real easy to accept

all the faces seem happy with me

at first they were wary of my pen

and head-down-scribbles

but now they seem to recognize me

as one of their own

they all know it’s no use

all these notebooks full of words

they know just as well as I do

but it’s easy

to look around the barroom

when the windows turn black

with autumn night blankness

and we are all roasting inside

amidst endless golden taps

and warm purring neon’s

it’s easy to forget

about the notebook and the pen

I think I’ll hunt down my barroom pal

for some more of those pills

Friday Night Blues

just north of town

along the Ohio river

my little apartment

rattles in its foundation

as another plane skates

far too low

I’m full and bloated

on 8 dollar pizza

and can’t seem to scrape

enough black sticky residue

out of my old glass pipe

I could call someone

for a real score

but I’m fresh out of cash

      I’ve even exhausted all the nickels and dimes

      the quarters have been gone for days

and the pennies are far too tragic

for spending

the ball of tar is getting close

to something substantial

almost smoke-able

maybe I will get high tonight

another plane blasts

through the window

like a god damn freight train

and irritates my diligent fingers

working ceaselessly

at the meticulous task at hand

one day all those planes

will drop out of the sky

like locust shells

and then maybe

I’ll be able to figure out

what’s really wrong with me

Let the Crickets Sing!

Laying in bed

trying to sleep

as the insects sing

their ancient songs

from crab grass podiums

I begin discerning

the different insects

and one in particular steals my mind

and I let it absorb me

with eyes closed

until it sounds like a blaring car alarm

so I get up

find the switch

find the toilet

lean towards the mirror

steal a blurred glimpse

of flesh and hair

flush

find the fridge

open

close

open

gulp the OJ

like it’s special sleeping serum

as the fridge pours

cold white light

upon my bare chest

but sleep won’t come

     not yet

     and it’s okay

because the rest are sleeping

so I stay awake and wait

     stay separate and gulp OJ

I stare into this

blank black window

and everything is far away

and unconscious of this enormous blankness

and I feel wonderfully isolated

and exceptionally alone

not lonely

but alone

and we are alone

but they all distract themselves

with their social circus

So let the crickets sing tonight!

let them rise together

into a singular beacon of sound

just for me, and nobody else

I’ll rest soon enough

when they awaken

and crowd the streets

with noise and confusion

and awful routines that carve out their

souls

I’ll be safe,

far removed from the carnage

that comes along with everyday obligation

I’ll be safe in bed

avoiding it all

waiting for the crickets

to sing for me

once again

Ryan Hardgrove is a published poet.  His consciousness has grown and meandered like a weed throughout his 27 years crawling upon this rock.  He now lives in a small apartment along the Ohio River, just two miles north of Pittsburgh, PA.  When he is not writing, he is tending bar downtown or pacing on his fire escape smoking cigarettes.

Michael Cluff- A Poem

Untitled

Alvaro digested
nothing of lasting intent and parabolics,
the conifers of Jupiter Falls
grew faster than he
allowed himself
to consciously do.
Math was not
as good as pie
and Pozant
he and his grandparents
would love to forget
wherever a glossy-white
new blimp sauntered
overhead in olive-tinted
late October skies.

Douglas Polk- A Poem

The Senate during a government shutdown

a government shutdown,

the Senate begins,

majority leader Harry Reid,

a high school classmate of Joseph Stalin,

professes his love of the nation,

his only job to sit and masturbate,

convinced what is good for him,

is good for the nation,

dull to the point of painful,

he rambles on and on,

while minority leader Mitch McConnell,

makes his way to the Senate floor,

sounding like an Alzheimer's patient lost in another generation,

mumbling an incoherent complaint or two,

before being interrupted by Dick Durbin of Illinois,

oozing slime,

eyeing the visitor's gallery,

like a third rate actor,

Dick,

he is rightly named,

slimy and chickenshit,

followed by John McCain,

a rebel from Arizona,

still fighting wars both real,

and imagined,

believing himself a statesman,

because Lindsey Graham of South Carolina,

said so,

  . . . . makes one wish the government open,

but the Senate shutdown,

and closed for repairs. 

Melanie Browne- Three Poems

When Napoleon met the devil

At least once during his reign,
if not twice,
they discussed many things,
such as military strategy,
and the best brandy (eaux-de-vie)
and of course,
the best bosoms in Paris,
but often the devil and Bonaparte
would get in pissing contests,
and the devil would always win,
which would mean Napoleon
would have a melt-down
and kick his legs like
a stinging scorpion
(he always had a short fuse)
and it took several hours
for him to calm down but
he always did,
and the devil would
walk Napoleon
underneath the city
at night,
the plague victim bones
would rattle and the city
would shriek and cry
in the virtual darkness
and the devil would
hold the flashlight
for Napoleon,
they always looked
out for each other
in those days



electricity

My husband shows me an
article about wild things creative
people do to get their creative
juices flowing, and the thing
I remember the most was
Benjamin Franklin taking
"air baths," in the nude &
I can't help but giggle
picturing him with
it all Hanging out
possibly during an
electrical storm
and the wind is
blowing and the
crackle is in the air,
the hiss, hiss
all around
and then
KA-BOOM!!
Ben running
back into the
house and making
a sandwich before bed,
I think about the
electricity in
our fingertips and
in our brains
and the night sky
and how we waste it
and I want to
take an air bath
but we have
too many neighbors,
there are too
many porch lights,
and I am not nearly brave
enough



Dracula

I remember he was very pale,
and had very sharp incisors,
I think he might have been
vitamin deficient.
He wanted to suck my blood
but I really thought that wasn't
a good idea at the time.
I was about 23,
I dated a lot of weirdos
I'll be honest,
but none of them
were quite as charming,
I can't remember his name
but it was Serghei,
or Victor or Nicholas.
His car broke down a lot,
his mom was sick in the hospital,
he was working delivering
wheelchairs for old people,
he talked about life
in the "old country,"
and a bunch of weird superstitions
they had about cats and bats
and bullshit like that
most of the time I had no
idea what he was talking about,
he never had much money to go out,
and I always had to pay for our dates,
it got really old and we broke up,
I think he might work for the same company,
he never married,
his mom died,
I heard people see him
passed out in the field
near the stadium,
blood dripping off
one corner of his mouth,
the moon a perfect crescent
in the sky above

Dennis Villelmi- A Poem

"Soft Faith"

It struck me funny that I should dream of Kalashnikov's 

Rifle, the very night I pulled from basement obscurity

My late mother's Olivetti Lettera.  A student's dream was

In that Olivetti; the written pursuit of revolution she believed

Handed to her by some sky and concrete deity with a gift for

Worlds and obscenities made holy.  Her soft faith as she 

Called it, having read Burroughs as a prophet.

Yes, the obscure god-the hidden Public Worker-could

Craft worlds, but only those, from Moses to Burroughs, by 

Words turned such worlds.

The ribbon was still in there; still virginal, as my mother was 

Up until she authored me.  

Later she told me how that "soft faith" died when out I came.

She never wrote again. 

It was after the cancer had called on her that I moved back into 

The home we'd shared, mother and son, until I myself left for

College.  How still now was our house, and indeed the world 

Without, so it seemed.  Was it because I'd come back an 

Unbeliever?  Perhaps as an act of repentance, I put a blank page

Into the antique machine to see if I could draw out mother's dream. 

Not thinking I began typing, typing, typing; oh what an exodus

Of words!  I realized I was keeping Andre Breton's commandment

To run down from the room and into the crowd with guns going 

Boom!  Boom!  Boom!  

It was a true revolution.  "Fight!" cried my fingers across the keys.

The night gave way to day, hen day to night, then...Stop.

So this is what it feels like to be God, the oldest dream of humanity.

Soft was my old bed when I lay down.  Sleep brought me to the 

Brush of the sub-Sahara, and thence to the dunes of Yemen and the 

Bruised street corners of post-Soviet Georgia, etc. Everywhere where 

Could be heard the faithful typing on Mikhail's rifle.    

Dennis Villelmi is a writer from southwest Virginia. In addition to Dead Snakes,

his poems have been featured on Dagda Publishing's website, and in Dagda's 

recently released anthology, "Threads."

Jennifer Lagier- Three Poems

Lolly’s Story

“God and Dr. Oz saved my life.”

 

Been dragging, exhausted,

can’t keep my eyes open.

Turns out it was a sign.

I’d been distracted

by work, family drama,

not paying attention.

Now the oncologist diagnoses

stage 4, not optimistic.

Surgery, margins marked,

tumor excision.

Thirty days of radiation,

poison pumped through a port,

into my bloodstream.

“It’s a crapshoot,”

he tells me,

“which dies first,

healthy tissue or cancer.”

Been meditating,

praying to God, taking

pills Dr. Oz recommended.

So far, I’m still here,

kicking and complaining.

If I had to guess,

I’d say I am winning.

 

 

 

Confirmation

 

Ironically, it's a nun who

orders mother to purchase

my first pair of high heels,

nylons, the superfluous bra,

rubber straight-jacket girdle.

She tells me the vulnerable priest

needs these reminders to adorn

my pudgy, twelve year old body

so he won't succumb

to overwhelming desire.

 

I stare at sister's drab habit,

imagine life beneath black cloth,

visualize her spartan cell,

untouched breasts, utilitarian panties.

I sit, listen in confusion,

ponder threats of hell

and her Catholic warnings.

 

Mother gleefully chooses

my size 15 tent dress:

two tones of heifer plaid

with immense rhinestone buttons.

I redden, sweat toward adulthood

within tight elastic.

 

When my turn comes to be confirmed,

I stumble forward on command

down the church aisle

dividing our class

into separate genders.

Trembling and filled

with a devout sense of faith,

I kneel before a man wearing skirts,

feel him slapping my face.

 

Previously published in

SLIPSTREAM, No. 18 (May 1998)

 

 

 

Family Dinners

 

God is thinking about me and eating me…Tomaz Salamun

 

During Sunday mass,

we fidgeted on hard pews,

light-headed from fasting,

suffused with delusions

of impending salvation.

 

We bargained with God,

admitted our failures.

With bent heads, knelt,

offered trembling tongues

for sacrificed Christ’s

dry wafer flesh.

 

Family dinners reinforced

the repentance theme:

fried onions and leathery liver,

a hungry child's crown of thorns.

 

Mother’s "eat three bites

or sit all night" rule

taught me to swallow

in obedient silence

everything I was told,

growing glutted, then sick

from the burden of Catholic grace.

 

Later, I tortured myself

for becoming a victim.

Poked a finger down my throat

and rejected it all,

reclaiming control

as I obstinately purged.

 

 

 

Jennifer Lagier is a recovering Catholic, unrepentant snake wrangler and worshipper.