BEDTIME POEM
A.D. Winans
|
I have shrunk an inch
with old age lost a step or two my pen is on half-empty my hair retreats faster than Custer's last stand my bed is like a relationship easier to get into than out |
A. D. Winans is a native San Francisco poet and writer who graduated from
San Francisco State College (now University) and is the author of over fifty
books, including North Beach Poems, North Beach Revisited, and This Land
Is Not My Land, (which won a 2006 PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award for
excellence in literature.)
From 1972 to 1989 Winans edited and published Second Coming Press, which
produced a large number of books and anthologies, among them the highly
acclaimed California Bicentennial Poet's Anthology, which included poets like
David Meltzer, Jack Micheline, Charles Plymell, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Ishmael
Reed, Josephine Miles, Bob Kaufman, Gene Fowler, and William Everson.
In 2009 PEN Oakland awarded him a lifetime achievement award. In November
2010 BOS Press published a 365-page book of his Selected Poems. In 2012
Little Red Tress Press published his book San Francisco Poems.
Recent books include Billie Holiday Me And The Blues, No Room For Buddha,
and Love – Zero and the just released San Francisco Poems.
His archives are housed at Brown University.
Visit his website: http://winansfansite.blogspot.com/
Seven Courses, No Issues
by John F. Buckley
|
You can host a fancy dinner party for less than twenty
dollars, provided your home already contains certain ingredients. You can host a fancy dinner party that no one will ever forget, that will be commemorated on your tombstone, murky legends of which the future dominant species will speak of in their cathedrals, awed by the zenith reached by their primate predecessors. For an appetizer, pick something light. Go to the mechanic downstairs, that sturdy woman with the iron-gray mullet, and ask to borrow some lug-nuts. Fill their holes with pimento cheese. Wrap them in bacon and deep-fry them for twenty or thirty minutes. Tell your guests not to chew; you don't need extra dental bills. Have them simply overcome their gag reflexes and swallow the porky-cheesy-metallic nuggets in their entirety. Get ready to perform the Heimlich on those who simply refuse to follow directions. Remember the chilly, blustery, winter days of childhood? Remember what mother used to make you for lunch on those gray afternoons? Ice cubes and chilled cat food, which is why you ripped up her living will and left her hooked up to the respirator for those long years after the accident. Didn't you want soup? Don't you love your dinner guests more than your parents loved you? Give them soup. Mix three packets of soy sauce from Panda Palace, half a gallon of contact-lens solution, a large can of Veg-All, and several handfuls of Swedish meatballs from the frozen-food section of Costco. It's easy! Nobody likes salad but everyone appreciates the effects of sufficient roughage. Skip the lettuce and such in favor of enemas. Gather everyone in the living room, break out the portable massage table, the aquarium tubing, the gallon Baggies filled with leftover soup, and grow closer as a community. The fourth course, the palate-cleanser, should be a piquant formic-acid sorbet, saturated with little black specks that aren't bits of Tahitian vanilla, but ants, ants from the counter, ants from the wall, ants from behind the kitchen cabinet, ants from inside the living-room ceiling. Just as Native American tribes like the Lakota Sioux were surrounded by bison, and thus ate bison aplenty, so are you surrounded by ants. You've scrubbed everything and kept the sink free from dishes, but the ants thunder across all surfaces, coursing everywhere but into your personal orifices and throughout your body. Until now. (4/29/2013) |
S Some go for poultry as a fifth course, but chicken can be expensive. Heat pasta, either instant ramen or Spaghetti-Os. Keep the noodles simmering in a big pot of water on the rear burner of your stove for what? Three hours? Is that long enough? You shouldn't have thrown out the directions. You should have made a test batch. Now they will know, they will know and judge and leave you just like Daddy. They will scamper out the door, smoking their pipes and smelling like cheap whiskey, neglecting to give you a goodbye kiss, jauntily jangling the car keys, looking away as you sob in your flannel footsie pajamas. On the flip side, there will be more overcooked starch paste for you. The main course calls for a tour de force, and entire elk roasted on a spit in the living-room firepit. Make sure to start cooking the skinned, gutted carcass by the end of the third course, or it may not be finished in time. Other than that, don't think; do. Let the momentum of the meal carry you forward. Dessert is a cake baked in the shape of an aluminum bathtub chair, a subtle reminder of our shared aging and mortality, the prevalence of household accidents, the end of the meal, the mounting apocalypse. Not everyone needs a piece. Robots need no cake. Robots don't eat. Also, you need no cake. I need hardly explain why. John F. Buckley has divided his life between California, where he spent most of his adulthood, and Michigan, where he was born and raised and where he now attends the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, working toward an MFA in poetry. His collections "Sky Sandwiches" and "Poet's Guide to America" (with Martin Ott) were released in Fall 2012, as was his second chapbook, "Leading an Aquamarine Shoat by Its Tail". "Sky Sandwiches" may be purchased at http://www.anaphoraliterary.com |
Inventuating Scenes
by Edward C. Wells II
[After reading An American Indian Model of the Universe
by Benjamin Lee Whorf from International Journal of American Linguistics] 4/22/13
by Edward C. Wells II
[After reading An American Indian Model of the Universe
by Benjamin Lee Whorf from International Journal of American Linguistics] 4/22/13
|
Edward Wells II is a writer, soon to graduate from schooling, again. His work has appeared online and in print. He is currently working on a new collection of fiction.
He wonders what the world his new collection finds will be like and welcomes correspondence through his facebook artist page: EdwardWellsII. HIs most recent collection "CO", from the Pedestrian Press, may be purchased (in Ebook format) here: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/307041 |
"The Pez Dispenser", by Aurelia Lorca (4/08/2013)
I am trying not to think about you though you have seeped
into my dreams. The first night I dreamt about you, you
helped me move furniture out of my parents house, and
retracted the nasty comment you had written in my year-
book by showing me that you had also signed my diploma
with “best wishes.” In the second dream you told me my
hair looked good when it was messy, and I responded with
the opening lines to the Canterbury Tales in Middle
English. In the third dream we were walking somewhere, I
do not know where, and I was talking about something, I
do not know what, and I looked over at you and your
mouth was filled with something but you were barely
talking. So I chattered on but the more I said the more your
mouth filled, with what, I do not know. I said something,
I do not know what, and you spat out a little green ball, a
sour candy, and another, and another, and another, and
another. And then your head snapped back and the little
green candies filed from your mouth in a line and I realized
that I had become plastic. I said I am sorry, and I said I am
sorry again, I am sorry, I am sorry, I am very, very sorry.
Aurelia Lorca sleeps when she dreams and dreams when
she sleeps. The silence of her shame is a snore. If you
spread jam on her nose she will wake up.
Her most recent book "Putting on My Red Shoes and
Dancing the Blues", may be purchased here:
http://www.lulu.com/shop/aurelia-lorca/putting-on-my-red-shoes-
and-dancing-the-blues/paperback/product-20934913.html
"a better yr", by John Dorsey (4/1/13)
i am vaguely depressed
that an asteroid
isn’t going to slam into
the earth in 2040
this news resolves nothing
now i must make plans
iron wrinkled socks
and wish on shooting stars
though maybe by then
pluto will be a planet again
new jersey will smell like roses
and paper airplanes will burn in effigy
across our imaginary war zones
for now we must be happy
with killing each other
they tell me
it’s a party
we’re all invited
so be sure to come dressed
as your favorite tombstone
John Dorsey is the author of several collections of poetry,
including "Teaching the Dead to Sing: The Outlaw's Prayer"
(Rose of Sharon Press, 2006), "Sodomy is a City in New Jersey"
(American Mettle Books, 2010), "Leaves of Ass" (Unadorned Press,
2011). and, most recently, "Tombstone Factory" (Epic Rites Press, 2013).
"Tombstone Factory" may be purchased at www.epicrites.org
"Fremont Street", by Jason Hardung (3/25/13)
Bob the pimp was calling my hotel room again.
She rolled over, lit a Newport and said,
“Stay gold Pony Boy.”
I couldn't help but concentrate on the red spiders
playing London bridge on the hairs of her pussy,
her open legs resembled the Arc De Triumph-
at least she was gracious enough to honor the fallen, I thought.
The phone kept ringing- I knew it was Bob.
I tried putting my pants on
but the left leg looked like the right.
She studied her face in a Boone's Farm bottle.
I got my pants on, hid behind the curtains
and looked out the window; seventh floor, Riviera.
The sky was dry heaving
the smog was deafening
civilization was driving toy cars into the cunt of prosperity.
The phone rang. I picked it up. It was Bob.
I made sure I had my dignity and room key,
opened the door to leave and
she said, “Stay gold Pony Boy,”
and I said, “You already said that,” and walked out.
The slot machines were ringing in the lobby,
I watched myself walk in the mirrors on the ceiling-
the last days of civilization played out
over my head like a lifetime achievement award montage.
I met Bob across the street in the Circus Circus bathroom,
the one closest to the NASCAR thrill ride.
He laid out a line on the silver handicap rail.
It burnt going down.
His diamond studded sunglasses
hid all emotion but hustle,
he handed me a quarter bag.
“Here take this back to the farm with you homeboy. Bob's treat.”
I grabbed it from him. My jaw so tight
it pressed out commemorative coins.
“Thanks Bob. It's been nice knowin ya.”“
"You be careful young blood. You is special. I can sees it.”
His gold tooth made me feel human again.
He disappeared into the gold void.
Up for five days-
I took a bus to Fremont St.
Jason Hardung's work has appeared in hundreds of journals and
magazines including: 3AM, Chiron Review, Evergreen Review,
Word Riot, Thrasher Magazine, New York Quarterly. He has been
nominated for the Pushcart and Best of The Web. His first full length
book of poetry, The Broken and the Damned, came out on Epic Rites
Press in 2009. His second, The Names of Lost Things was released
in June of 2012 on Lummox Press. He has been an editor for Wolverine
Farm Publishing and the Front Range Review in Ft. Collins, Colorado
where he lives in a commune with seven other people. They grow their
own food and use bicycles as transportation. In 2013 he was voted Ft.
Collins Poet Laureate. He still has a bird whose feet fell off, but don't
worry, it still sings
This poem is from "The Broken and the Damned", which is
available for purchase here: http://www.epicrites.org/
Mr Hardung's most recent collection, "The Names of Lost Things",
may be purchased from Lummox Press at: http://www.lummoxpress.com/
She rolled over, lit a Newport and said,
“Stay gold Pony Boy.”
I couldn't help but concentrate on the red spiders
playing London bridge on the hairs of her pussy,
her open legs resembled the Arc De Triumph-
at least she was gracious enough to honor the fallen, I thought.
The phone kept ringing- I knew it was Bob.
I tried putting my pants on
but the left leg looked like the right.
She studied her face in a Boone's Farm bottle.
I got my pants on, hid behind the curtains
and looked out the window; seventh floor, Riviera.
The sky was dry heaving
the smog was deafening
civilization was driving toy cars into the cunt of prosperity.
The phone rang. I picked it up. It was Bob.
I made sure I had my dignity and room key,
opened the door to leave and
she said, “Stay gold Pony Boy,”
and I said, “You already said that,” and walked out.
The slot machines were ringing in the lobby,
I watched myself walk in the mirrors on the ceiling-
the last days of civilization played out
over my head like a lifetime achievement award montage.
I met Bob across the street in the Circus Circus bathroom,
the one closest to the NASCAR thrill ride.
He laid out a line on the silver handicap rail.
It burnt going down.
His diamond studded sunglasses
hid all emotion but hustle,
he handed me a quarter bag.
“Here take this back to the farm with you homeboy. Bob's treat.”
I grabbed it from him. My jaw so tight
it pressed out commemorative coins.
“Thanks Bob. It's been nice knowin ya.”“
"You be careful young blood. You is special. I can sees it.”
His gold tooth made me feel human again.
He disappeared into the gold void.
Up for five days-
I took a bus to Fremont St.
Jason Hardung's work has appeared in hundreds of journals and
magazines including: 3AM, Chiron Review, Evergreen Review,
Word Riot, Thrasher Magazine, New York Quarterly. He has been
nominated for the Pushcart and Best of The Web. His first full length
book of poetry, The Broken and the Damned, came out on Epic Rites
Press in 2009. His second, The Names of Lost Things was released
in June of 2012 on Lummox Press. He has been an editor for Wolverine
Farm Publishing and the Front Range Review in Ft. Collins, Colorado
where he lives in a commune with seven other people. They grow their
own food and use bicycles as transportation. In 2013 he was voted Ft.
Collins Poet Laureate. He still has a bird whose feet fell off, but don't
worry, it still sings
This poem is from "The Broken and the Damned", which is
available for purchase here: http://www.epicrites.org/
Mr Hardung's most recent collection, "The Names of Lost Things",
may be purchased from Lummox Press at: http://www.lummoxpress.com/
"Driving Towards Auschwitz", by Suchoon Mo (3/18/2013)
in my dream last night
I lost my driver's license
so I went to the county office to get one
a smiling clerk greeted me
and issued me a new license
he was Heinrich Himmler
I walked over to the parking lot
got into my car and started driving
towards Auschwitz Concentration Camp
Suchoon Mo is a Korean War veteran and retired
academic living in the semiarid part of Colorado.
His poems and music compositions have appeared
in a number of literary and cultural publications.
His recent poetry chapbook, "Frog Mantra", has been
published by Accents Publications of Lexington, Kentucky.
"Frog Mantra", Mr. Mo's most recent collection is
available on Amazon. com, or directly through his
publisher at: http://www.accents-publishing.com/books.html
"It only hurts when I laugh...", by BC Petrakos (3/11/2013)
at what point did I stop existing
was it when I gave away my cell phone
was it when the ride took too long
when the conversation ended with a thud
was it when the hair got cut
the days got long
the wind whispered
"vanity is all we have to look forward to"
was it when
women started the closeout sale on once prime real estate
no reasonable offer refused
men started looking in the mirror like it was a window to the
sky
at what point did I stop existing
was it when
I wondered if I existed at all
when I forgot the sound of my mother's voice
when I realized she never called
when I decided the toys of life are temporal
when the trick is ready to leave
when the money is on the dresser
old silver coins - useless in empty pockets
honesty cannot be purchased now
or food to fill and empty soul
words left on the end table
in the ash tray,
bitter from the clocks tick
reminding me the time is up someone else has to take the room
About BC Petrakos:
Her Book of collected works “ Stories From The Inside Edge” was
published in June 2007 – by Sybaritic Press
Awards and Additional Publications :
Winner of the ACT New Writer Award, The Arvada New Work Festival
Best Original Play Award, and Selected For 2006 National Poetry Month
Palabra Press Anthology Of Winning Poetry,
Her prose and flash fiction has been published in various publications
including: “Voices Of New Women Writers” –Duke University Press,
“Poetic Diversity” webzine, “Literary Angels” -Diversity Press, “Falling
Star Literary Magazine”, “Joy In Mudville”-Hollywood Anthology –
Metropolis Hopper Books, “Afterwords” and “Everything About You Is
Beautiful” Anthology – Really Big Show Productions, “Little Joy Hollywood
Anthology 2007” –2009, The Cobalt Poetry Series ,Valley Contemporary
Poets Anthology, Huston Literary Review, Hennings Observer.
This poem is from a limited edition chapbook by Curmudgeon
Booklets. It may be purchased directly from the author by
contacting her at: bcpetrakos@gmail.com
Brenda's most recent collection, "Country Fixins", from Sybaritic Press
may be purchased here: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=ntt_athr_dp_sr_
1/185-7280842-9886009?_encoding=UTF8&field-author=B%20C%20Petra
os&search-alias=books&sort=relevancerank
was it when I gave away my cell phone
was it when the ride took too long
when the conversation ended with a thud
was it when the hair got cut
the days got long
the wind whispered
"vanity is all we have to look forward to"
was it when
women started the closeout sale on once prime real estate
no reasonable offer refused
men started looking in the mirror like it was a window to the
sky
at what point did I stop existing
was it when
I wondered if I existed at all
when I forgot the sound of my mother's voice
when I realized she never called
when I decided the toys of life are temporal
when the trick is ready to leave
when the money is on the dresser
old silver coins - useless in empty pockets
honesty cannot be purchased now
or food to fill and empty soul
words left on the end table
in the ash tray,
bitter from the clocks tick
reminding me the time is up someone else has to take the room
About BC Petrakos:
Her Book of collected works “ Stories From The Inside Edge” was
published in June 2007 – by Sybaritic Press
Awards and Additional Publications :
Winner of the ACT New Writer Award, The Arvada New Work Festival
Best Original Play Award, and Selected For 2006 National Poetry Month
Palabra Press Anthology Of Winning Poetry,
Her prose and flash fiction has been published in various publications
including: “Voices Of New Women Writers” –Duke University Press,
“Poetic Diversity” webzine, “Literary Angels” -Diversity Press, “Falling
Star Literary Magazine”, “Joy In Mudville”-Hollywood Anthology –
Metropolis Hopper Books, “Afterwords” and “Everything About You Is
Beautiful” Anthology – Really Big Show Productions, “Little Joy Hollywood
Anthology 2007” –2009, The Cobalt Poetry Series ,Valley Contemporary
Poets Anthology, Huston Literary Review, Hennings Observer.
This poem is from a limited edition chapbook by Curmudgeon
Booklets. It may be purchased directly from the author by
contacting her at: bcpetrakos@gmail.com
Brenda's most recent collection, "Country Fixins", from Sybaritic Press
may be purchased here: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=ntt_athr_dp_sr_
1/185-7280842-9886009?_encoding=UTF8&field-author=B%20C%20Petra
os&search-alias=books&sort=relevancerank
"The Newer and More Improved America" (3/4/2013)
by Paul Corman-Roberts
It’s 12:30 AM in the millennium.
Do you know where your newer and more improved America is?
Well I do, and let me tell ya, she’s got a lot more going for her than maybe you think she does. I know ‘cause I saw her squattin’ in the Coliseum parking lot, huddled under a blanket in the rain, with a Jaeger in one hand and a cardboard sign in the other lookin’ for the kindy kind lift to the Oregon Country Fair in any non-petroleum combustible vehicle available, and singing ever so gently about how she needed a miracle.
The newer and more improved America just hit menopause and isn’t really that pleased with cold future prospects so prospecting must not stop under any circumstance and if that means delusional fantasies of turning third world dictatorships into a flowering Oasis of democracy than what need do we have of such things here so long as we can live the fantasy out in front of our highly resolved, highly pixilated pupils?
The newer and more unproved America used to sell space, used to sell time; why, he even used to sell space time continuum but with the pink slip moving ever Eastward toward the once and future Celestial Empire, he only re-rents the time now. So this newer and more removed America has got to learn to be one leathery bitch, since the industry of franchising Wal-Mart in Tehran or Baghdad isn’t playing out so well.
Make no mistake about it, the newer and more reproved America will someday find itself playing second fiddle to the newer and more improved Asia, as soon as the yen for slave labor can figure out a trendier way to consummate its perfect union.
If the newer and more improved America is a sport about it, he can still work the club circuit with Old Europe and Russia, cut movie deals with the Republic of California and sign book deals with the newer and more improved Confederate States of America. He can retire away to a hipster rave spa with Colonial Britain, and the Roman Empire, who will be sure to tell him to stop crying like a little bitch about heathens and mongrels. Naturally, if the newer and more improved America gets really lucky, he’ll find his way to the back VIP room where Greece has already got the orgy going between Egypt and Atlantis. The Ming Dynasty had to leave quite suddenly…something about some old scores.
The newer and more in-excused America still gets caught trying to run the market on the garbage cans around the periphery, like a hooker whose made the all out slide from the Tenderknob to Capp and dreams of running her own crew just as soon as she finds some bitches who are worth a shit. The newer and more improved bitches in South America, with good and fine benefactors to the East, may quickly tire of a tired manifest destiny that never seems to go away. I’d hate to be around when those crisp, green, serial numbered party invitations go out of style and wind up causing World War III in our own backyard. It might be a good idea to duck when every target in sight starts getting iced; it might be a good idea to stock up on a few vitals and gunpowder of your own when history’s most bloated, corpulent, mercantile brain chip begins hemorrhaging on its own karmic cyanide.
BUT MAYBE, MAYBE the newer and more improved America can roll with the times; leave behind the Shady Arms mobile homestead and create a whole new Velveteen Revolution, each citizen doomed to a shorter existence but a hell of a lot better time in it. ‘Cause ain’t the newer and more improved America been squatting in the Coliseum parking lot, huddled under a blanket in the rain, with lazy dreams and silly ideas powering the whole party into a therapeutic community of recovery and still crying out:
We know
We know
We know
We are:
The wide with hope
The wide with dope
And the wide with cope
We too are
This power always flowing
From East to West
‘Cause make no mistake jack
What happens in Dubai
Stays in Dubai
And don’t think this red
this white
this blue
And these stars and fucking stripes aren’t a hymn to mass destruction
& don’t have a penthouse waiting for them in New Vegas
Beyond the reach
of the vengeance
of a crumbling empire
We too, you and I are the newer and more improved America.
Paul Corman-Roberts had coffee and donuts with Eldridge Cleaver in
1995 and once pulled a graveyard shift at a Circle K during the Rodney
King riots. He misses working in theater.
His most recent book "neocom(muter)" can be purchased at:
http://www.zygoteinmycoffee.com/taintedcoffeepress/neocommuter.html
Do you know where your newer and more improved America is?
Well I do, and let me tell ya, she’s got a lot more going for her than maybe you think she does. I know ‘cause I saw her squattin’ in the Coliseum parking lot, huddled under a blanket in the rain, with a Jaeger in one hand and a cardboard sign in the other lookin’ for the kindy kind lift to the Oregon Country Fair in any non-petroleum combustible vehicle available, and singing ever so gently about how she needed a miracle.
The newer and more improved America just hit menopause and isn’t really that pleased with cold future prospects so prospecting must not stop under any circumstance and if that means delusional fantasies of turning third world dictatorships into a flowering Oasis of democracy than what need do we have of such things here so long as we can live the fantasy out in front of our highly resolved, highly pixilated pupils?
The newer and more unproved America used to sell space, used to sell time; why, he even used to sell space time continuum but with the pink slip moving ever Eastward toward the once and future Celestial Empire, he only re-rents the time now. So this newer and more removed America has got to learn to be one leathery bitch, since the industry of franchising Wal-Mart in Tehran or Baghdad isn’t playing out so well.
Make no mistake about it, the newer and more reproved America will someday find itself playing second fiddle to the newer and more improved Asia, as soon as the yen for slave labor can figure out a trendier way to consummate its perfect union.
If the newer and more improved America is a sport about it, he can still work the club circuit with Old Europe and Russia, cut movie deals with the Republic of California and sign book deals with the newer and more improved Confederate States of America. He can retire away to a hipster rave spa with Colonial Britain, and the Roman Empire, who will be sure to tell him to stop crying like a little bitch about heathens and mongrels. Naturally, if the newer and more improved America gets really lucky, he’ll find his way to the back VIP room where Greece has already got the orgy going between Egypt and Atlantis. The Ming Dynasty had to leave quite suddenly…something about some old scores.
The newer and more in-excused America still gets caught trying to run the market on the garbage cans around the periphery, like a hooker whose made the all out slide from the Tenderknob to Capp and dreams of running her own crew just as soon as she finds some bitches who are worth a shit. The newer and more improved bitches in South America, with good and fine benefactors to the East, may quickly tire of a tired manifest destiny that never seems to go away. I’d hate to be around when those crisp, green, serial numbered party invitations go out of style and wind up causing World War III in our own backyard. It might be a good idea to duck when every target in sight starts getting iced; it might be a good idea to stock up on a few vitals and gunpowder of your own when history’s most bloated, corpulent, mercantile brain chip begins hemorrhaging on its own karmic cyanide.
BUT MAYBE, MAYBE the newer and more improved America can roll with the times; leave behind the Shady Arms mobile homestead and create a whole new Velveteen Revolution, each citizen doomed to a shorter existence but a hell of a lot better time in it. ‘Cause ain’t the newer and more improved America been squatting in the Coliseum parking lot, huddled under a blanket in the rain, with lazy dreams and silly ideas powering the whole party into a therapeutic community of recovery and still crying out:
We know
We know
We know
We are:
The wide with hope
The wide with dope
And the wide with cope
We too are
This power always flowing
From East to West
‘Cause make no mistake jack
What happens in Dubai
Stays in Dubai
And don’t think this red
this white
this blue
And these stars and fucking stripes aren’t a hymn to mass destruction
& don’t have a penthouse waiting for them in New Vegas
Beyond the reach
of the vengeance
of a crumbling empire
We too, you and I are the newer and more improved America.
Paul Corman-Roberts had coffee and donuts with Eldridge Cleaver in
1995 and once pulled a graveyard shift at a Circle K during the Rodney
King riots. He misses working in theater.
His most recent book "neocom(muter)" can be purchased at:
http://www.zygoteinmycoffee.com/taintedcoffeepress/neocommuter.html
"Measures of the Heart", by Peggy Dobreer (2/25/13)
"When he became too large to hide, she made a basket of bulrushes and sealed it." -Exodus 3.1
Please, report lost or stolen items
right away, day or night.
Use your pin with caution.
Refrigerate to avoid spoiling.
But only after cracking the seal.
Peel one perfect grape. And if
you already know how sutures feel
why mention them….why ask at all?
Why rub daisies on riverbeds?
Rather, turn the dial three times right,
One to the left, and two right again.
Numbers thereafter will fall with ease
on the Fibonacci ratio. They will fret like
old men who have gathered their salt,
who still remember the briny down
of the sea…or the ripe Bulrushes of Tulare.
Peggy Dobreer has one full-length collection of poetry,
In The Lake of Your Bones, released in March 2012 by
Moon Tide Press. She loves to dance. Her poems can be
found in The Bicycle Review, Literary Angles, WordWright's
Magazine, The Malpais Review, and L.A. Yoga Magazine among others.
In the Lake of Your Bones can be purchased here:
http://www.moontidepress.com/category/our-books/
Please, report lost or stolen items
right away, day or night.
Use your pin with caution.
Refrigerate to avoid spoiling.
But only after cracking the seal.
Peel one perfect grape. And if
you already know how sutures feel
why mention them….why ask at all?
Why rub daisies on riverbeds?
Rather, turn the dial three times right,
One to the left, and two right again.
Numbers thereafter will fall with ease
on the Fibonacci ratio. They will fret like
old men who have gathered their salt,
who still remember the briny down
of the sea…or the ripe Bulrushes of Tulare.
Peggy Dobreer has one full-length collection of poetry,
In The Lake of Your Bones, released in March 2012 by
Moon Tide Press. She loves to dance. Her poems can be
found in The Bicycle Review, Literary Angles, WordWright's
Magazine, The Malpais Review, and L.A. Yoga Magazine among others.
In the Lake of Your Bones can be purchased here:
http://www.moontidepress.com/category/our-books/
"Cubbyholes #12", by Robert Louis Henry (2/18/13)
Overdosing on Tylenol PM reminded her
a lot of OD'ing on horse tranquilizers –
all the twitches and cramping
without any sense
of rhythm.
Once, she tried to recline
and pour water into
her lungs through
her nose.
She says marriage is good and bad
that it's nice to have someone
to fetch shit when
you're sick.
But still,
every time she drinks
pineapple rum, she
tries to kill
herself.
Robert Louis Henry tries his best to keep his fingernails clean.
He writes poetry, prose, and songs. Having spent most of his life
in Tennessee, he recently moved to California where he works as
a freelance writer, editor, and publisher. Robert is also the publisher
at Leaf Garden Press. His latest book, The Evaporation of Hands,
is available at Amazon. http://amzn.com/1477671633
Difficult Listening Time, by Brendan Constantine (2/11/13)
A flock of pink flamingos moved in
across the street, and set up plastic people
on the lawn.
They’ve faced them out
this way, hands molded to their chins,
looking more like us as night comes on.
Downtown, the waitresses are starving
in their aprons; the watchmen get fainter
by the hour.
It’s Difficult Listening Time,
object response time, time for ‘the tears
of things.’
There has to be a way to help
it along, a way to dry the rain as it falls
so we can keep these clothes.
Let’s go
to the woods & hang a painting of this
room on every tree. We’ll go to sea
& on each sailboat fix a picture
of a hotel bed.
Or how about we stay
home & talk out every song between us
until we sound like heavy, stupid birds.
Brendan Constantine's work has appeared extensively
in print and online. He is the author of three collections
of poetry: Letters to Guns (Red Hen Press 2009), Birthday
Girl With Possum (Write Bloody Publishing (2011),
and Calamity Joe (Red Hen Press, 2012).
He is a poet-in-residence at the Windward School in
West Los Angeles. In addition, he regularly conducts
workshops for foster care centers, hospitals, and with
the Alzheimer's Poetry Project.
This poem, from Calamity Joe, has also appeared in
Ploughshares.
Calamity Joe may be purchased at: http://redhen.org
Poem inspired by Christopher Reid's "Song for Lunch", by Marie Lecrivain (2/4/13)
to Alan Rickman & Lady Gaga
I imagine
drinking wine
in a seedy bar
lit with black lights
& ennui.
I’m armored
in black hooker boots
& a low cut dress.
Every bar fly
has a hard on.
I catalog
all your faults
& failings
while your mouth
hovers over
the rim of the glass
& you bobble-head
with disbelief.
Everyone
raises a toast
while the wine
from your glass
spills onto the floor
along with
all your hopes
of winning me back.
I open bleary eyes
to find myself alone
with an empty bottle
& a lone goblet
to mock me.
You left a long time ago,
having heard everything
that never passed my lips.
Marie Lecrivain is the executive editor and publisher of poeticdiversity:
the litzine of Los Angeles, is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and is a writer
in residence at her apartment. Her most recent book of is Love Poems...
Yes... REALLY... Love Poems (Copyright 2013 Sybaritic Press)
Her prose and poetry have appeared in a number of journals and anthologies,
including:The Bicycle Review, Haibun Today, Heavy Hands Ink, Iodine Poetry
Journal, The Los Angeles Review, Lummox Journal, The Poetry Salzburg Review,
San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly, Spillway, Tree Killer Ink, and others.
Marie's previous books: Bitchess, (copyright 2011 ), Antebellum Messiah (copyright
2009 Sybaritic Press), and, Nihilistic Foibles (copyright 2005 Sybaritic Press)
are available through Amazon.com, and Smashwords.com.
Marie's avocations include photography; meditation; Libers CCXX and LXV;
marmosets; Christopher Eccleston, or Sean Bean (depending on what day of the
week it is); her co-owned cats Puff and Mr. Poe; expensive handbags; the number
seven, and sensual tributes upon her neck from male artists-except male poets, who only write about it.
Love Poems... Yes... REALLY... Love Poems may be puchased at:
http://www.amazon.com/Love-Poems-Yes-Really-Love-Marie-Lecrivain/dp/1467562424/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&qid=1358542866&sr=8-6&keywords=marie+lecrivain (Print)
http://www.amazon.com/Love-Poems-Yes-Really-Love-ebook/dp/B00B0YI94E/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1358542866&sr=8-3&keywords=marie+lecrivain (Kindle)
"Even the Monkey", by Misti Rainwater-Lites (1/28/13)
Grandmother utters her wisdom so deep and wide
so chicken fat so tabloid scandalous
even the monkey shuts the fuck up
removes paws from penis cocks head locks eyes
...listens, listens.
Those were the days and apple and cotton.
There was time and Jesus and reindeer and Miss Lake Kemp.
Fish fries, winners, so much beauty even Texas
could not contain it all.
Father (Cowboy) drunk, intolerant, screams, whips,
blacks and blues and everything swollen,
Mother (Angel) sober, patient, soothes, salves,
holds and rocks and everything summoned.
There were sermons.
There was access.
Lessons learned. Applied, applied.
Y'all would like some lemonade.
Y'all would like some M&M cookies.
Yes and please and thank you, ma'am.
Grandmother goes back to the void where she came from.
Even the pantry is haunted.
Misti Rainwater-Lites is always getting kicked out of bars.
Follow her at http://www.roxixmas.com
Her most recent collection of poems: "Amateur",
is available from Graffiti Kolkata at: http://www.graffitikolkata.com/
"A World Wonder", by Rick Lupert (1/21/13)
So
this is it
a world wonder
Niagara Falls.
We don disposable blue ponchos
and ride an elevator to a boat
which takes us into the mist.
Across the river
America, land of the me,
home of the...
Signals are bouncing.
our cell phones can't decide
what country they are in.
The world dies a little
as we put on our second
disposable poncho of the day.
We are preparing to go
Behind the Falls. I am
reminded of the joke
on the Jungle Cruise where
They take you behind the Falls
and call it the back side of water.
Addie says
she is thirsty.
I point.
Even the Amish are here
Behind the Falls. Everyone
wants to see God's wonders.
We are an army dressed in
yellow plastic. The enemy is the wet.
The poncho, our defense.
More gallons of water pass
in front of us than we can count.
We could power Toronto,
build a Casa Loma
get in a barrel and pray.
We wouldn't want to count.
At the end you can buy
anything with the words
Niagara Falls on it
a shot glass
a thimble
a picture of you.
In the right restaurant here
they'll carve your image into a steak.
They'll make a gravy falls,
a mashed potato Mist Maid.
I keep forgetting I'm not in America.
I wish everyone would forget.
Rick Lupert has been involved with L.A. poetry since 1990.
He created the Poetry Super Highway (http://poetrysuperhighway.com )
and has hosted the weekly Cobalt Cafe reading since 1994.
He’s authored 14 collections of poetry, most recently "Death
of a Mauve Bat" and "Sinzibuckwood", and edited “A Poet’s Haggadah”
and the Noir anthology “The Night Goes on All Night.” He is regularly
featured at venues throughout Southern California and works as a music
teacher and graphic designer for anyone who would like to help pay his mortgage.
"Death of A Mauve Bat" may be purchased at:
http://poetrysuperhighway.com
a world wonder
Niagara Falls.
We don disposable blue ponchos
and ride an elevator to a boat
which takes us into the mist.
Across the river
America, land of the me,
home of the...
Signals are bouncing.
our cell phones can't decide
what country they are in.
The world dies a little
as we put on our second
disposable poncho of the day.
We are preparing to go
Behind the Falls. I am
reminded of the joke
on the Jungle Cruise where
They take you behind the Falls
and call it the back side of water.
Addie says
she is thirsty.
I point.
Even the Amish are here
Behind the Falls. Everyone
wants to see God's wonders.
We are an army dressed in
yellow plastic. The enemy is the wet.
The poncho, our defense.
More gallons of water pass
in front of us than we can count.
We could power Toronto,
build a Casa Loma
get in a barrel and pray.
We wouldn't want to count.
At the end you can buy
anything with the words
Niagara Falls on it
a shot glass
a thimble
a picture of you.
In the right restaurant here
they'll carve your image into a steak.
They'll make a gravy falls,
a mashed potato Mist Maid.
I keep forgetting I'm not in America.
I wish everyone would forget.
Rick Lupert has been involved with L.A. poetry since 1990.
He created the Poetry Super Highway (http://poetrysuperhighway.com )
and has hosted the weekly Cobalt Cafe reading since 1994.
He’s authored 14 collections of poetry, most recently "Death
of a Mauve Bat" and "Sinzibuckwood", and edited “A Poet’s Haggadah”
and the Noir anthology “The Night Goes on All Night.” He is regularly
featured at venues throughout Southern California and works as a music
teacher and graphic designer for anyone who would like to help pay his mortgage.
"Death of A Mauve Bat" may be purchased at:
http://poetrysuperhighway.com
At the End of the Street, by Jay Passer (1/14/13)
what worries me
is the last meal
the food stomached
just done dying
chewed up and swallowed
organisms still alive bacterially
while there I lie stiff as a surfboard
the laughing cosmos and dogs
the rosemary milk and wet shoes
the tattoos unfinished the girls
and the lies I never said goodbye to
Seal Rock at the bottom of the street
where San Francisco ends
the whole business like ice in a glass
never as much well-known as finished
what bothers me
are the clothes left over nobody wants
the patchwork of socks and drawers
a clip on tie for a wedding ending in divorce
and the gnats of my resistance sucking air
lying there with only pint bottles of breath left
the voice on the voicemail
‘please leave a message’
a testimony to melancholy tenure
they say don’t leave adjectives
in the wake of a living born on the surf
and ebb of planetary deception
before the pier engulfed me with police reportage
before the gulls fed from crumbs cascaded from lighthouse window
as God crowded out the blue light with shortcomings of apocalypse
as the shit hit the vein and the gullet wondered what happened
popping one in the gut and ended up in the ER
yellow bile and the familiar urge to awaken full of ire
broken by mindless straps of bedsprings screeching
feelings weeping and gas company on the prowl
empty bank account and the last supper gone to collections
olive of Laconia basil of St Andrew apricot of Cappadocia
back to the soil from which sprang the original hunger
painless on a slab of modernity
delegating compulsion
to lesser means
what slays me
in the heart of my being
is lamb chop and bitter greens
Jay Passer was born in 1965 in San Francisco, California.
His fiction and poetry has been published extensively in print
and online. He is the author of 9 books of poetry, most recently
"At the End of the Street" (Corrupt Press, Paris, 2012).
"At the End of the Street" may be purchased at:
http://corruptpress.net/?q=node/50 or at City Lights Books
This poem appeared previously in 3:AM Magazine
is the last meal
the food stomached
just done dying
chewed up and swallowed
organisms still alive bacterially
while there I lie stiff as a surfboard
the laughing cosmos and dogs
the rosemary milk and wet shoes
the tattoos unfinished the girls
and the lies I never said goodbye to
Seal Rock at the bottom of the street
where San Francisco ends
the whole business like ice in a glass
never as much well-known as finished
what bothers me
are the clothes left over nobody wants
the patchwork of socks and drawers
a clip on tie for a wedding ending in divorce
and the gnats of my resistance sucking air
lying there with only pint bottles of breath left
the voice on the voicemail
‘please leave a message’
a testimony to melancholy tenure
they say don’t leave adjectives
in the wake of a living born on the surf
and ebb of planetary deception
before the pier engulfed me with police reportage
before the gulls fed from crumbs cascaded from lighthouse window
as God crowded out the blue light with shortcomings of apocalypse
as the shit hit the vein and the gullet wondered what happened
popping one in the gut and ended up in the ER
yellow bile and the familiar urge to awaken full of ire
broken by mindless straps of bedsprings screeching
feelings weeping and gas company on the prowl
empty bank account and the last supper gone to collections
olive of Laconia basil of St Andrew apricot of Cappadocia
back to the soil from which sprang the original hunger
painless on a slab of modernity
delegating compulsion
to lesser means
what slays me
in the heart of my being
is lamb chop and bitter greens
Jay Passer was born in 1965 in San Francisco, California.
His fiction and poetry has been published extensively in print
and online. He is the author of 9 books of poetry, most recently
"At the End of the Street" (Corrupt Press, Paris, 2012).
"At the End of the Street" may be purchased at:
http://corruptpress.net/?q=node/50 or at City Lights Books
This poem appeared previously in 3:AM Magazine
