Monday, August 11, 2014

poem || Tath Haver

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ahahahhah ahlololol a giggle lol a lol hehehaahaha it was raining

3 poems || John Pursch

Her Leftover Foot

Purple purrs perfect indigenous replies
to muffed invigilator tracebacks,
stropping surreptitious scarabs
into cigarette blurs of birdsong shock’s
thermometer implosion.

Surrendering to chalky airport chattel surveys,
clapboard clones occlude the sword’s player
from bulky stenographic appeasement therapy,
crossing treatise stents with butterfly seclusion
hair trapeze investors.

Gonads seize on any blundered mosh peal
partisan’s pyloric disrespect, stiffing candied
sorority preenersfor strumpet silo peeks in
latter-quay contusion ceremonies
on the glittering payola cradle rock.

News wafts stroboscopic, crossing
retinal eagle treads with quorum certainty,
glossing underarms for chair lift peculation’s
surgical embodiment of mollified refraction.

Saunas cry worldly biplane manure receptors,
blaming denim dumbbell deodorant
for pterodactyl dipping doodles,
cropped to naked forceps stallions
by manic mane maneuvers on patrol
in neon switchback chimichanga tunnels.

Her leftover foot flew back to desktop myopia,
eclipsing sandwiched highland hosiery
with softened ankle hankerings for mobile
muriatic heels steeped in silly conifers.


Replay Sleet

Windy stress shafts wind beneath
deserted floral technocratic palace ticks
of cloakroom lozenge asthma rhythms,
slung carefully at smitten naïve hangnail spines
of novel alimentary negation’s usurped welter.

The sun sidles idly, crowning bivalves
with pied pallor’s wavy crank exposure,
imposing sternly grafted flesh demands
on disco’s bloodied blotter bumbershoot fanatics,
sold to faulty slant reduction scimitar collation grips
for hallway pitchman ancillary coda complements
and crested soil in undulating highway greenery malaise.

Shyly plotted fate evades
eviscerated hostage punditry’s
credulity charade on hefty channel
spandex kneecap’s lopped and saddled
hortatory ort of ergonomic visitation shrikes,
filtered into hissing mounds of fowl
ballistic munitions sins.

Amply curdled camp ignition parquet soars
to tinny coital clamoring beside imperfect jelly roots
of wishy-faucet fratricide and greatly granulated
coffee crunch fruition’s laissez chaise sagacity,
ensconced in boffo subterfuge pugnacious fugues of sludge.

Derisive shiners ached habitually
on conga limestone pedestals,
walking shamefully to treatise coroner mummeries
with cramming grievers on believable replay sleet.


Strip Tease Junction Sweat

Parsley mollifies a stymied retriever,
flashing toga tags in lunch box stitch rebuttal,
crossing shuffled riverboat deltoids
with scapulas from stouter basement toilers,
rendering original shin doctors obsolete
in swirling tan country deckhand domiciles.

So much for pedestrian banter beneath
grossly cursive laundromat induction spines
in trounced sound border towns
of dusty floorboard recompense,
fugitive enslavement’s pending mishmash,
and lugubrious potato handhold skiing sacraments,
pressed into auxiliary surface fiord replacement studies.

Forming years from juxtaposed agitation baffles,
Sergeant Spellticake kneels before three bowling bots
in supple inch incineration, flashing head to toe
in cinder suction latency, batting naughty icicles
at sky clash pestilence mutation axes.

Snoozing urchins overhear professional recession quints
in birthing bangs and pan-Pathetic war paint glimpses
governing an energetic spurge of sordid nautical omissions,
battle feces not withheld from epoch alibi rehearsal scotch
and tunic bumbling fees.

Operas pend in Adriatic inanity fleets of flustered lute reminders,
bilking scarf removers into hearsay overkill’s
emolument of bracing screamer gaslight pain
and breadfruit sink loquacity’s polysyllabic involvement
with denuded daytime trait repealers.

Donors eat at bait inscription saddle shore reception gigs
with cruising chartered insignia impalers in pallid ardor,
deprecating caged soldiers.

Silver eagles pine for luau lollipops ahead of humping umps,
crashing into catchy paddock dissection straits
when optional neurologists begin to query bedside coma eulogists
for seedless pager numbing clues, sold audibly to mining town
executors in lieu of strip tease junction sweat.

poem || Jeff Harrison

Dreamy Head

checker player
nested
atop
pine benches
a
painting
commemorating
the day
we became
500 years old
with
our
bare hands
to me
the
picture
was
di
vi
ded
by gardens
each long narrow
told-her-so
breakfasted
on my
good-bye
standing nigh
small beds,
church,
evergreen,
the art of
printing,
codfish heads,
orange trees,
sled dogs,
daylight
savings
time, coins

text || Marco Giovenale

modules, #7

closer ____ or ____ was it ____ (meeting) ____ cute drinking ____ drunk says ____
tell your father ____ a set of modified coffee ____ six ____ changed without taking the piano ____
freeware is in the usual charcoal camp library ____ destruction box ____ very loud ____ see if ____
there’s an actual piano player ____ the radio says anguish ____ plus handler ____ plus dog
____ they’re so near ____ to the very idea of anschluss ____ wash your head ____ machines just
____ take the power ____ they’re getting here

2 pomes || Billy Bob Beamer

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2 poems || Howie Good

Pointless Weirdness

1
Whatever is obsolete is free for the taking. I have a box full of photographs I've taken of clouds! The process is one of clinging to outlaw fragments floating around me. Pointless weirdness gets old fast, but I can’t help myself. Buddy Holly looked right at my mother at the show in Duluth three days before the plane crash.

2
While waiting in the express lane (a serious misnomer!) at the supermarket, I study the candy rack and then the magazines, my eyes catching on the cover of People, even though none of the names in the megawatt rainbow lettering are familiar to me, or their disembodied faces either, and I’m struck, not for the first time, by our casual insertions into ideological circuits, but mostly by the fact that I’m somewhere on the fringes of an ever-moving mass, like the sick and the weak and the slow, easy meals for lions and hyenas.

3
We stop in front of the stained glass of Abraham raising the knife. Who is that, you ask, Elijah? The exhibit goes on for another five white, sterile rooms. Behind every work of art lies an uncommitted crime, Abraham grasping Isaac’s hair. It’s the season’s hottest trend, an ongoing crisis of representation, populated by ghosts and old men. I have a hole in my head I want you to fill with a tongue kiss.



Fire Is the Other Animal 
A collage based on Heather S.J. Steglia, Water Runs To What Is Wet (Burning Deck, 1980)


I live in the reign
of sparrows

Bird tracks
make circles
in my palms

What isn’t is

We have left
bones in the forest
& dark swans
under the water