Jim Meirose - Between stormthunders twelve and thirtee

Stormthunder twelve sounds, then.

LumpenSchtickle PantZip, master of keys and ZornSchnuckler the Moon-Man Quasi-Big-Boy, are the chief culprits today spout our supersneaky spies. Tannenbaum, oh Tannenbaum, how germanesqui is thy root-ball. Only the sweetest peas can roll the distance. Carrots sliced thusly have no hope at all. Rent the attic now, kind servant; the need for quick money is dire. No painting please the thick mud will render it useless. Shrink us immediately, God—the need to appear as small as possible has finally arrived. We’ll risk the last wish my young Genie. Let us enunciate it as clearly as we know; but first we must rub our lamps some you know. Bodily functions yah yah bodily functions, yes we know—there now we are ready. Throw us some towels please first, though. Thanks a lot boy; yah man yo’ welcome. Oh we often tell ourselves this that and the other. God made us suchwise you know. He went to school is over twenty-one and reads and writes quite deftly—he’s been with James Brown and other groups, and he knows. Never trust a fully-grown man. Less so even when they’rer seventy. Feeling wildly sane yet brother? You don’t look so bad. Here’s another.

Stormthunder thirteen sounds, then.

Holly Day - Five Poems

1. For New Constellations

If you were to set me free, I would leave with only

A rolled-up animal skin tent strapped to my back

A pocketful of  dried berries and reindeer meat

A chunk of ice in a bucket to later melt into water.

I would give you one backwards last glance,

one last chance to stop me

before disappearing into a landscape of glaciers and polar bears

a sky filled with so many stars.

It would only take moments for my retreating figure

To be swallowed up in an expanse of white snow, only moments

For the wind to erase my footprints, the twin snaky signatures left by my sled.

eventually, you’ll discover that all of your letters

have been forwarded to a research station abandoned by Russians

years before, everything you forgot to say in person

has been shredded into bedding by arctic foxes and penguins

chewed into mulch by inquisitive polar bears.

***

2. In Search of Truth

In the 14th century, world-renowned traveler Sir John Mandeville

came back to England with stories of a "vegetable sheep,"

thinking that the cotton plants he'd seen growing in India

were actually embryonic sheep, born out of the hard little wooden nubs.

First, sheep start out as fluff, he theorized, then the hoofs and the legs emerged

pulling the sheep out afterwards. He didn’t stay in India long enough

to see the cotton grow into a sheep, but he did bring home several pods

for scientists to dissect and study, in hopes of growing more

vegetable sheep in English soil.

It wasn't until 1557

that Italian scientist Girolamo Cardano

wrote an extensive and exhaustive thesis on how soil

could not possibly provide the requisite heat for fetal development

he was very sure of this. There were rumors

of questionable experiments, a slew of missing dogs and cats

a few sheep from the surrounding countryside

tiny graves and headstones in his backyard

hidden just behind a plot of sweet peas and marigolds.

***

3. Too Late

If we were alive a thousand years ago

the only way we would have ever gotten together

would be briefly: you, emerging from your spartan

clay-floored monk’s cell, horsehair-stippled habit

hiding your rough, angry frame as you stomp

off into the woods, into the night

to my tiny hut packed with bottles of bright-colored rocks

roof fallen inward from the weight of birds’ nests and ivy

packed to the ceiling with things found on my walks

eyes of tiny creatures watching from every corner.

I would greet you at the door, hair wild and unkempt

leaves and twigs stuck in the knots at the base of my neck

greet you and your rules and order without question or thought.

There would be a moment in all of this where we made total sense

where our differences didn’t matter, as if we evened each other out

where our grunting and screaming was some type of language

that erased the whole world around us. Eventually, though,

just like now

the sun always comes up

and we remember who we are.

***

4. When We’re Gone

One day, there will be nobody here

to pull up the errant maples

sprouting in the garden, no one to sweep up

the piles of desiccated, spun-out helicopter seeds

no one to stop the crush of ivy from growing up

through the cracked window frame

snaking through the rungs of our dust-covered furniture

pulling our roof apart. We won’t be here to stop

the hairy mounds of tree roots from clogging up the pipes

dandelions from flowering and spreading in the dirty gutters

thistles from spreading through the vegetable garden.

We won’t be here to cluck at the sidewalks buckling

from the shifting of sand pulled by underground streams

at the growth of potholes in the alley out back

at the squirrels climbing into the attic

to build homes alongside noisy sparrows and emboldened mice.

***

5. Anwen

When I was little, my mother would point out

circular patterns of mushrooms growing in the yard

tell me they were fairy ring, to be careful

not to step in them

or the fairies would take me away.

When she wasn’t looking, I would step into the circle

sometimes sit or lie in the circles for hours

waiting for fairies that never came.

This was the birth of my skepticism.

Me, ten years old

aimlessly picking at four-leafed clovers

with just one wish in my heart:

to leave.

Mendes Biondo - Three Poems

1

How [really?] the war ends [really!]

Hans Franz Parapimpam Birkenau

the greatest general of all generals

put his feet on a goose poop

“Get ready to set fire!”

he shouted

no one answered

[really?

really!

why?

now I tell it to you]

Hans Franz Parapimpam Birkenau

the greatest general of all generals

with the feet deeply put in the poop

will be trusted never more

so the war ends

***
2

Poldo&Choocheen

this is the story of a great couple
a scarface teddy bear and a pacifier
as the cat and the fox from Pinocchio
they were in business selling dreams and adventures

once Poldo fell in a dragon pit
Mama Dragon found him
with his paws in the marmalade
while he was stealing the treasure

he cried and I saved him
in a dark night along with Choocheen
rolling like a mad stone
well seated inside my mouth

then we killed nazi plushes
we fought the doll mafia
we defeated the micromachine army invasion
we saved plush tigers from extinction
and the two fellows Poldo&Choocheen
were decorated
with cotton scars
with silicone glue scars

now they are on leave
drinking and laughing on a shelf
with their cotton and rag pals

they lost all their logos on those journeys
but now they have great stories to tell
and so I have

***
3

Pappappero or The Greatest Spell Ever Said

a kid

giggled and

chuckled

humming

pappappero

pappappà!

but all rested

the birds shutted

the rivers halted

the planets stopped

when he just said

pappa

and all moved

the birds sang

the river flowed

the planets followed the orbit

again when he just said

ppero!

jim leftwich - materials & techniques

1.

in

fi

nite

twil

ight

In

fI

nIte

twIl

Ight

infi

ni

tetw

ili

ght

iNFi

Ni

TeTW

iLi

GHT

2.

once upon a time

wants upon a time

pounce upon a time

once apun a time

John Pursch - Four Pieces

***

1.Pop-up Longings

Late, later than late-night gnus gnawing on an open third rail, tongues glued to iron, to steely-eyed turpentine junkies, sniffing the night away and into owed blimp blimey bovinity, cattle swan song harmony etched in faces of the benighted few, the manly-go-lucky, the montage of spinning dog, spun Chihuahua deep in a sonorous desert aria, soliloquizing in feral fast-forward, flipping out to unlimited amity, armchair avidity, ambulatory tepidity, turbid timidity, a dit-dash-dotty doubt line where changelings reconnoiter, impermanence unfounded.

Slippery ink, swelling northern calipers gently tucking infancy to bayou sleeper car, four-star dynamo in oceanic pitch-and-chutney, polar pub crawl, puttering about in slathered ape philately, milk crate bunch of guestroom lavatory squeak.

Crime tear past ball pomegranate outa sidebar uterus at Speedo sounding gourd, skillful cabling partner pitchfork tune; swamp tar catchall shavings monitoring nightly mews, meows, inverted aureoles, invented aerial combustion urchins, whimsical and full of sumptuous premises, motions to repeal, lowly electric pollution barrier intact.

Far from fleeting placard pies, shirtsleeve sandwich Oreos, pinwheel pop-up longings, wrecked intensity conned clear outa intersection men, wholly under city trees; bombardiers believing pompous plastic inanity, what telestrators spew.

***

2. 3:20 AM

Hibernal wind falls in sheets of cloud through time-lapse functionary discipline, sending sprawl across planar release of cotton form fit. Continuity blends with subtle margin, feeding supple rest in serried pupils, frosting hourglass mechanic hands to rust. How flexible, this poplar field, in winding cavalcade of spectral nuance. I seem to evaporate in frozen peal of evening bell, of harbor town in stable osmosis, turning into sleep. Planted reliquaries finger ampersands, mingling starboard wake within a clearly melting heirloom. Often benefitting from seagulls, the sky towers insensate, pulsing in vivid tumbleweed of cloud inflection. Confectionary salt emerges autumnal, branching through seaweed, pickled wax manifolds of sartorial disguise, and listing merchant manacles of ice. Flowering hillsides speak of everlasting sunrise, spring surprise, torpor cast of solid oak, swelling ingot jetty breaking utter watchword codicil to steam. Area hugs exhaustive methods, foreshadowing augmented minutiae of opening day, scouring the seafloor, numbing operands of silent cooperative vendettas. Samovars overflow with grain, excising sweet meats in lieu of golden gluttony. Axial whoppers infer agrarian tomato yields of trebled pasteboard quality, of inseam roller spine-to-cookie rolling pin, of inclusionary felt. Sour potato sinks in murky oily fishpond, selling ringside seats to fungi, flicking on elastic ceiling panel gleam to soldered muscle. Avuncular islands impute logical helpmate ease, lifting crooked pestilence to atmospheric demitasse. Swans ring out the old fear of living, strains of hallway blues reverberating down plunging necklines. Skewered teams awaken, crying to hermetic emissaries of the night for mandatory weeks in hibernation, ventral opulence impending. That, in a naughty optical sail, is birth, which always allows for allocated aliquots, alimentary mentions, affluence in the face of self-effacement, gnawing metaphors, sunken sighs, seamless segues into lowered imitative holism, carbon body bags, hexagonal stacks smoldering on distant isles.

***

3. Nanosecond Bra

The foisted sentience of all who seize on rolled scribbles must vanquish the entreating treadmill, the furious goalies of nocturnal treatises gone to simultaneous groaning. Anchors sway in freezing rain, snapping purple waves of insurrection doubt from the jurisprudence of shallow pinnacles.

Soaring leeward pumphouse fleets impute of wooden goobers, futile in the mouths of distended antediluvian switchbacks, box-top radiation felt, Velcro on the salvific shell, purveyors of the earthen vesicles notwithstanding for a moment, a fusillade of futuristic fugu, a figment of aisles in windowless compartments, of cabin logs and elevate crop squares, critical airings; offhand segues into passed balls, ensiled pitchforks, needless stays of elocution, motile lotion, collimated polo crowns, flagellated foxhole frowns, simian emblems singing.

Oh, the humidity, the inanity, a plethora of articles, of of of of of of of of, over and clover a cleaver of cleavage, caloric mistake, ken kin cobbled into tonal sonar antonyms, agreeable forearms; stipulating penguins, penciling in dossiers of dateline dosimeters. To dry land, mythos of Ithacan core, furriers above the cardiac girdle, attending to a mild sleepwalker, an ambulatory son of nanosecond bras. Sweetness came over me, washing income fruit capacity; escape prom demotion wigs atop elusive zebras. Catch all ye canoe, boatsman; whisk immortal rapids off to tender canyon dairy pies, swooping fallacies, aplomb a furtive crane.

Semblance of a howitzer, swing set swoon has all an aneurism could’ve axed a forlorn looping masquerade of pineal pyre and antelope yore for which for many foreground tattoos. Serried occasions plop through the tough-guy frontier commodity of sworn necropsy, agoraphobia, and wise guy grunting eulogy for funk, oil, and clockwork call-girl aptitude (what be tested for and inculcated by gradient scrolls in all the finest laudatory yet barely audible crumples of stilted lingua Franceska; oh to see her just once again but they tell me she’s long gone and so am I; perhaps the images were all illusions and can never oh no too terrible but maybe yes of course it’s clear as well as any clarity can be or can it, too, defy existence?).

Falling into word horde, emerging invisible as only an existential kumquat can, cameras do the next best imaginary fling, capturing the mold, a melded adipose indemnity, velocity in merged illumination, bunting rippling over transom of a bakery in afternoon’s wheezing taxi line chronometer, plastic haze of dated pages, paucity in newly printed cringe, to state line chaser submarine.

***

4. Venezuelan Love

Sampled dime store rodeo, terminating beachball, extras on a frock parade, inner mutant flax police in iron itch, disabled by a bunch of torn collaboration legs. Airy pot stickers fight homey illusions with metaphysical porpoise. Skyline werewolf imitates sandy orchard enemies of ermine misconception, miscegenation, microbial philanthropy, and commonsense cicadas, circling the laughing nadir. A penchant for pedantic uncles prints Plexiglas vibrations on theistic implants, housing crow silence where yeast spittoons roar.

Angular mocha levitates inching insinuation belt, prolongs concavity in sisterly proxies. Cowhands slur asymmetrical overdoses within propositioned crayon fumes. Lead me to a seen saw, extolling yardwork, furious catnip, pocketed pollution. Slanted gumbo polygons eschew drywall under laminated pilot flavor. Scratchy wicks combine to salivate between two apoplectic chirpers, partners in microbial pylon sales, polling stamped villagers for hemmed presets. It’s a bagel to pardon an incipient mound, dwelling on miniscule profundity, but embers flee to hopscotch sleep in shoveled army auras. They prance, they wiggle; it all depends on haircuts. Pangs offer younger avian wonders, understudies in disguise, preppy to skate off without a songbird.

Contrails amass four desperate hellos for every utterly preposterous movie. Hear me, creosote! Snowy chariots collide in homeschooled logic. Scapulae protrude exuberance, squelching luddite tailings. Scions offer scientific ontology and deprive homunculi of missing fossil craters, mirth updating conical device. Felt swoons at the fetal seaport’s showy auditorium, mixing pixelated threshing halves in grainy filigree. One somatic tributary fills the seasoned face with smiles, with likelihoods and prognoses, nauseating prognostications of shucked excess, courtroom bombast, stillborn pewter, mourned emphatic roadhouse cures, panegyric palliatives, lollipops in mimeographed quotidian leaves of glassware.

Cuneiform bras, belief in miniature, mediocre lures, allude to mutilated captain’s chairs. Handing over monkeys, we obfuscate the humid compression of thought; of dovetailed chains, churlish chimney steeplechase, and soldered military night. Musty hens drop doubled ache of fused sighs, syndicating sleep deprivation at precisely the first climatically implored comet. Flagstone rupture fixates on gowned crescent sandwiches, kissing crustaceans, seeing thrown Cossacks hurl a window sash a hundred miles beyond Smolensk, napping canonical postprandial deluge bedaubed bedamned bedraggled bedridden, a hundred smiles from mossy caveman va-va-voom!

Where oh how or whenever one can’t continue to cater to two or more eels, in choral coda epilogues or effective lassitude or swollen wristwatch underbody, carriage cane to perish bygone swordfish shunt oblivion, interminably literate, compendia imploding on a duck’s scenic moniker. Camphor navigates a well-worn tapestry, inundating titled appendectomies with woolen ampules. Often suffrage lectures in a subtitled column, taking in defiled souls. Gradual causeways prepend basaltic blues to pillbox sax controls, evolving Venezuelan love.

Vernon Frazer -

***

1

Text Intoned

bitten seat begins 

         nonetheless

     headlong in the bones 

     profound rim inaudible     

 hunger                 bounced

  point                    against

 known                  sounding

           mimetic decibels

          proximal ointment

         an elongating drum 

                    one a violin 

                    they turn off the

silence grasp and broadcast parade

                      

                       *

smaller clasps

wandering aggressive

      into 

            modest 

     

globe cartoons 

sound her screen and beckon

                       with plot

the paper commissioned, not the music

***

2

Doing the After Math

the waiting divulge the baptism routes 

the will of fabric tandems welling basted tracts 

requiring verve dissertations 

     commissaries fluctuate 

     reborn hacksaws lock the additive 

          to the amplitudes 

                                      their horror welled acclaim

                                 *

wandering nerve radar divulges eaten hordes

     pawned rental stamens 

                    molten blackhead syrups 

                                          depression disinfectants

          release the hostage swizzle 

     the fairway reverb romps pleasantries 

     the blowtorch band turns polyrhythms

                       an awful glob

                       like fireside plunder spectacles 

               shattered firebricks will a queasy half-life

                                              no fairway can encompass

                                   *

     or a rampant nightcap ode 

     an ebb emanates wolf lava 

     darkening payload scarves 

 

          burnt lanterns bring scrutiny

          to elusive commonplaces braking 

                the nearest panic, galloping 

                reverb sectors dissolve siesta 

                          harkening will to slime clappers

          cornered without symptoms and larvae sectors 

     pulsation dentures scraping calcification

          prevent the torn gaze, vibrations quaking 

               patricide riffs removed with headphones 

                                       *

                         the tethered gaze 

                         lost mimetic vibrations 

                         to a cornered epitaph

***

3

Everything Included

strata passed

the compendium pocket

          infrastructure 

          a padlocked poker face

                 below

                           the way

                                        up

                             a preposition cavern

abandoned          to the threats of logic

corridor not       

                            an upheaval breathing

     fire spacing

                         clocked

                                      the treeline

           a forest

           gumbos         the barracuda splice

                                  a given better taken

                    as such

                                  before much 

less occasions will spice

the play

             apologetic return             

elastic parsing the pronoun haze

before the primeval locket clocked

the last entry

                      on

                           its way

                                        out

                           a rip current of errata

Casimir Funk - Black-out lines

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