Sunday, July 7, 2019

Jesse DeLong - Two Poems



***
The Greeks had it Wrong, About the Gods

What’s not in time
cannot imagine what it’s like to suffer


loss, and cannot measure the slowly eroding


cell, and as such, wouldn’t be like us—
The infinite wouldn’t be like anything


we could envision. An indescribable god, a god outside
of limits, yes, the Hebrews were wiser.


Smart enough to say
nothing, they couldn’t even name him. Look, the wind


hits the bushes and we attribute it to a predator
because there is no survival cost in false alarms.


So, too, do we give the gods agency of change.
Let them be not there—most accurate.


Accept this, though: the world is a better place
because we die.


To experience grief, loss, struggles, failures,
and to overcome them, once in a while, if we are lucky,


and to know by nature the world is zero
sum, that is not all, but part of being human:


“When we are tempted, as many of us are
at times, to wish that our own lives could go on forever,


often what we are wishing is that some version of our lives
we are now leading could continue without end.”


A version of our lives where we die.


This according to Scheffler, not my words, but copied
here, and passed on, hopefully without error—


It is its own sort of life. Watch it multiply in you.







***
5 may 2015 

And then there are days
when a woman drives down
from Mississippi to give
you a handjob
& she leaves right after. No
fuss. Ok. O
K. And then there are
days when the afternoon
showers are over
but clouds still filter
the sun. The wind’s
an unsweaty sheet. She pulls out
of the parkinglot, doesn’t
look back. Ok. O
K. You can watch the game.
And then there are days
when you don’t have
to ride the bus,
the store is across the street,
you buy a three dollar
bottle of wine, pork strips,
Tony’s marinade, & High
Life Light
for later. Ok. So she left
early. You can watch
the game. You pour a glass
of wine for yourself.
You are here now.
The glass gleams.
The wine drips
down the stem.
This is
what
it’s
like.

Tuesday, July 2, 2019

J. D. Nelson - Five Poems

1
diamond grip push-ups


were it ten
tons, this Auraria
train


I’d need the warp
to get the sun


chores for
hurt warden


wrapped around you
like a year of moths



***

2
danderklee the eventual yes


pistachios
pianos
particles
aesop


rivery styx to pick up plainly
wearing watermelon shoes


them beatles
were they on the moon too



***

3
all over everything like the word


I made it rain in the diorama earth


water ghost was like a blue sheet on the line
the red sheet was a mad plaid


a new duck!
we shall call him bethlehem


water ghost was all over the lake like fireworks



***

4
spurk live bell you’ll groan


remembering the money & to stop and get it
ok I am rich so what now let’s do everything


went back for more chip & dip


too loose on earth & the money was gone
oh well this is another fine day to know nothing



***

5
bitten by a horse fly


welcome to violent atlantis
I am a shoe


is that a flavor
sometimes


especially when it’s dark-dark
& the lightning is pink or blue

Thursday, June 27, 2019

jim leftwich & steve dalachinsky - capsized whahaha tomes

familiar routes expect vocational
     castles folded into the cream
             of beehives ruined by
         cherished identities
            dents in the cheekbones
                behavior patterns
                     crime/wave goddardian
                        apertures rem/roots
                 creek beds demented presidents
             caviar from bees
         the patter of terns
     guardian dodo cravings
the square root of "perturb"
      rooting for the home team to lose
                   academy lopsides
             top hats in a sea of red dresses
                     redressed as lost her eyes in
             capsized democracies
         tame boots & looser tomes
     the red badge of the sea cat
last seen near easter island
         horizons shattered familias
             become unrecognized tortoise
    chambers under the lash of whahwhahahahas
the beak of the camel is a cognizant
     porpoise flash-clambering among our
          familiars chattering the horizontal aphorisms
               of the mad hatter in unedited routines.

february 2019

Thursday, June 20, 2019

Christopher Barnes - Putting You Through Now, Caller

“Putting You Through Now, Caller.” (21)

“Squizzed at me, all pulled out.
A reality-crunch measure?
The earreach of a farewell gasp is roses in May.
Take it uncomplaining, headwaters will.”

“Okes, rabies-dancer,
Your cheque’s in the postbag.”


 ***
“Putting You Through Now, Caller.” (22)

“Dog-eared his tab, jiggled it into my shirt pocket.
Even the horizon cracked.
Mullarkey was woozy, beefy as a nun.
Intemperate kickback for one go.
I snooped enough?”

“Mistrust is gravity, honey.
A profitable chore boy’s defunct.”


 ***
“Putting You Through Now, Caller.” (23)

“Frankness ink-slung onto roadhouse paper.
I got churned by the tidings.
Skin-flickers also unveil in white.
Duplicate explanation? – the plaything’s oofy.
Bob for an invitation.”

“Knew she was in Blind Alley.
Who’s got the revolver?”

 ****
“Putting You Through Now, Caller.” (24)

“Sly-looking at the mere, Eileen was.
Valium owned her lullaby.
You’re a trigger-quick practitioner.
Hunched the Dodge was swiped –
Too gleamy for Big Al.”

“Don’t chop-chop elsewhere.
Witnesses might spare us.”


 ***

“Putting You Through Now, Caller.” (25)

“Repper’s mush corrugated with petulance.
Thought he was at end lengths.
Such a foozle.
Switchblade hasn’t been dug up.
Jimson weed reels in barley
But this isn’t a gala day.
Known him eons?”

“Shouldn’t be nudging anything.
Best be meek…outside.”

Tuesday, June 18, 2019

Adam Fieled - Two Poems


Adam Fieled is a poet based in Philadelphia. His latest book, “Trish: A Romance,” was released by Funtime Press in 2019. 


***

A Match

The loft-like flat with the cavernous
    roof was in South Philly, well-heated
but polluted, dusted,  with detritus,
     she was what Los Angeles was in spite
of these things, sunken wastelands, sheeted

lightning making the stage all but emptiness.
    As he fell into her, he fell into resistance,
petulance, snobbishness, yet also wetness—
    she could do it, out of sublime forgetfulness,
big-titted, posing for spies, cameras her witness.

Los Angeles then lay in his arms like luggage.
    What was in her were carnival masks, face-paint—
greasy, lumpy, churned from blood gone sluggish.
     She was his palm-tree baggage, dumb, doggish.
He felt himself bitter, ransacked, naked, wasted.

Their child sails brackish seas somewhere, twisted.
    Los Angeles just died, still convulsive, of disease
not acknowledged, or processed, number unlisted.
     L.A. & her were queen for a day, then got fisted.
He moves on in Philly, no sprain in his knees.




*** 
Days of Old

In days of old, my friends, they took
   the music, made it a girl, sang
   her songs, caressed her, thanked
her for her own caresses, & the books—

Then the music retreated for a while,
    no caresses, no books, turds,
    brown, thick gibberish words
in lieu of nature’s own heavenly smile—

Well, the music is a girl again, coy,
     silk-gowned, ready for us,
     ready to be a vessel, trust
our impulses both to pain & joy—

& only coy at the outset, hot-blooded,
    skilled, plugged in like a TV,
    electron passages there, ready,
to cast light into the world, over-flooded—

& this “days of old” music you’re hearing,
    deliberate, measured, necessitated
    by eternities of white-noised, jaded
jumps off bridges, is nothing to be fearing—

so let the music be a girl forever, or a boy,
    it doesn’t matter; someone young,
    spry about ecstasy, drugs, love & fun,
& poets need not be scummy, or dummies, or coy—

Tuesday, June 11, 2019

A.J. Huffman - Three Poems

Justification

after Forms, Hatchets  by Magyari, John the Younger

One stroke
      obliterates two things
creates a third.

Can we call it harmony?

We shade it gold, give it value
cherish it,
label it
worthy
 but hone its edges
to cut its own throat,

drip

red

life.

Can that equation ever equal anything
as soft as pink?

Sky and birds fly,
land
on houses built of sand.  Temporary tragedies.

Axes obliterate forests
erect
permanent shelter for humans that offer
occasional cages
for wayward wings.
This we call reprieve.


***

Sweeter than the Desert’s First Rainfall

The snake slithered into her.  I assumed
I would sleep until the next morning—
didn’t work out that way.  It was not yet warm
outside, but ridiculously hot inside.
Perhaps the effect was from the stress of a new place.
For the first time, unbreathing skin revolted.  
In the feverish concentration, human ovens transform
into something bulged, and accused
me with their stares:  Someone burns the world.

It was the same nightmare [about the skeleton shroud].

***

Stuck Stuttering [In Silence]

The peacock feathers on my finger
nails look
    all glitter-glowy.  Moons
alighted, they spark.  The pen
spears the page.  Are they the prophesied third
eyes of legend?  Or the collective channel
through which the muse now chants?  My wonder
leads to worry.  Twitching,
I pick at their petals.  Peeling, they pit,
split, crack.  They are/I am ruined
by the minutia of such
a misguided thought.

Monday, May 20, 2019

Robert Masterson - The Last Words of Johnny “The Cannibal” Tarlington

The Last Words of Johnny “The Cannibal” Tarlington

Transcribed in an accurate fashion under the most difficult of circumstances…
By Robert Masterson



…while the Wrestler himself, delirious, sometimes falling into unconsciousness from which he could not be roused, or wildly thrashing and screaming gibberish, trying to break free from those in the dressing room called upon to help restrain the dying Cannibal…trainers, towel boys, photo-bugs, locker room freaks…and at times attempting to do them harm, mistaking them for the visions with which he was tortured…

Is this the shiny part? Is it? Is it shiny? Oh. I love the shiny part…yeah…yeah…uh huh…uh huh…nu uh…Higher! Climb higher! Are you afraid of heights or something? Get up there. Get all the way up there…I saw them first, I got them first ha ha ha ha…Fucking Olympics and fuck the fucker fucking Olympics and Greco-Roman shit fuckers, too…I never took it, Mom. I swear to you, and I know you’ll never believe me, but I didn’t take it. I wouldn’t take it. Not ever, Mom, not ever…Two dogs is good, one dog is bad. Two dogs will play. One dog goes crazy. Three dogs, three dogs, three dogs…Okay, this one is for all the marbles, folks, this one is for the belt, the $1 trillion billion million dollar purse, and super-hot sexy girl valet Fawn!...Which one of these crazed maniacs will take home the glory and gold? Which one of these psycho-killers will become the King of the Ring?...SUNDAY…PAY-PER-VIEW…SUNDAY…PAY-PER-VIEW…$1 zillion stillion fillion skillion means $1 zero, zero, zero, nothing…it means it means no thing…It means you fight, little man. You fight. You want to eat? You fight...Oh, the shiny part…Times ten, I could. You and nine little fuckers that look just like you. I’ll knock each one of you out ten times, you little fucker… Like a million candles, all those flashbulbs on all those little cameras in all those little seats…MY house! MY car! MY woman!...By the lake at night, the sky twice. In the sky. Yeah. In the water. Yeah. Twice. Sky. Water. Sky. Water…There was a wonder, a wonderful, a wonder wonder wonder…And I will DRAG you out into the motherfucking street and I will KILL you and I will FUCK YOUR DEAD BODY IN THE MOTHERFUCKING STREET YOU MISERABLE MOTHERFUCKER…Sign it. Sign it. Sign it. Sign. It...Olympic Gold! The Impossible Kid with the impossible dream and you can see the tears in his eyes as the band plays the United States national anthem…What a story! What an athlete! What a kid!...Olympic Gold!...Gold!...Go!...Guh!...Pay-per-view, man, pay-per-view…Pay. Every time. Pay. Every time. Pay…Fucking don’t know who I am? Fucking don’t know who I am? I am the fucking Cannibal, man, the real fucking Cannibal, and I will fucking eat you. Ha. Ha. Only kidding…Uh huh. Uh huh. Nu uh. Nu uh.

Monday, May 13, 2019

Bruce McRae - Four Poems

Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician currently residing on Salt Spring Island BC, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with over 1,400 poems published internationally in magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. His books are ‘The So-Called Sonnets (Silenced Press), ‘An Unbecoming Fit Of Frenzy’ (Cawing Crow Press) and ‘Like As If” (Pski’s Porch), Hearsay (The Poet’s Haven).

***
1. Long Distance Love
Stars like question marks
after earnest enquiry.
Stars like asterisks
signifying lack.
Campfires of the Gauls.
The undead’s lanterns.


Goodbye Sol and Ganymede.
Goodbye Luna, the stars
winking provocatively.
Stars like kisses.
The Xs a lost love
sent to me at the end
of her last long letter.


***

2. Going Down To The Sea

A very angry water,
miffed over some perceived slight.
A change in character,
the water made mad and out of its senses.
So I’m going down to the beach
to shout at the waves,
shouting songs and sermons and psalms.


I’m reciting a poem to calm the sea,
assuring the drowned
of safe passage and eternal rest.
I’m telling the tide to turn,
to return to the storm’s source
and take with it the souls of those damned.
The souls of swimmers gone under.
Their feint cries like tender kisses.

***
3. 
Off The Record

Not now, I’m listening
to the rain’s confession.
Told in confidence
one November morning.
Spoken in whispers and gasps,
the rain’s secret life,
its untold story.


Sweeping leaves after the storm,
the rain took me aside,
wringing its blue hands,
eyes sparkling with tears.
The rain confided in me.


But what can you say?
How does one reply?
Clouds hushed and gathering,
as if something were on their minds.
As if they too
had secrets to spill
over the blackened horizon.

***

4. Permanent Solution

I was half way to the pavement
when I changed my mind.
After leaping from the bridge
I took a moment to mull it over,
my decision perhaps too hasty,
gravity a son of a gun.


Speaking of which, my itchy trigger-finger,
the difference between brain and mind.

And how I wished my doubt had lingered.