Dog Song.

Sylvia Berta Alaniz

I just heard someone
beating a dog.
The whining of the dog
pierced my being
and come out the other side,
like a memory of those cries
that were already inside me -
waiting to spontaneously jump
into my mind.
The cry of the dog
ran down the street
toward my neighbor’s house,
expecting somebody
to catch it,
and maybe being it back.
As though the animal’s whimpering
and high whining were now
permanently mine.

Breathe

Caron Andregg

Of all our indulgences
I most miss your kiss
The one that steals my breath
The one that drives me mad
Where time becomes an empty glass
Our bodies empty shells
No legs, no hands, no eyes
Oblivious
All that we are is liquid
Slung along spiraling tongues
The click of your fine white teeth
The taste of your mouth
Let me live in that kiss
And please
Don’t make me
Breathe

Untitled

Salima Alikhan

And you bury yourself deep deep deep in me
Needing me
Spiraling down into God with me
Luring Christ to come and watch
And sit back on his heels and nod in approving unsentimental
yet sympathetic Love
For these Lovers who abandon their fortunes, heads aching,
drowning in vortexes of each other
The same hellish black vortex familiar in both chests
trying for a single moment to forget
its own ugly face
Christ’s smile is half-amused

I Am Not A Team Player

Cynthia Arbuthnot

I am not a team player. Other people may think I am arrogant, antisocial, and rude, but I am not. I just like to do my own thing my way, and if other people think that there is anything wrong with that, then they are wrong. I do not judge them by saying that they are communistic, socialistic, and nosy. Therefore, why should they have the right to say cruel things about me just because I prefer to do things the way I want them done, all by myself.
Even when I was a child, I was this way. My grandmother once told me that when my children are in school, I should get a job just to be around other people. My mother and grandmother are not great people’s persons, either, and my grandmother blames this on the fact that they were homemakers for so many years. In Grandma’s case, perhaps, but I do not think my mother was ever a people’s person.
My mother is just quiet and tends to like to do things like sew, read, garden, and spend time with her cats. A lot of people would say that she is reclusive, but what is wrong with that? I think that if you enjoy spending time alone, there is nothing wrong with it. For some people, like my aunt (a realtor), there would be something wrong, because my aunt likes to be in the company of people all the time. To be in the company of people all the time would drive my mother crazy.
My mother is not as reclusive as other people think, either. She is a beautician who works with other people all day long. She has the Type B personality needed in order to do this job and enjoy it. I, on the other hand, am more of a Type A person who would get impatient with people complaining and have to go to something else fairly soon. I think my mother has earned her free time alone with her books, cats, garden, and crafts.
I think the main problem certain members of my family have with Grandma is that she calls them almost daily and wants them to come over to visit. Grandma tends to get a little upset when no one will come visit her. Therefore, her arthritis or Parkinson’s get a little worse. I know that she has problems with these things, but what I do not know is whether or not she plays them up in order to get company. There are some members of my family who say yes, and others who say no. I say that she is Grandma, therefore, she should get respect from her offspring and attention.
I do not feel that I am antisocial or anything like that. To me, antisocial behavior consists of things like vandalism and maliciousness toward other people or animals. I am not malicious or destructive. I just do not like people around me all of the time. I like sports that feature individuals competing against each other as opposed to sports where teams compete against other teams. I am a very competitive person at heart, so I am not a reclusive person. How can someone be competitive and reclusive at the same time?
When I was in high school and college, I tended to choose passive partners for projects that called for “lab partners.” My reason for this was simple: I like to do things by myself and feel that other people slow me down. My passive partner took notes while I did the project and dictated what he/she should write down. This way, we both learned something from the project while at the same time doing what we liked to do best. This is the part where other people who do not understand would say that I am an arrogant person. I am not arrogant. I just like to do things my way and get what I feel are the best results for my partner and me. Invariably, the people I chose did not want to do the “hands on” part of the lab, and I liked that part the most, so this worked out well for both of us.
To summarize, some people are social animals. These people enjoy having other people around all the time and are stimulated by the interpersonal activities going on. Other people like to be left alone to pursue their own agendas. These people are stimulated by the pursuit of things they feel are important not only to them, but possibly to other people who may reap the benefits later. There is nothing wrong with either viewpoint, because they are both viewpoints and the people who follow them are happy and healthy people.

Loss is an Aphrodisiac

Mordantia Bat

When I learned to deal
with my own fears about abandonment
by pushing people away first,
I thought I’d learned such a clever trick.
I congratulated myself
on my independence and self-sufficiency,
pretending
that when I started to weep uncontrollably
after drinking a bottle or two of wine
that I was just drunk.

TIME

Jessica Arluck

if time were made out of logic
it would play in rewind
for disillusion thrives on years
as inevitable experiences regress the soul

birth

Madeleine Baran

Birth is no priviledge
lifting me out of
the bundle of flesh
the doctor grinned
sarcastically,
went to the cash register
rang up the bill,
and forgot to give her a receipt.

well, tell me what you thought...
love,
maddy

Dream of Loneliness

Dancing Bear

you are here
a dance at midnight
dressed in June
alone watch wait
satellite pale
no wonderment
tears for the loss of excitement
blue eye tide
wind ripples velvet skin
Ñwhat is empty never fillsÑ
comfortable solitude
among small dancers
desperate to connect
circle you - ice real
move to the music of silence
damn your continents drift
and you cannot care
or reach out
even as lights begin to dim

windows of the soul

Jessica Baxter

Azure Orbs
heavy with old grief
reminiscent of another pale soul
revealing salted wounds.

For me, that old feeling
mixed with forboding.
I understand the futility
of that pain
but cateracts blind the translucent blue
spooked because they cannot see
my good intentions.

I want to swim
in enticing oceans
though clearly,
sharks patrol those waters.

Tommy’s Tale

Erin Bealmear

I was always looking for something
to do. When I was thirteen I spent a year
planning a way for Gilligan to get off
the island. Every time the Skipper
got angry and started to perspire
I thought he was going to hack up Gilligan.
My mother said I was too attached
to the show. “Tommy, you’re like a dog
fucking another dog, you can’t let go.”

A Row of Burning...

ernie Bernstein

bushes lights our way to grandfather’s
house on this crisp Thanksgiving Day.
The bushes glow in crimson

light between the white white
snow. We walk the lane as we
walked it before, momma and

me with our daughter Jan;
just us three to grandma’s
place in the deep deep country

with a burning bush and a burning
bush as we make our way
this November Thanksgiving Day

xanax

jeana bonacci

tiny x
x-ed out my eyes
led me to away to some
sleepy time asylum
scribble out those anxiety slayers
doctor
forget addiction
and let me creep off into a
lazy eyed, quiet
pacifist ideal

Cantaloupe

Gina Bergamino

He like her, even thought she was a woman. He forced himself to touch her when she cried. As a child, his mother would wake up every morning screaming, seizing the panic. Melons smashed against the tile wall, books bolted across the dining room, one time her own blood spurting to the beige carpet. But that was the last time and the only way her remembers her. He touches her tears with his fingertips, but they roll too fast to wipe away. “Do you love me?” Angela asks, slowly lifting her eyes to meet his. “Yes.” he manages back as he kisses her bent thumb. “Then move in with me” she pleas. In his head all he can see are melons, shattered crystal, his father loading the gun. Breakfast at Denny’s would cure it all. Doesn’t it always? The all-you-can-eat bar like a 3-D painting as he watches the hands pulling and grabbing beneath the glass. But he would never eat the fruit, no matter how sweet and ripe it looked.

Untitled

Anthony Lucero

my poem for christmas
is my poem for christmas
it’s for no one else but me
merry christmas
anthony

at the lake

Charles Bernstein

holding hands, we
abandon sorrowing tales of woe
twisted new york suburbanized
terrorism at its best
raw egg faces glistening
like rat teeth in your dreams
holes disappear overnight
you are safe for the moment,
safe here tonight

a bad dream

john binns

I had a bad dream,
I was struck by lightning
And there was a hole
In my stomach
A foot wide,
I nearly died
But not quite

America

Larry Blazek

take what you want
with guns
never mind
malcolm’s chickens

A 20 Minute Visit

Ben Beyerlein

Everything’s the same except she’s unusually happy. I look at the two things that interest me in this too small space. And sice neither of them interest me that much, I skim through the movie summaries on the back of the cases while I watch the fuzzy television screen. She always seems to have baseball on. My attention is almost distracted when I hear her listing how she’s been trying to fix her life. But I realize they’re the same things I tried, only when I tried them I didn’t have anybody to tell that I was trying them. Now I’m mesmerized by the clean-cut close-ups of the baseball players on the fuzzy screen. I don’t want to answer her question, even though I doubt that she’ll ever be able to answer it herself.

green bananas

alan britt

You had the greenest bananas.
They were unborn parrots
or the skies
of adolescent passion.

75 Miles an Hour.

Jack Bowman

The engine accelerated to a comfortable hum
as the distance shrank pulled back
beneath the wheels
he felt the harsh laboring of life
masked in the clarity of the engine in motion
this day was not what he dreamt
but what occurred regardless
he had no control, little influence
except over the truck and the
semblances of life
passing by at
75 miles an hour.

Freeways as Seen Near Gargoyles

Lida Broadhurst

Freeways straddling the undergrowth like animals,
Whose creators omitted brains or heart,
Offer contrast to gargoyles.

Those stone masks carved from hatred
Provide catharthis for the sculptor, although
Rain, not invective, pours from silent lips.

a street called pain

b. benedict braddock

Carmine Stellano sat on his front porch and gazed down in the direction of Washington park. Some of the boys were shooting hoops while Johnny Pop made his daily quota. He was pacing back and forth across the parking lot, trying to ignore the crack heads that were pestering him for a handout. Every few minutes a car would pull up and Johnny would lean into the drivers window to make the deal. He had learned not to remove himself from the window until the cash was in his hand. They’d burn you every time they could on the hill. Carmine turned back toward the street and thought about Vinny. He was one of those guys you met and never forgot. If it hadn’t been for his habit he might’ve been something really big, something people respected. They had found him in a closet last Sunday morning. The police said it was suicide, but word on the street was there wasn’t a chair or ladder. The boy had gotten whacked. Johnny Pop was driving Vinny’s car these days. He had his stereo and gold watch too. Hell, he even had his girl. It was funny what crack would buy on the hill. Word was that some boys from the city had fronted Vinny an ounce of snow for the weekend. He had always been good before about paying his tab by deadline. He had made himself a name in the park, even cutting out Johnny Pop now and then. But not this time. He used the stuff himself. The boys came for the pay back, no money, no dope... then it was Sunday morning. Carmine wondered if Vinny really didn’t have the cash. He had never freaked and burned anybody like that before. Across the street Rita was searching through the tall grass for cans. If she got enough of them she would cash them in at the corner market and cop a nickel bag of off Johnny Pop. If not, she would be his personal sex slave for the whole night, and for probably the same amount of crack the cans would’ve gotten her. He watched the Jehovah’s witnesses over at Mrs. Reynold’s house. One thing was for sure, they wouldn’t stop and offer Rita one of their little booklets. They would walk right past her like she was a dog and move on to the next house. Bullshit.
Carmine hadn’t exactly found religion, more like just another chance. He wasn’t about to go preaching door to door, but he wasn’t gonna hang in the park anymore either. They stayed in their back yard and he stayed in his. Carmine watched his back if the boys passed on the street though. They didn’t let you out that easy. The way they figured it, if you cleaned up you were on the fiveO’s payroll. And a rep like that could get you into the closet next to Vinny. Mrs. Reynolds got tired of the religion freaks and slammed the door in their faces. They started to cross the street, saw Carmine, and changed their minds. Looking like he did had it’s advantages. He had changed his outlook, not his wrapper. The doorway preachers were apparently intimidated. As he suspected they walked right past Rita. She had tried to say hello but couldn’t talk. She was coming down hard as usual. Carmine called across the street to her. “Yo, Rita.” The girl looked up for a moment and then right back down to the ground. She was searching now to see if any of the boys had dropped a bag while walking to the park. They never did, but she always checked. “Rita.” She saw him now and started across the street. Carmine stood up. “Whoa, Baby. Watch out for the cars, girl.” Somehow she made it across without getting killed. Carmine reached into his pocket. “Here, Rita. Here’s five bucks. You keep hanging on the street and they’re gonna bust you sure as hell.” The girl smiled but still couldn’t talk. She grabbed the bill and ran down toward the park and Johnny Pop. It would last her five minutes and then she’d be right back searching for cans and viles along the street.

Carmine had only been clean for a few months, but it felt good, really good. It bothered him still being in the neighborhood and all. The hill district was no place to be when you were trying to kick the habit. Carmine saw Rita reach Johnny Pop down the street. The boy smiled like he knew he owned her. Carmine regretted giving her the five bucks.

Mother

B.J. Brown

I wear God,
Around my neck.

The Disease

Stephanie Jean Adams

(To anyone who has known someone who had fought or is fighting cancer)

The bloodthirsty creature runs mad through this unknown realm
The attack so rapid and unpredictable
The world at an unspoken pause
For it wasn’t until this day, that I was attentive
That horrifying disease could rupture anyone’s soul.

The child’s face I thought I knew, now pale, swollen, and shattered
What once shown bright and starlit eyes
Now dark, hopeless and tired
Long days gone by and nights so cold
Many more to come before the beast is conquered.

An endless prayer in this mind
An eternity of hope
For that child’s face I know to give his strength and courage
For I wish to see the effervescent smile again
I pray for all eternity that this monster gets defeated.

The Old Man

William C. Burns, Jr.

He bragged about
beating Death at its own game
His sweat mixing with the soap
as he washed the car
His ratty T-shirt
showing his freckles and moles
on his back
And the scar of the man
that tried to kill him

ENDS

Michael H. Brownstein

(after an Aztec myth)

They gave me five wives for a year
and asked me to walk to the stone knife.
I did this willingly, not like the tales of history,
but because I had to.
I was god,
the closest one to the sun,
the owner of the heart that grows larger.
Without me the sun will stop in the sky.
I alone walk the steps.
I alone meet the knife.
I alone give my heart to the sun.

Untitled

carol f. brown

Heartbeats in the dark
short, deep breaths
moist internal quivering.

Night Sounds Revisited

Jane Butkin Roth

I lie in my own bed, own a child’s body, own a child’s heart, need my bedtime story, need my mama’s kiss, some sweet lullaby she singsÑ I know she singsÑ but I have no mama, there’s no childhood here, no bedtime comforts, only night noise; that’s our ritual. And what I fear is what I know, and I know there is no safety where there is this sound. Someone! Stop the noise, my night sounds. Mama! Rescue me! My heart beats wild, jump-starts in the dark as his footsteps move closer. Coming for me, or my brother.... And I climb on my familiar ride, my wave of nausea, as I brace myself again against that first slice. That’s when I hear the sound of his footsteps and my ripping flesh; it’s one noise. Schoolmates safe at home have their tooth fairies and their mamas who smell of rosewater, have their fathers who read Grimms, or play catch after dinner... and all the while, we are dancing to a tangled and discordant music; we memorize the steps, know the refrain... by heart. It’s allÑ routine. I say my prayers, make my nightly promise to my dead mama, to my brother, to myself: I will not cry; refuse to shed one tear. I will not give my Daddy that.

Your Daughters

janine canan

Mother, do you really prefer
your sons to us, your daughters?

It seems forever my sisters and I
have sought your shining gaze.

How much longer must we lug around
these boulders of our broken hearts.

SO SEDUCTIVE

Joyce Carbone

Your voice in the early morning,
but later for you, filled
with sadness of knowing,
coming across these many miles,
a poetry set to musical throb,
guitar strums a softer background
for two languages.

Let the past go,
your voice croons;
A pastness is covered by another,
a newness birthed.
Relinquish old wounds,
forget forget the cruelty
inflicted.

Minor miracles happen;
sounds convey his
thoughtfulness from
thousands of miles away.

the general

laurie calhoun

pentagonal head
filled with calcified
pentagonal brains
that can’r change
only mutilate and destroy
the pegs which don’t fit
in pentagonal holes

Eleven

Chantene

phantom of a
morbid carousel.
Your innocent
sweet voice mocks
your wicked poition
your monotinous
voice ridicules my
intelligence
hate
turnes to a trend
different alternations
trend
leave me
alone

Acknowledgements

alan catlin

Wide-Open
South Plorida Poetry Review
Florida Review
Polio
Visions
Poked with Sticks
Taurus
Mad River Review
Art Mag
Fire
Piddiddle
Frugal Chariot
Riverwind
Open 24 Hours
Fennel Stalk
Yammering Twits
Poetic Space
Burying the Dead
Enright House Poetry Anthology

payday

d. phillip caron

In a pawn shop window
on East Main at sixteenth
there is a class ring
embossed Trojans sixty-nine.
Under it in scroll leaf
a dueling pistol with wooden case
from seventeen hundred France.
I put my television on the counter
and hope fifty is a good number.
There is an emtpy whiskey bottle
by the door
from 1905 Lewisville
with a tag that says sixteen dollars
beside a help wanted sign.
A Twenty-two in my pocket;
small, heavy and shiny
but its hard to go home
empty handed.

IT

chaffin

I told him to go get it. He told me he couldn’t find it; this child of mine with long, thick, curly, dark brown hair and big brown puppy-dog eyes. We both knew he hadn’t even looked.
I was his hero, being in the Navy and always coming and going. His mother was the disciplinarian. He would argue with her about anything. For me, he would do anything without question, yet here he sat on my lap insisting he could not find it.
I made a stern face telling him to go Lind it now; leaving no room for discussion. He crawled off my lap, head hanging and marched slowly toward his room. I smiled thinking what a wonderful actor he, would make someday, but stopped when he turned to give me one last sad-eyed look. Seeing it was useless he continued his death march.
My curiosity got the better of me. I tip-toed to his room and peeked in. I found him standing in the middle of his room, head tilted back, staring at the point where the walls join the ceiling. He did this rocking heel-toe step, turning a complete circle never taking his eyes off of that point.
I got back to my chair in the kitchen just in time. He walked in with his head hanging. He crawled unto my lap, hugged my neck, kissed my cheek and said quite earnestly, “I look everywhere!” with a smile I couldn’t hide I said, “Come on...”
It has been many years and I’ve long forgotten what it was.

A Fellow Bird, of An Ode To The Spring Of Life

George Christ

From dark horizons where the sun does rise
Into blue eternal tapestry skies
Where light-hearted clouds waiver and dance,
A fellow bird can be heard singing some
Jocund melody on its woddly branch.
Wantonly chirping to nature its praise
For dividing nights from summer days
And bringing light in spite of winter’s cowl,
That forth like larger birds of prey must come,
Devouring in its swoop all weakened fowl.
Rejoice we must for cageless carefree delight,
Remembering that dark will again fall,
In claiming the last breaths of earth and all.

coffeehouse vampire

Pete Cholewinski

Voice of poetic interpretation
whispering through mary jane:
“I have sixteen personalities,
and I dream about death.”

Gothic in combat boots,
eyes skewer bimbos
who “Omigod!” at vampires
and evaporate in passing crowds.

Blacknailed, tattooed thunderclap
of autonomous poison pain,
alienating a real world
that fears your unexpressed bite.

goal and its accessaries

james colin

Alone atop a barbed wire fence,
the escapist flaunts his balance.
He takes his time.
His poise distracts the markamen.
A car waits, its engine rumbles
with words. The driver reacts to every
sound with fist-clenched glee.
The escapist jumps and rolls
in a ball of elastic bangs and string.
The marksmen miss.
The car roars down the city road.
The escapist’s cackling laugh
reminds the driver of loose fan belts
and female malcontents.
The tourists in the trunk
feel for their package brochures.
A fat lady sparks a light.
Underlined in red are hideout and soliloquy.

Rest in Peace

Adam Clay

It’s a low silo
with no cows
or chickens straying
at its weedy feet.

A stroke killed
Farmer Jones
two years
ago today,
the once red,
now gret, silo
reminds me.

Famous Friday Night Off

Paul Cordeiro

I had some wine last night,
scraped a callous with a special tool,
and ate some carrots and nuts.

EULAH’S WAKE

David E. Cowen

Debris of war
midst hollowed houses.

A robin sings;
rebuilding,
in fractured branches.

Alone and I

Rachel Crawford

Alone and I are partners
Alone waits for me at night
Consumes by body and my life
Alond makes love to me
Wraps it’s legs arms and legs
Around me as I sleep
Alone understands my moods
And consoles me when I cry
Alone will be my friend
Until the day I die

excerpt from Wedding Poem for Brother Bob

Bruce Curley

And I remember, Brother
those days
at Holy Angels Grade School
when we watched
for hours
The Cross of Christ
and The Flag of Our Country
and we heard Mother Superior say
President Kennedy had just been shot
so we all said a Rosary together
and went home holding hands
because something terrible and adult
had just intruded
into our innocent lives.

Xmas Party 5 Floors Madonna

brian daly

Last year’s was an orgy.
I got laid twice at once
but neither was the right girl.
By the time I tracked you down
you’d passed out in a tub.

Pardon, if you can, that same
old lust breaking out tonight.
Let me be a fool again and
leave you lying somewhereÑ
you, the one I really want.

THE LADIES OF EBENEEZER

Miles C. Daniels

He used to have a penis. At least that is what they are whispering from the pews of Ebeneezer First Baptist Church. Sister Novella remembers him playing Barbies with her two daughters. He had loved to dress them in tight-fitting party gowns, and was known to steal Mary Kay products from her vanity.
The local teen darlings had idolized him, so did the church music director.
When she first premiered Hair Spray, nobody recognized the fashionable woman. D-o-n-n-a, the beautician’s name flashed in pink lights outside her corner salon. She owned a one-woman operation: hair, nails and appointment-only rubdowns.
Kneading was reserved for late evenings and that really flustered the god-fearing.
At age seven, he’d been able to reach notes higher than any tenor in Camden County’s cluster of church choirs. Each and every Christmas Eve he blessed the congregation with his own rendition of “Joy to the World”, which sounded much like rock pianist Jerry Lee Lewis. Some church folk found it wicked, others commented on how Mrs. Johnson’s boy could really tickle those ivories.
His minister, Reverend Chase, often preached against worldly knowledge. “Education, the Don Juan of faith” was one of his most famous deliveries. The church’s tape engineer alleges that he sold fifteen copies of the exhortation that Sunday.
Male bars and dancing on tables in Raleigh were popular coffee conversations. Sister Pauline first heard about the jelly boobs and long hair at her Monday evening Bible study. The prescription for the permanent removal of facial hair bewildered the ladies missionary circle.
Three months and two days before she was diagnosed with the four-letter disease, Donna graced the old white church and sat on the pew next to the nursery. She sang the soprano line for “It is Well With My Soul”. And Sister Mazola, who just celebrated her thirtieth year as the church’s organist, swears she noticed a black tear dripping from her chin.
When the alter call was given, Donna quietly grabbed her purse and swaggered out the back door. Until today, that was the last time members of the Baptist church saw her.
She looks angelic all decked out in front of the communion table. Her hair is perfectly teased and her boobs look to have grown since the last time she haunted the sanctuary. The twelve-inch heels and sequenced black dress seem heavenly atop the maroon pillows.
The crowd is so large that the deacons had to fetch metal folding chairs from the fellowship hall. Mrs. Johnson is perched on the second row with a few distant cousins. Mr. Johnson decided to go possum hunting.

amazing how

john alan douglas

amazing how
when one has a few reverses in life
and worse comes to worse
how much of your life
can be put
into one little
room

Refugee Tear

Eric Leake

A sly tear does descend my face
Another quickly takes its place
It trickles down my sunkissed cheek
An escape from pain is what it seeks.

Life is a Novel

Melissa Dawson

As you flip through the pages of life,
You uncover many mysteries.
You uncover many secrets,
Some may bring you sadness,
Some, much happiness and excitement.

As you read the chapters of life,
You may suddenly feel the words.
They may remind you of your past,
Or introduce you to your future.

As you look at the cover of life,
You see many images.
ike looking through a crystal ball,
You see life as it is,
Not what you want it to be.
Life is a Novel.

Living inside of me

Melissa Denman

I think about the memories of that time,
when I finally was getting what I wanted, and my life was starting to become mine.
I was living out what I had planned out in my head,
I was sick of all the lies and critism I was being fed.

I took my mind and wrapped it in my plastic pajamas
and buried my mind underneath the sand.
I didn’t want to be looked or stared at,
didn’t even want to touch my own hand.

It’s still living inside me,
these memories that still come to haunt me.
it’s a voice telling me “was it worth it,
to have everything you want, but still feel like nothing inside.”?
I thought about it, but it’s a choice you have to make when you
feel like you’ve already died.

but I think I have..................

The King Works as a Gas Station Attendant at the Circle K By My House

Holly Day

Elvis
ripped me off again
today

Kaleidoscope

ora wilbert eads

If people are hungry
Anywhere in America,
It is clearly their fault
According to right wing radicals;
No rational person
In the fifty states
Accepts such hogwash;
For it is morally obnoxious;
Conscious demands refutation
Of bias so blatant:
Most beneficiaries of food stamps
Are dependent children.

DEAD SUMMER

Joan Papalia Eisert

my face swells
with silent screaming
as heat creeps
over my skin
ve been sculpting
with running clay

Answer Machine

Cindy Duhe

“Give me a call”
she said on the machine
but I couldn’t
not this time
since I was
being tied up by the man
whose call I had
returned.

Viewing Life From My Kitchen Window

gene fehler

Stretched between me and my high school
basketball game is sleet-covered dark of ground.

I remember last week’s game, the bus ride
singing “Jamaica Farewell” off key, the necking

with Judy in the back, the talking with Curtis
afterwards on the freezing streetlit corner,

the write-up in the paper the next day,
the congratulations from giggly girls.

I stand by my kitchen window, staring at the
sleet-covered dark of grounds, waiting.

when Patti would fall asleep

Michael Estabrook

her pretty head light
upon my shoulder I’d concentrate
on keeping as still
as a stuffed otter barely blinking
or even breathing listening
to the space
all around me.

Passion Doll

D. Michael McNamara

She’s a Passion Doll,
revealing bones decades dead
risen from the mud.

Milk Fire

greg evason

I need a beer
I need a greed
I need something more
than this

COME THE CERTAIN DARK TIMES,

Richard Fein

I’ll need this rainy morning remembrance
of my taking him to school:
he jumping in and out of puddles
ignoring my halfhearted scolding,
a warm, gentle rain falling on all the muted street hues,
his yellow raincoat a bright beacon on this gray day,
his last furtive kiss out of sight from his classmates,
the long line of drizzled-on munchkins,
his last look at me, his final wave.
His final wave.
Iron doors slam shut.
Now pointless, even suspicious, to remain.
But come the certain dark times,
I’ll draw on this memory.

Solo

J. Cromwell Finkes

I’ve never been on this trail before,
it is completely new to me,
an unknown place
in time and space as
I set out upon it.

Step by step on stones that lie
in single file upon the ground.
What Ancient put them here for me?
A mind much greater than I’ve found.

The mystery intrigues -
it calls with quiet voice,
promises of something new,
it’s truth, the child of choice.
I’ve never been on this trail before.
I’ll go alone.

Norris Springs

Carolyn Files

Water trickles out of a copper pipe
Jutting out of the side of the hill.
Beer cans, McDonalds’ sacks, cigarette packs decorate the landscape.
Sharp contrast to the spring’s beginnings.
Story goes the spring begins in Canada -
Ends up in Louisiana hills.
Used to, the locals got their water here.
It was pretty then -
A rocked up area where the water pooled,
Where livestock drank, and people talked.
Now the loveliest part of the spring
Is the reflection of the past.

Playing

Maura Gage

Playing guitar on the beach,
love was so close in reach,
they decided to run
and swin as everyone else
drank and smoked.
Moonlight glowed appealingly
and all seemed peaceful
as they rocked together
at the edge of water,
pink sun edging the horizon,
and humidity clinging to them,
salt sticky on their skin.

IT

dave gitomer

is it not what’s carried
is it not what’s discarded,
or even attempted to be kept,
nor attempting keeping.
what is it?

anxiety

jeff foster

a visceral performance artist
she performs in the nude
inviting members of her audience
to examine her cervix with a flashlight

she smears herself with chocolate
sugaring poetics of endowment
pissing on pictures of christ
and making vegetables disappear

the rain is falling on a lake

harold fleming

Nothing on the surface
but a diminishing circle
where a bass
just missed a drop

that turned into
lake water. I think

of those fortunate
enough to watch

a child allowed
to walk
on bare feet
on wet sand.

Salamander Camp

E. Fleischman

and i’m grateful to come from dream
into the liquid of myself,
and to feel how our bodies
spill from sleeping
bags stretched by night’s weight

female

Scott Glass

sometimes when I’m walking a pigeon
will leap from its ledge and flap above
my head like somebody shaking heavy
corduroy coats from a window startling me.

And when I look back she’s gone.

A STUDY IN SHEETS

Taylor Graham

All night he lumbers with the dream-weight
of outstretched nudes Ñ the ones who flaunt
feverish ripples and saltwater curves,
dry-mouthed wanderings of thigh and
underside of tongue. Such fragments
of dreams. They moan and waggle.
By morning the air gags. He gargles
and wishes she would just come home.
Oh, he would sleep with her conditions.

The Terror

Christopher Mulrooney

Corwan knows blackness and the void, and Hitchcock and Poe. Beyond this, Pirannesi.

At The Docks

Mark Graham

This sailor I know just
bought a new yacht, so
I went to the docks
and said, “Hey, Todd!
I’ve got to take a piss,
so I came to christen
your boat.”

He was a bit offended.
“Is that the kind of
poetry you write?” He
asked

Now I was a bit offended.

FEBRUARY EVENING SKY

Richard M. Grove

There is hope on the horizon,
with our setting sun,
5:05pm,
the amber beam of her brilliance,
still unset,
inches from disappearing,
over the blanketed silver hills,
of the still winter landscape.
Minutes later,
Venus and Saturn,
bright in the western sky.
Venus in her brilliant glory.
Saturn, a pin prick,
saddled fatefully beside her wonderment.
Both reflecting the sun’s now set resplendence.

MY CHILDREN

Godfrey Green

They follow me to the hallway,
lambs at my side; eager to perform.
Petite bodies, fidgeting, squirming;
child voices puzzling out the pieces.
My hands move delicately, for I am a builder,
a mender. I am warmth, the balmy breeze,
scattering the seeds I hope will sprout.
My rainbow underside unfolds, expands.
I wait, watching as a hawk.
Instantly, I hook onto the child’s spirit.
Sometimes I grow wings and soar.
I carry my charges till they are swept away.
So much the children give me, without meaning to.
They all want to come with me!
They all shun me.

approaching her sixth month

eugene gryniewicz

The perfect disguise wears a baby in her belly,
swelling to fit the part, holding her part adjusting
strings and wires and straps. She walks
awkwardly across the room; her legs bow.
Her fingers reaching to steady herself,
she sits. Sleeps. Refuses to hold
her meals. At night, she daubs her breasts with
brown powder to make the nipples stand up, looking
full. She exercises muscle contractions
to make her belly jump and writhe. I sleep.
She runs across the lawns, naked, slender, beneath the moon.

Oh, Yes, Agnes

gerald gullickson

Dance of atoms
dance of dancers

Take your choice

Order ordering on order
or order ordering order

You must decide

For we do not
all dance

One way

CHARMING NIKKI

mark hartenbach

has me muttering
incantations
forward & reverse
roaming for a bit
of stop action
incommunicado.
pinching my fingers
in a phallic accordion.
making mince meat
out of my left hand,
the remote in my right.
surfing into
no man’s land
where i’m always
greeted with
a chorus of
emphatic yes sir.

TO LOSE...

Scott Harville

To lose your hopes and dreams
In slaughter,
A father who feels the rape of
His daughter,
And rage becomes his only reason
For being;
To lose your morals and values
To anger,
A warrior with a purpose won’t fear
The danger,
And vengeance becomes the eyes
Of seeing;
To have your will bound,gagged,
And stampeded,
And know justice in your life won’t
Be completed,
And faith’s the fugitive that’s
Forever fleeing.

Untitled

James Hartnett

the sign reads
regular $1.15
and bush says
war is fine
that death is
negotiable
and I watch on t.v.
as they drag
an empty body
and throw it
on the pile

The Feeding

mary hausman

(Hour 1):
I order wine on the plane. I have not been drinking. That is, I have not been drinking on a regular basis. This trip home, to Texas, I had a glass of red wine at my sister Karen’s dinner last Friday night. On Tuesday night, during dinner at a Mexican restaurant in Austin, I had half a margarita, split with Karen. I have had several Sharps, a non-alcoholic (.05 % alcohol) beer. The visit has made me thirsty, as visits home are wont to do.
I am reading Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice. It is mesmerizing and perhaps has me somewhat spellbound. It led me to buy, when I visited Book Woman, an Austin bookstore, a book called Daughters of Darkness, a collection of lesbian vampire stories.

(Hour 2):
I knew I would order the wine as soon as I settled into my seat on the plane. I knew it would be red wine. I knew I would drink it slowly, savoring the redness as well as its bitterness. The thought of the dry red wine teased me long before I ordered it. When finally, the flight attendant brought a small bottle of Sutter Home to me and set a plastic glass on my tray table, my heart quickened. I unscrewed the cap (how uncouth, such an anticipated experience blemished by mediocre red wine in a small screw top bottle, to be drunk from plastic!). But anticipated it was, nonetheless, and I watched with calm as the claret liquid filled the plastic glass. I drew the glass slowly to my lips. I closed my eyes and let the cool red run into my mouth, not a deep drink, just enough to taste the tart warmth I’ve missed these months. I set the glass down, not wanting the experience to end too soon. I ate the chicken dinner, perhaps too quickly. It wasn’t something I enjoyed, really, simply something I must do so the alcohol would not affect me so harshly. Having eaten, I drank from a glass of ice-water I had also ordered; this in hopes of diluting the effect of the wine while not entirely diluting the experience.

(Hour 3):
I read some more from the book. Nearing the finish, I read almost feverishly, stopping periodically to savor the wine. I stretched the experience as long as I could. Once, I rolled the wine within my mouth, letting the liquid become hot against my tongue and the inside of my cheek. As I looked down, the juxtaposition of the red wine against my pale hands with their bright red painted nails holding Interview with the Vampire, did not escape me. I was fully conscience of how I savored the wine, a long-lost need, waiting patiently, sensuously for it to fill my veins. I made love to the edge of the plastic cup, from whence flowed the heat I needed to fill me, knowing that I would need it again and again. Knowing that, left to my own devices, I would take it, again and again. Knowing, I am not so unlike the vampire.

in this poem the
protagonist shoots himself

Ray Heinrich

bang

bask

John Hayes

children of leisure bask
in the sun while you may
one day the worker will rise up and say
come children of leisure,
come work for yourselves.

This was My Mother
Her Name was Dorothy

Nancy L’enz Hogan

Passionate always, never passive
shaking with courage
fighting for life for
me - her child, for her, as mother
together
Too much love in
distraction, with the struggles
of each day gnawing at the
fleeting thin repose of night
Life bites chunks from Life
devouring itself
The heart breaks with hunger
as love waits barefoot i nthe snow

LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN,
TENNESSEE

John Horvath Jr.

Above Chattanooga
soldiers stand in the smoke mountains spotting
campfires, counting troops that move in the valleys,
and keeping the North, north.

Only treachery untopped the mountain
where tourists idly focus lenses on
the grass covering dead rebels.
If you come late at night one Gray boy
sits on the edge of the precipe
still watching North. Cradling his rifle,
he hums a mother’s lullaby.
Do not move too close behind him
for Confederates do not love surprise.
Some Yankees, whose broken bones
have been found below, learnt this too late.

performance poet

wayne hogan

She was a performance
poet. She carried a white
rooster on her left shoulder
and recited the Gettysburg
Address from large cue cards
held just off stage. The rooster
would tighten its grip ever so
slightly to let the poet know
when she was through, then
the rooster would flap down onto
the floor. The rooster would
leave grip-marks on the
poet’s left shoulder.

haiku number two

pete lee

spinnig to the floor
tiny cigarette ashes
like burning angels

Royalty

Li Min Hua

Marie Laveau, voodoo queen,
bless us with your sharp wit.
An hundred red X’s in tribute
we have scrawled
on your crumbling stone.

Marie Laveau.
embrace Manman Brigitte
around her slender waist
and roll your eyes.

Hear us, Marie Laveau.
Touch us this hot night
lest our fever burn us cold.
Rest not. Rest not, oh queen.
Your subjects kneel
in expectation.

White Trash

Bryon Howell

Your mother
taught you
at a relatively
early age,
the value -
of clipping
coupons

It’s too bad
she wasn’t able
to show you
how
to find
a good man

The coupons
wouldn’t be
needed
to boost
your self-esteem

Your Old Friends

Katie Hoyme

And when we sit and look
We pretend weâre perfect
Puffing away our worries
Drowning in our regrets

I’ll know it all
Before you know it about yourself
How your fears
Are shared by everyone

Like awaiting the birth of a foal
You can smell it in the dust -
The opportune time to dismiss

Leaving behind all the space
You could have spent
Dreaming about your past ~
Fearing what youâll find
And what youâve already forgotten

Freeze Frame

John Hulse

My eyes
can’t quite
open
and just
outside
our bedroom
window
subtle glances
reveal
your grace
breathing out
cool caresses
with every
liquid syllable.

Michaels Restaurant

David Hunter

$2.95; bacon (crispy), eggs (sunny-side up),
toast (brown) and the sideshow: local crims (Russian emigres)
plotting the takeover of Toronto.
They’re welcome to it.
Olgie the waitress pours
me a refill
like she’s draining the vein.

Standing All Alone

John Mark Ivey

standing all alone
in the middle of the day
giving off shadows

EMISHED

Allison Jenks

The octave of us is an avenue
of blackbirds with marbleized wings
As the blacksnake licks the bobcat
in a Herculean daze.
Your impotent homeland spread
the last deep-sea of freckles
on your icy, olive face.
Your blemished hands belong on you like
Auburn liqueur on pale blue tablecloths.
I swim in the black of your eye until it
liquefies like blues in autumn.
We talk like friends of jewel and berry bandits
Erasing halls of bored handwriting.

Your Whispering Touch

Lisa Katherine Hughes

My soul screams at the memory of the pain.
Mother is burned as a child
She cowers in the corner
Please, please leave.
Let me be
Your whispering voice tells me you love me as your searing
hands tell me everything you say is a lie
Your presence follows me to sleep each night.
Peace will not enfold me
I dream of a time when I may feel another’s arms around me and
not be scared or hate or die a little
Love brings life to my soul.
You kill me each time your cold hands touch me.
Mother’s sweet spirit is crushed
The sweetness stolen as a bee molesting a flower.
Yet mother remains surrounded by the pleasant aroma
of peace
of strength
of self.

sensitive dependence

erik e. humbert

She will go and take her sweet soft worked hand
across my face
just slowly, and in three wipes
it is gone onto her fingers
and come back, just a little
across my lips, salty
a forgiven mistake,
and it will wind up on a kleenex
pulled from her purse
and put, red, in her pocket
as another mark of my Don Quixote
need to defend her.

Hearing A New Poem In My Head

James Lee Jobe

On the morning freeway, the sun
in my naive eyes, I am lifted,
join large black birds, ravens maybe,
or crows, and I no longer know
if I am a man, or a bird,
or morning wind against black feathers.

Monsters in my Dreams

Tina L. Jens

You’re just a bad dream.
When I turn on the light, you’ll be gone.
I’ll check the closet for monsters with your face.
I’ll peak under the bed looking for your decapitated, talking head.

But you’re just a figment of my nightmares.
Just one more in a long line of bad dreams.
I’ll banish you with a night light.
And if I have to, I’ll stay up all night
And nap tomorrow afternoon.

#503

m. kettner

father:
eyes hue of bible leather
a good song, though overplayed

waning

Greg Jerrett

waning like a psychotic moon
the light blinding my eyes
i want a new emotion and a new head a new heart and no more shit
i want to feel like a I have a purpose and a plan a focus
no hitches a brain on good chemicals
no short cirucuits no faulty wires
and bad hardware and new software
and a life that i can hold in my mind’s eye
like the right thing to do the right fucking path
the path of least resistance

FOR R.S.B.

robert kimm

full of grace-space
stay on the stump
never get off it
stay on the green

stalking me in the moonlight

gary jurechka

Waking Ð
there are wolf tracks
circling in the snow
of my dreams

the rotate slowly

Todd Kalinski

obviously,
if it isn’t about
Power, Prestige of Fame,
then it must be the bulldozers
shovelling more of what
you’re trying to avoid,
like man & penis,
back into your life.

necessary appliance

Marie Kazalia

the telephone
I do not display prominently
but keep on a low shelf
its muffled rings
heard adequately enough

Untitled

kathy

soft white hands
no traces of physical labor
almost feminine
fingers long and tapered
even cuticles
nails glossy as though they’d been buffed
to make then shine
alabaster appendages on a statue of clay
no callouses
nothing to irritate
never abrasive or harsh or rough
gliding over me so smoothly
that
i never feel a thing.

face painting

debra purdy kong

“Come on, kids, let’s get your faces painted!” Grandma’s strong, powerful voice sliced through trees and spread over two exhibits at the Children’s Festival.
Her three, five, and seven-year-old grandchildren watched two clowns in baggy pants and polka-dot ties arrange paintbrushes on a table. The children gaped in bewilderment at the smaller clown’s spongy, mauve wig, her huge pink nose, and the turquoise stars surrounding her eyes.
“Hurry up,” Grandma urged, “or the other kids will get ahead of you.”
The children looked at her pensively.
“Too late.” Grandma watched a youngster run up to the table. “You’ll have to wait your turn now.” She turned to her grandchildren. “Well, aren’t you going to get in line?”
The boy glanced at her, then looked away as the clowns removed the lids from small pots of paint. While more people gathered, the five-year-old girl reached for her younger sister’s hand.
“Go on,” Grandma insisted. “The other children are having their faces painted. Don’t you want to have yours done too?”
“No,” the boy answered quietly; his sisters shook their heads.
Grandma’s blue eyelids lowered like shields while her pencilled brows rose into the powdered creases of her forehead.
“But it’s free and fun,” she argued. “You don’t want to be the only kids with bare faces, do you?”
The kids shuffled their feet, then stepped away from her. Ignoring the glances of curious parents, grandma scrutinized her children.
“You could at least try,” she stated. Suddenly, their father appeared, smiling. “How’s it going?”
“God, you’ve got bloody strange kids,” his mother remarked. “They don’t want to have their faces painted.”
The man stared at her, then sighed and turned away. His gaze filled with sympathy for his children who looked at the ground, oblivious to the fun and excitement around them. A small hand reached for his.
“Let’s go do something else,” he said gently.
Grandma’s teased and sprayed yellow hair didn’t budge in the breeze as she trailed after them.

DOCTOR PAID BUT OVERRULED

tom kretz

when the unsalted cracker isn’t even crisp
the fake wine doesn’t have a hint of France
woman of phantasies flourishes without you
your teams your dreams your screams crushed
with drink and prayer and think and prayer
with sink and prayer and hope for the best
it’s time to make pressure scatter mercury
with one great effort of holding the breath
exit sharply through unyielding walls of vein.

Vets

Walter Kuchinsky

Mr. B lives in here,
Building Six. He’s pretty fatÑ
always on a dietÑ
walks kind of funny, tooÑ
a World War Two wound.
He’ll never see eighty again,
but he doesn’t show it.

When he sees Mr. CÑ
Mr. C lives in here
tooÑ
Mr. B grins at him
and asks,
“You think I LIKE diet drinks?”
then he winks at Mr. C.

STANDING WAVES.

SABRA LEORA

Glazing around with my head full of nothing
As we speak, my psyche is still humming
Seeing the tissue that runs deep in my eye
When it’s coming at you and it feels like a pin
Drowning in my own heat of resistance
No recollection of the things that I just did

If I don’t know how to be here now
Contamination will start hanging around
My flesh is flesh
My fear is sore
But not about being afraid anymore

So I’m finding the why
That fits the hole I can’t find
When there is nothing left
Except water on the mind
Holding back in my mental rewind

Rebecca Lemke

dissect the pieces
take apart the whole
sort the sections
each to his own
no more respectful
no less indignant
no more confused
no less willing
more whole on its
own that when put
in its place
things lack from
each
all lacking different
when everything missing
is hooked together
you’re left with
a string of holes
a life on its own
looking for empty space

Cafe Girl

Joanne Legattolla

Allusions of life and lobe fill the aromatic cabaret.
Mingling singles and poetic solitudes share the common
smoke infested air, without contact or communication.
She lives her lie away from these others.
The long legged beauty clad in black cannot see herself,
as this crowded cafe intensely views her presence.
Pain and fortune are catholicized similar to capacino and
java, without emotion or much less self-doubt, or so we think.
But self assurance for our girl is only a surface phenomena.
Hidden beneath the poise and windswept looks is a needy
person, waiting to be appreciated, instead of simply noticed.
How long will she drink her bitter expresso here? Until a love
god shares her isolated space, or until she lives her life for herself
not for her image

Voyeur

ARIANE LIVERNOIS

We watched the rain fall
on blacktops and cars
her love stole away, sometimes
to other towns and bars

Casually we note: sardonically held
their golden wreaths have lied
naturally, unknown wisdom
crept up to us and died

You can see her loneliness
this woman-child
mourning her life before it’s gone
and still we watch the rain fall.

AUTOBIOGRAPHY 3

Duane Locke

0n the upper lip, two dolls on a cake.
On the lower lip, the bird songs of poppies.
On the bottom of a wine bottle, her tongue.

While her body spins, chips are
Are placed on her toenails, coins
Stuck in her mouth. The croupier, death.

overheard on the radio with a hiss

LYN LIFSHIN

“Yes, I’m for
the death penalty,
we’re had enough
of this killing”

evolved people

HARLAN LYMAN

Interaction of reactions to make beliefs
Why have faith in someone else’s invention?
Language contradicts itself, it only works when you pick a side
Result of emotion has been predetermined
Soaked sponge is another way to say human
Analyze and realize: We are all wrong

Untitled

Bob Ludden

I bring you fire as offering, my love;
Its fever both a warning and a tribute pure.
No flame can emulate the heat of my desire.
For in my touch burns only ecstasy
We share, yet flesh of one is fused from twoÑ
And in the very act, I press it home
And in its roaring blast, a benediction
to our love...no dross remains
To foul its wake,
For what is left is love immaculate,
And ours alone to chill

“In a Few Words” In Brevi

LINDA ANN LOSCHIAVO

How now or never to speak of words, phrases,
That steer us through love’s phases, your voice tilts
Its riches like birds goldening above
In light-kissed blue, those restless aviators
I yearn for, to be carried far away
On, your soft throat close, vibrant, nestling promise

ALTERED STATES

Jim Maddocks

The existential voyeur watched me undress -
it was a spiritual thing, an act of blind faith.

I don’t know what he wanted to see,
not me, he wasn’t really looking at me,
but there was something reflected in his eyes.

I shuddered, and he asked if I was cold,
but we both knew that wasn’t it.

Buried Purity

Kay Lynn

I, the tree
firmly planted next to the stirring stream,
my roots buried deep.
You, the stream that gives me purpose,
the life that flows within me.

Encouraging my growth,
continually refreshing my mind,
always renewing my spirit
and forever restoring my soul.
Give me your drink of purity
and never let me thirst again.

Foot Fall

giovanni malito

in rustling autumn woods
the strams babble and chatter
the jays scream in defiance
chipmunks and squirrels scatter
the red maples are ablaze
and thought I step as softly as I can
I still feel I disturb the peace.

The Timeless City

Benjamin McCabe

Our scene is a city untouched by time,
Not unique of itself though not wholly sublime.
Its fire and intrigue come from within,
Its misfits and matriarchs, sanctity and sin.

Fred

Chris McKinnon

Rings around my neck and circles under my eyes
from the map that stretches between us.

Or U Gone for good?
Chinese American in my demean
Japanese in my cups but not drinking in the
futon that eats zucchini

Untitled

micchael

your beauty is like a field of wild flowers .
at first light when only gods eyes can see the
beauty he has created. and as he looks upoun your face
he smiles at his most beautifull creation .

The Flute*

Amy Lyn Miller

A song with heavy bated breath
that speaks of fire, emotion and desire.
Tender fingers caressing the body,
opening and closing gaping holes.
An airy kiss of symphonic life
evokes a melody of musical magic.
A passionate melding
of harmonic souls.

*First Published by Amorphous Estrella

SPARK

Joshua Meadows

She burns down his house as the clock strikes midnight, with him still tied to the bed. “It was an accident,” she’ll say, when the cops arrest her for arson. “And rape!” he adds from the upstairs room, narrowing his eyes in concentration. He sighs, and lays the cards down on the mattress. “Hit me.” She lovingly obliges, slapping his face off and onto the bed, then handing him an ace. “I never much liked that chin anyway,” he declares matter o’ factly. “Snake eyes,” she sneers, throwing the poker chips out the window.
Now she runs away, her feet slapping the concrete. She looks down to her palms; red-handed, but by god, they won’t catch her. “He’s stolen your seed, girl,” the Buddhist priest calls from the median, pointing to her naked stomach. She stops. The stars crash into each other as they try to watch. Her face is a constellation of smoke. She kneels down in the road, pulls the lighter from under her tongue, and runs her thumb down the igniter. The universe explodes.

Puzzle

Melanie Moore

I still remember the day we were able to put the puzzle together inside out...
No corners, no ends,
Wrong and about
Renaissance arrived
After the money ran out

Our hopes relied on ancient forces
Living as the undead
Along our lives’ courses
Somehow coping with our role models’ divorces

So the Dark Ages end
And different seasons arise
We keep on mourning
As we wait for the surprise

HABITS

JENNIFER MILLER

I am afraid to go to sleep
I might miss your call
I’m afraid to hang up the phone
I might not talk to you again
I hold you like it is the last
Absorbing the passion with in you
Without you I go on all out of habit
Near you it’s always so new I fumble...
No habit there

You Can’t Fire Me, ‘Cause I ...

Mike Spitz

Tipping a hat and flashing a moon to the Corporate Universe, we should be thankful of Opportunity, yet cognizant of the inherent contradiction that lies at the center of “Democratic Capitalism.”
One way or another, we all deal with the rat race, the dog-eat-dog world of winner-take-all: after all, biznis iz biznis, and we’ve all gotta pay our dues, another way of saying we somehow missed out on The Trust Fund Baby Syndrome, one of those dilemmas they never seem to write self-help books about.
Anyway, opportunity is usually another way of saying you’ve got options, one such option being the avoidance of The Corporation and its opportunities, however viable and potentially lucrative. Some folks dig it, love doing the suit-and-tie, pantsuit-and-nylon drag: whether blessed with its intolerance or doomed to live week-to-week, I’ve been there, done that, and now look forward to stocking beer, washing glasses and taking out the trash at one of our neighborhood bars, going from Skyscraper to Manhole, as it were. Seriously, I’ve never had so much fun working for a living, having a better time now than when living unemployed, which, for a guy like me, is saying quite a bit.
This week my six-month anniversary to saying a professional bye-bye to Calvin Coolidge’s legacy and Microsoft products, I thought I’d share my going-away experience with any of you perhaps thinking of doing same: Not that I recommend doing the corporate bail-out; I’m merely illustrating that when you’re in a position where you’ve got nothing to lose but what you wanna lose, you might as well have some fun while losing it.
Names changed to protect the guilty, I was gainfully employed at a portfolio management company downtown, acting as their in-house software guy, you know, wandering from desk-to-desk, answering questions, fixing things that got broke, breaking things so I’d have something to do by fixing them. Don’t get me wrong: the people there were friendly enough, they tolerated my obnoxiousness and telephone chatter, if only because I was competent and apparently knew what I was talking about.
One afternoon, though (must have been the new “hazelnut” blend of office coffee I was drinkingÑ let me tell ya, girls, that stuff can make ya Coo-Coo for Cocopuffs any day!Ñ) I simply Had Enough. Fortuitously enough, I happened to be working in the Executive Vice President’s office when I officially went bonkers.
“Have you installed my new computer yet?” he asked, poking his head through the transom of his corner office which was larger in surface area than my entire one-bedroom apartment.
Instead of simply answering the question, I nonchalantly walked from behind his desk, across the avocado green plush carpet, passed the tombstones of corporate deals valued in the billions, looked him straight in his eyes and said:
“I can make sounds with my hands.”
He stared blankly at me, slightly taken aback. “Yes sir, it’s true,” I continued. “Ya wanna see?”
Before he could respond, I summarily demonstrated. And, exactly like the computer installation he was referring to, I thought that I had performed an absolutely outstanding job: the farting sounds that emanated from between my palms were of such realnis, in fact, that he rubbed his nose when I was done.
A moment’s silence, then: “Is that on yer resume?”
I took the hint.

Droplet

Steven S. Nam

Time sifts like a snake in the grass
Regrets of decision, longing for a second chance
Lick of fire upon feverish skin
Digging fingernails into one’s scalp, digging and digging
Yet that droplet of relent never arrives.
So don’t scream.
Don’t cry.
So don’t regret.
And don’t lie.
Bitterness found in succumbing to bitterness
Life relished through accepting
Since life will always go on
As perennial as the stars.

thruth serum

normal

for six months we pumped
drugs / fucked ourselves
thru the pillows / looked
into eacho thers eyes sing-
ing songs of love so intense
that raw ecstacy covered our
veins.

then one day the drugs ran
out

we looked ito each others
eyes and didn’t know what
to say

nature

Dave Oakes

Waves flowing along the oceans shore
Clouds drifting through the sky
What in life could one wish for more
Than to find themselves in natures eye

the prosioner

Jerry Oleaf

No reason for me to be in this cell
No reason for my present condition.
Nothing here even halfway beautiful.
Not even a small trace of compassion.

What do the stars think of my destiny?
Are they planning any more crazy turns?
What moves does the wind have lined up for me?
Does the sky hear my weeps and sigh and mean?

There is just one side to the coin of luck.
Nothing to look at but metal and brick.

declaration to st. paul

alice olds ellington

i have never like you
you my favorite despise
i credit you with hating breasts
ona woman and throwing stones
at her lower parts.

now i would like yo to beg.
you who never realized a Mother-in-law.
how you can hate woman i don’t know.
bit i guess that’s guerilla warfare for you.

hiding place

richard perkins

In the black vase. Beneath the
Fourth stone of the patio walk.
Between leatherbound volumes
of Cervantes and Chaucer. In
the pocket of a tweed jacket
You forget you ever wore. On
The ledge of a cookoo clock.
At the bottom of the cedar chest
Next to an ivory and pearl dress.
On the third finger of the left
Hand where you placed it long ago.

writing is a thing of action

tim peeler

I hear the sift buzz of a soul
beyond the visible world
in dark treetop[ wind,
I want to fly from this doghouse roof,
to key myself to that moan,
but you would say
I have overwritten
in my small awkward way,
and I would be sensitive enough
to listen
till I forgot the whisper
of sould sigh
in Blakean trees
below the blue hush of moon.

AND THIS IS WHERE MY MEMORIES BEGIN

Jason Pettus

It’s 1975. I’m looking at a calendar from McDonnell Douglas that dad’s brought home and put on my bedroom door. It shows the entire year at one glance, and it’s taller than me. And the whole calendar is done in the same font as the McDonnell Douglas logo, which I figure out later in life is Swiss Expanded, but at the time just struck me as a really cool font. And I remember this, I remember this very clearly, I remember staring at September, right at eye level, and thinking:
“Ford is the President of the United States.”
And then I thought
“I wonder what a President is.”

His First Ex-Wife

Robert L. Penick

She came to him at a time
when he lived in a vacuum
when symbols were meaningless
Souls were vain boxes
and his own lack of faith
was sovereign.

When she left
he had all that
and less.

CONFUSION

Jaime Portell

Many nights I think of you
Enuf thoughts to fill my heart but
Not enuf to fill my head

Am I as foolish as I feel
Release me from your grip - - don’t
Expect me to play pretend

Please don’t let me go
In the midst of everything
Go and let me be alone for a
Short while

Coming Home from the Coal Mines, Jessup, PA 1926

jennifer pierson

over and over again
the water surged
stone-grey and stark white
on that bleak night
rushing over the bridge
cracking it
his bowed legs
against the cold rain
buckling under suddenly
for force pushing
him onto the water
never
letting him know
he would be
my grandfather

HOW PRETTY IS OUR WORLD

I.B. Rad

Bright sea curls a ripply frosting,
white sand fashions an under cake,
how pretty is our world
this Christmas day.
Still,
slicing this bubbly icing,
a toy trawler
slips by,
heading toward the edge of the world.

microcosm of life, therefore smaller mallets

seth putnam

*
10 children on each team
and there were in this parking lot
1 player from each side drove a remote control car
*
the course was a straight line
and the remaining 9 players had mallets
they hit the car as hard & as long as they could,
keeping the opposition from the finish
*
after everyone drove, the game was over
some got clubbed and totalled at the starting line,
a couple got to the goal,
the others were just in between,
all settling in for as far as they’re gonna go

Nightmares Every Night

daniel rand

When she woke up,
her husband was sitting up in bed.
He was tired.
She looked at the digital clock.
It was four-ten in the morning.
They squinted at each other in the half dark,
then he rolled over onto his side
and started to snore again.
She took a deep breath and
closed her eyes.
She had nightmares every night.

Savings & Thrift

Elisavietta Ritchie

I buy clothes second-hand,
haunt Goodwill for plates,
yard sales for chairs,
rent ramshackle houses,
invest in used cars.
My lovers also
have seen better days.
But what bargains I find...

august

Matt Robinson

this wet climax-
rain; after long(ing), sultry
waves of summer heat.

guilt

al rogovin

Guilt crawls behind
my eyes on the job
while I guard
the construction site,
listen to the generator
churn
and do my time.
Tonight I can’t forgive myself
for killing and murdering
or cheating
On my way back home
the sun rises gray
from the wrong direction
as worms crawl onto wet and shiny
morning pavement
for good guiltless sex
to die this
Ford F-150 death.

7192

Anthony Robottom

Woken by the most annoying sound in the universe.
An alarm clock from hell.
I leap from Utopian dreams, and from under the sheets.
Seven o’clock in the morning.
Not even morning; seven midnight.
I drag clothes on. The ones I find on the floor.
Drag myself down to breakfast.
I go into the cold, looking like someone who slept outside.
Go to class, like a zombie.
Night follows morning, and that was the
Seven thousand, one hundred and ninety second day.

dreaming of you again

c. c. russel

Your fingers reaching
and your eyes much brighter than
a halloween moon

Between Friends

Julie Schillinger

Ok
this is sappy and corny
and doesn’t really mean anything
it won’t win an award, make money
or be published in the New Yorker
it’s just poetry between friends

print it out
put it in your desk drawer
a year from now you’ll find it
all yellow and faded
read it and smile to yourself
think of me and feel good

a warm summer memory
from a night of love and affection
and sweet comfort
between friends

Untitled

g.a. scheinoha

She’s my bo da q
and I’m her man,
as long as
she grasps
squirming carp
in one hand
and words
like a descending
blade in
the other.

Immortal Sex Poem

Mather Schneider

For Rachel

Afterwards he asked, Is there anything
you want me to do?

Just hold me, she said.

I mean, to make you orgasm, what can I do?
I want to make you feel good too.

I don’t like being that frank, she said,
I dont want it to get cold.

Get cold? He said, How can cumming
ever get cold?

quantum mechanics

Ellie Schoenfeld

assures that the turning
of me head is intimately connected to
the lighting of your cigarette. Nothing happens
alone or isolated and the wildness in the wave
of my hair is the same
as the lake when the vault around my perception cracks
enough to make the connection.

The knowledge of each thing contained
in everything else so when I look
at this daffodil it might well be
a face in China same as the twisted branch
reaching like an old woman to the moon.
A wild old woman dancing crazy circles
on the beach, waves of her hair
pounding on her back.

zippo

Nick Schultz

Sliver top,
Tracking white and red
Flaming blue

In your danger
Black stripes emerge
From every corner

Fatally and harmfully,
Light my affliction
With your fire
With your heat
I rely

Oklahoma

lon schneider

It all started when the geriatric president went to pay his respects at the German cemetery. Well, it started long before that, but you’ve got to begin somewhere and that’s as bad a place as any. These kinds of things usually have an insidious onslaught. It actually began at the end of the war when they recruited Nazis to form the Special Forces to fight the “communist menace”. That “fighting soldiers form the sky” crap came later when their descendants were committing genocide in Vietnam. Like father, like son. But back to Bitburg. You have to remember that before the blathering idiot became president he was an actor, and a damn bad one. So when the Holocaust survivor pleaded with him not to go, he managed to muster a plaintive expression. It was almost convincing, but you could see Death Valley Days creeping through. So he went to the cemetery and played hide-and-seek with SS ghosts. But the little bastards were more wily than he ever imagined. They were swirling all around him like gnats, and even the Secret Service goons couldn’t swat them away. They followed the president back to the Sheraton and then up the plank to Air Force One. Wave bye-bye, Ron. There was turbulence all the way back home. And that friggin’ airplane had no left wing, so they made an emergency landing in Michigan and the rest is history.

excerpt from the red door of the church at blue mountain lake

joanne seltzer

...
The carillion send a message
That echoes through the hamlet
Sunday is coming
You are invited
Come as you are
On foot
By boat
By car
Come

A Long Winter After the Harvest

Peter Scott

They’re controlled by their peers
Who are controlled by rebellion pooling deep inside
The rebellion formed when the parents trusted
Friends immersed in culture
Crafted culture written by the rebellious
With real cause
The proud armada of defiant rebels
Began on a whim
They heard a rumor
Started by a man
Leaning from a chair
Crafting odd words in an assortment
Just to pass the time.

A Good One

mark senkus

I decided th’mutual attraction
wasn’t just in my head
and went forward with th’gamble
asking her what kind of a kisser
she was

she smiled back at me with sizzling
perfect lips
as her curved soft body full of
gesturing language
yelled out
“a good one”
before her voice-box
had th’ chance.

Taylor

sharon

Seven schools
Always running
Faster than tears can fall
Only seven
He won’t find us
Seven schools
Seven years old
Seven names
Seven lives
I don’t want to go
Mom
Not again
I have friends
I can’t leave
He’s found us
A cat has nine lives
I now
Have eight.

Tales

deloris selinsky

Tere are all
kinds of tales.
Glad and sad.
Real and fables.
Tales set to music,
highlighted in color,
and by pictures
to make them
recognizable.

Sometimes
these tales arrive
as presents
in wrapping paper,
tied with ribbon
and a bow.

SERE WORLD

Eric Siegel

The globe has revolved 36 times
The drought had been for 35

Then the clouds began to form
A sight I had not seen before
Thunder and lightning possessed my world
Wonderous energy, wet and pure

Let me tell you what transpired
Love I found, now expired
A passing storm, fragile and finite
Thank god for rain, the water satisfies

On that fateful day my eyes were wet
The land was dry, the storm had went
Left with dreams, fond memories
Another hill to climb, pray for rain.

Kiss More Often

Glenn Shiveler

Oh, the people of the world should kiss much more often.
It would increase worldwide civility.
Some folks use kisses so sparingly.
Oh, the people of the world should kiss much more often

Another ritual

Mark Sonnenfeld

I see dark sweat pants I think murder with knives OJ.
Not medical doctors for Ireland.
Not Amsterdam branches.

Baby

Jacqui Smith

My love for you is nothing new,
Without you I would go wrong.

I simply do not what I would do,
Without you in my arms!

mnemonolith

raymond tod smith

angel
with wooden eyes:
yr tears rot yr sight.
yr nails have nothing
unbroken left to hold.

Comes Softly Greed

Ernest Slyman

When I hear the tremulous cries
Of insects at dawn,
I think at last I understand
The world’s yearning for power and money,
Which comes to burst in the skulls of men
Like insects softly calling to one another,
Begging for love, and out of such loneliness
Comes envy, which makes them dance
And beat their wings in the sun’s bright tomorrow,
Deadly afraid some bit of summer shall fall and pounce,
And steal the grass from out of their mouths.

Love In The Computer Age

Cindy Sostchen

I once had a lover
and my life was complete
he made a quick exit
when I pressed delete....

pressed delete....

pornography: ugly enough, but only the tip of the iceberg

george spelvin

One of my main gripes about pornography is that it tells the viewer or reader lies which he wants to hear - chiefly that women are eager to jump in bed with the viewer or reader and ask nothing in return in terms of relationships; in other words, female heterosexuality is simply the flipside of male heterosexuality.
I have similar objections to soap operas and drug store novels. They tell the female viewer or reader that if the smile pretty enough, a knight on a galloping white horse will come and bestow the viewer or reader with a relationship and ask nothing in return; in other words, male heterosexuality is simply the flipside of female heterosexuality.
Furthermore, I have similar objections to parental drives being similarly exploited. The Fifties sitcoms told parents that children hallow the ground they walk on. The dime store prints of bug-eyed urchins tell the viewer that there are millions of submissive and innocent little darlings waiting to be rescued, and that these pitiful waifs will behave perfectly in return.
This is not a mere academic problem. Media lies affect our daily lives. Husbands ask their wives, “Why can’t you pose in black lace nighties for me like the centerfold girl?” Wives ask their husbands, “Why can’t you meet my every need like the hero in the Harlequin Romance?” Parents ask their children, “Why can’t you say, ’Gee, dad,’ like Beaver Cleaver?”
The answer to these questions is very simple: the centerfold girl, the Harlequin hero, and Beaver Cleaver don’t exist.

why things are

Joseph Skinner

He insists over her doubts that it will be a fine spring weekend, the first truly fine one after the long, rough winter. But by the time they reach the cabin it is snowing hard. The snow has begun as sharp, fine crystals, turned into styrofoam-like pellets, and ended up as steady, heavy flakes.
“The multiple kinds of snow,” he says, “that the Eskimos each have a different name for. That’s an interesting study, linguistics. I should go back to school and become a linguist.”
She says nothing.
The cabin is stripped bare. Everything gone except the andirons in the fireplace. The andirons, and on the hearth the want ads and Trends section from last November’s newspaper.
“Well, at least they left us the paper and those things,” he says. “What do you call them?”
“Andirons,” she says.
“And-irons. I guess they were too heavy to bother with.”
They dig in the snow for deadfall, but the snow is already deep and the deadfall is hard to find. He breaks easy-to-reach dead branches off trees for kindling.
“Here,” she says, kneeling at the hearth. “Give me the paper. Let me do it.”
He gives her the want ads first. “Never did me much 400d,” he says. “You get there and they’ve already had 300 applicants for the one position.”
She tears the sheets into strips and crumples the strips into little balls which she places strategically under the kindling.
Now he is reading the Trends section. “’Why Things Are.’ You ever read that column?”
“Nope.”
“The first question here goes, ’Why is urine yellow?’ Good question. Let’s see, it talks about bilirubin, ’a yellow pigment found in bile and urine...’ Hey, I knew little Billy Rubin in third grade! A jaundiced, pissed-off little kid...”
He looks up at her to see if she is smiling, but she’s blowing on the paper to keep it going.
“Give me some more,” she says, reaching her hand back.
“Okay,” he says. “Here goes ’Why Things Are.’”
She tears the paper, crumples it, blows. He says:
“Actually, I’ve got something better than that.”
She turns. “What.”
“For emergencies,” he says. He digs in his pack. He produces a large, flat bottle of slivovitz. A third of it’s gone already. “Isn’t this an emergency? Flambe them logs.”
She turns back to the fire and blows. He takes a drink. The fire catches.
“It’s the andirons,” he says. “Brings the oxygen up underneath. Oxygen’s a poison in high concentrations, and an explosive too. But it’s also necessary for life. How does that grab you?”
He takes another long pull and begins to sing:

Love is like oxygen
You get too much, you get too high
Not enough and you’re gonna die...

He looks out the window at the snow. “Why Things Are. Well, I’ve got some questions for the man. One: why doesn’t snow ever come down in major chunks? Get packed together up there somewhere and come smashing down in big, huge snowballs and get it over with? why those slow, gentle flakes? Two: why does water freeze from the top down? That I’d like to know. Doesn’t it get colder the deeper you go?”
“I’ve got one,” she says. “How come an ant can carry forty times its weight and some humans can’t even carry their own weight?”
“That’s a good one,” he says, nodding soberly. “That’s a very good question. Hey,” he says, “that’s a good fire. Those andirons. Gee they look heavy. what are they, anyway? What does the design represent?”
“That looks like a fleur-de-lis on top,” she says.
“Fleur-de-lis. That doesn’t seem right, for an andiron.”
He stares into the fire. “Oh shit. Oh shit. l think I’ve got it. An andiron factory.”
“An andiron factory,” she repeats slowly.
“With gag andirons! Say, like a pair of fireman with big hats: the bars that hold the wood could be shaped like hoses. Or a couple of steelworkers, with those poles they use to feed the furnaces. Or welders, complete with little masks made of fire-resistant glass. It’ll be great! All we need is our own forge, a little foundry.”
“A little foundry,” she says.
“You bet! How about this: a pair of witches stirring cauldrons.”
“The cauldrons could be hollow,” she says. “You could fill them with toddies or the hot drink of your choice, and the fire would keep them hot.”
“There you go.” His gaze rolls down at her like a rearing horse’s as he tilts his head back for another slug.
“Two dragons,” he says, wiping his chin. “Also hollow. Their mouths wide open, you can see the flames and smoke inside them.”
He leans over and breathes fire-air into her face. She pushes him away and he loses his balance and collapses, with a laugh, against the pile of damp firewood.
She turns back to the fire. “Phoenixes,” she says. “Rising from the ashes.”
“Hey! Right there’s the name of our firm: Phoenix Andiron Go. I love you, baby.” He thrusts the bottle at her. “Toast?”
She ignores him.
“Bosnia’s best,” he shrugs, and drinks.
The snow cracks a branch outside like gunfire. She gets up and walks to the door. He grabs her ankle.
“Naked guys with hard-ons,” he growls, “big old iron hard-ons sticking into the hot, hot fire...”
She pushes him back with her booted foot, leaving a broken waffle of dirty snow on his warm throat. “Goddamnit, Stephen, I’ve got to get more wood!”
He staggers to his feet. His throat and his face and his brain are on fire. He stumbles to the door of the cabin and tries to help her push, but already the drifting snow has sealed it shut.

Toward Outside Experts

Howard F. Stein

Be polite.
Listen.
Be respectful.
Don’t get up and walk out
While they speak.
Use what you can.
Eventually they will leave.

GOTHAIKU

Shelley Stoker

sun a scalding tear

sliding down
the face
of sky

night kisses
what hurts.

America’s Two Greatest Joys

Christopher Stolle

filling out the form
a mysterious ward
at the far reaches of the hospital
a naive scream
a joyous laugh
how could I turn away
I was a father
proud, but scared
only of forgetting to buy him
his first baseball glove

how men should put their pants on

james sullivan

There’s a proper way to put your pants on. Here it is: first, retrieve your trousers from the closet, door knob, or floor where you dropped them last night. Shake them several times to smooth the wrinkles out, to ensure the pants legs are not twisted, and to remove foreign objects. Now, set those pants neatly on the bed, chair, or floor. You’ve got to don your underwear before anything else.
Good, you should have clean and unholey underclothing on now. At least, your mother and I hope you do. Next, sit on your bed, chair, or floor and put your socks and shoes on. Why socks? Because they are kind and gentle on your feet. So are shoes. But why before pants? To dust off your shoes as you put them through your pants legs and to give you better balance when you stand on one foot to pull the opposite pant leg up.
Excellent, you now ought to have your footwear on. And it’s highly recommended that you tie the laces securely at this time, too. Trust me. Bending over is much, much easier with your pants off.
Now, grab your pants again. Stand up and hold them with your two hands, one on either side of the pants waist. Allow your pants to fall neatly in a heap just in front of you. But don’t take your hands off them. Elevate the clothing a little off the floor, lift your left leg, put it into the left pant leg, and pull that side of your pants up as you balance yourself on your right leg.
Great. See how much easier it is to do that with your shoes on? So, hold that portion of your pants up with your left hand, and place that left foot back on the floor. Next, lift your right leg as high as it will go and carefully step into your right pant leg, pushing your right leg through until it touches the floor, as you pull that side of your pants up with your right hand. At this point, you should be holding the right and left side or your pants at the waist.
Okay, then, pull, button, snap, hook, tie, or do whatever the contraption requires to secure the two sides of your pants together. Your next step is to reach down with your right hand, regardless of which hand is dominant, and grab the lever at the bottom of your fly. Making sure that all pants material, and everything else, that should be inside is, delicately, but firmly, pull your zipper up to the top and fold the lever down to lock in place.
If you have a fly that’s not zippered, but buttoned, just start buttoning from the bottom and work your way to the top. If you have neither a zipper nor buttons, you may have a serious problem, and you’d better see a good tailor soon.
With your fly closed, you can put a belt on if you like. On the other hand, your pants may have an elastic waist band, which negates the need for a belt.
The last step is to push in all your pockets to make sure they are not hanging outside your trousers. Also check for pocket holes at this time. Then inspect your pants cuffs, if you have any, to see that they’re not turned down.
If you’re going to put a shirt on next, and I hope you do, you’ll find it easier to unhook your pants, re-open your fly, and drop your pants a little. Then spread your legs apart to prevent your pants from falling all all the way down. Now, put the shirt on, button it, tuck it into the pants, then hook them up again, and rezip your fly.
They say that all men put their pants on the same wayÑone leg at a time. That’s a myth. Some men put their pants on two legs at a time. To do so, just sit on a bed, chair, or floor. Now scrunch up your pants so that when you hold them up in front of your eyes, you can see through both pants legs. When you have your pants like that, lift both your feet at the same time and stick them through the pants leg holes. Next, stand up on both feet and pull your pants up to the waist. The rest is the same as the one-leg-at-a-time procedure.
I assure you, there is no third way to put on your pants. Several people, however, have tried and failed, dislocating knees, hips, and even arms in the attempt. At the same time, pants have been ripped, punctured, and badly damaged in the process. And all for what? Some third way to put your pants on that just doesn’t exist.
To keep your pants especially clean, you may wish to put them on while standing, not on the floor, but upon Some higher platform, so the pants never touch the floor, getting dirty there. Perhaps the best thing to stand on is a footstool. And you may wish to forgo having your shoes dusted and keeping your balance more easily by putting your shoes on after you’ve pulled on your pants while standing on that footstool.
If you want to be weird like that, go ahead. Just don’t let anyone who knows better see you.
And now you know how to put your pants on.

Planetarium/Old Currency

geoff stevens

From November interior
on fireworks night
when acid reigns
and stars whirl
pin-eye bright

you look up and find
your cranium leaks, and
spend the rest
of your life
in a folly,
which has no tiles on the roof.

My Craving

Donald Surles

Your lips,
Your hair,
Oh for your body I care.

Your lips,
your eyes,
Full of wonder,
Full of suprise.