Opium Poetry 2.0

my new chap

2010-10-16T02:46:00.001-04:00

you can buy a copy of my new chap The Fury of Sparrows here:
http://newpolishbeat.wordpress.com/2010/10/07/ross-vassilev-the-fury-of-sparrows/

my new blog

2010-09-06T15:41:00.001-04:00

http://asphodelmadness.wordpress.com/

Sasha Grey’s Favorite Movie

2010-09-05T07:43:00.002-04:00

by John Rocco

I heard on the Internet that

Sasha Grey’s favorite movie

#1 of all time is

ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK.

Thank you

Sasha Grey

beautiful wonder of a porn star

for your choice

Snake Plissken your favorite

breaking into New York

Manhattan Island a

Maximum Security Prison

the bridges mined

the water filled with bombs

no one ever gets off the island

but Air Force One

goes down with the

President on board

played by Donald Pleasence

Dr. Loomis in HALLOWEEN

and the Duke grabs him

played by Isaac Hayes

who wrote the great theme

to SUPERFLY

and who died recently.

See,

you can’t even talk about

hot porn stars

music

and John Carpenter movies

without

Death making it with the Maiden.

Inspiration

2010-09-03T17:14:00.003-04:00

by Tyler Bigney

Tried many things:

Read Styron. Walked through the woods,
stopped at the river, watched the fish swim
in circles. Climbed halfway up a mountain,
got tired and climbed back down. Tied
a string around a tree branch, tied a worm
to the string and cast it out into the steely
gray water. The fish weren’t biting,
not even a nibble. Drove back to town
and walked the dusky streets until
they filled up with fog and my feet hurt
and my head ached from a lack of coffee.
Went home, made coffee, smoked two
cigarettes in a row and stood staring
at the blank page.

Read the Spring issue of some
literary journal, thought about writing,
waited for the inspiration to come, but
what, with the cigarettes and the coffee
the only thing to come from within me
was shit.

The plastic factory

2010-09-03T17:12:00.002-04:00

by Tyler Bigney

Four nights a week
from dusk until dawn
I followed the railroad tracks
the two miles to the plastic factory
where I sat on hard stools
and tied knots
for twelve hours
until my fingers bled
and calloused.

The old lady with the bad perm
came by with a stopwatch
making sure I could tie thirty knots
per minute. I could.
She left me alone after a week or so,
alone to dream about Russia,
Turkish summers,
Ferris wheels,
Iranian women,
until there was nothing left
to dream about.
When the sun came in through the windows
and the smell of coffee lingered
we knew it was time to punch out, go home
and sleep.

Every now and again
one of the men would offer me a drive home,
and I would decline
telling them that I didn’t mind the walk
that the walk was good for the body
and for the soul.
I wish I did take them up
on their offer
because my feet were heavy
and it was always a long walk home
for someone
with nothing
left to dream about.

special k

2010-09-02T16:51:00.002-04:00

by Randall Rogers

special k kreates
bloated
dimension drifts
and personally inflicted blood bath-like
personal wounds
when you do that first or those after
that first
one too big a shot.
careful, kids and adult old women and men
transvestite and transsexual
psychonaut curious in your chair at home or with good folks risk taker journeying learning
old hippie or "the receptors are there"
might as well
thinkers world and beyond
alike
be careful
this is some powerful shit.

thank allah for cigarettes!!!

SATAN STREETS, TO GUIDE YOU

2010-09-02T16:48:00.003-04:00

by Randall Rogers

satin streets
and
allys paved
with fool’s gold
that’s america
the usa
just to inform
you dreaming would be
immigrants – or shit help us you terroristas
if youse is still
got the notion paid the smugglers
to get you illegally or hell, legally,
into this fine
always been always will be
nation - and people –

because nowadays
as the social philosopher types
tenured or not
arm-chair
or actually read a book
and finished it
last year
person you are
not.

just put a little
vapor
in your gas/ass
and keep looking
and things still
in the end and on the way
will definitely
not be alright
nor ever near so
why?
because you lie
as you have been told, no forced,
the truth or what then or now or future past
it passed
and was in turn
passed on to
as the whom you think is the fake and spurious real
you, of you.
boo-hoo hoo.

help! dingos, ah...no...

-- vaporous gas raped my daughter!!!
name?
name’s mary
the virgin mary
joe told the detectives.
repeatedly.
until they believed.

For The Cute Poet In Iowa,

2010-09-01T18:22:00.000-04:00

by Melanie Browne

My husband is jealous of you,

Because I make him read your

Poems,

He likes some of them.

He squeals like a pig and calls

You farm boy,

Apparently you have sex with lots

Of lonely housewives in Iowa,

And you have lots of adventures

With down on their luck

People that hang out

In bars and greasy diners,

Also in Iowa,

I have to admit,

Some of your poems

Are a little hard to believe,

Like The day you met the Indian

Chief and he turned out

To be your grandfather,

and he told you

your sacred animal

was the Beaver

and a silent

tear fell from your

face and settled

into

your overpriced

shot glass

my generation

2010-09-01T16:44:00.003-04:00

by Randall Rogers

they said
we could’nt
do it
and we did’nt.

only thing really worth
living for
is dying
and those twilight zone episodes
you missed.

given the conditions
of the day, year, moment or hour,
are always ripe for

spontaneous suicide!!! yikes!

come
to the
no panic bar.

the panic attack bar & grill
and the rasta roost restaurant.©

learn to live with this
and less
that is the whole of the law.
in the here, now, present, past
and future (continuous?)
which just may not too exactly
nor not
though maybe
might
be you
or whom you shoul or should have been or will be
though again maybe
you
nor not you?
whatever.

if there's any irony to be culled at this point in the narrative

2010-08-31T07:44:00.000-04:00

it's that here
thirty-two years old

stocky
like a union pipe fitter

clothes from goodwill

driving
a dented up
kia rio

i pull
three times
the pussy
i did at twenty-two

when i had
the body
of a gymnast

a shiny black
celica gt

and a closet
full of
tight fitting
euro trash.

by Justin Hyde

The Couple Fighting In Front Of The Box Office Ultimately Decide To Go Home

2010-08-30T15:22:00.001-04:00

by Melanie Browne

It can seem like a small thing,

the refuge of the cinema on

a saturday afternoon, his hand

tucked in yours, your head

on his shoulder, sharing one

large Diet Coke,

yet society has conspired

against you,

clipped your sanity,

so you continue the fight

you started earlier that morning

about nothing really,

and now you can't even

remember the

name of the movie

you both wanted to see,

his back hurts,

she would rather

eat ice cream in the bath,

look at her Star Magazine

Internet

2010-08-27T19:47:00.001-04:00

by Chris Butler

The kids are comatose

trying to dial-up utopia,

where everyone is everyone’s friend,

habitually addicting antisocialiogical

behavior of daily updates to claim face space

along the unpaved infomanic superhighway,

of double-jointed hitchhiking hookers

and pedophiles disguised as teenagers,

to be encased within the trappings of the web,

so just

pull the plug.

Oh well,

lol.

some more truth

2010-08-25T23:15:00.001-04:00

*soldiers kill Afghan civilians for fun

Delusions

2010-08-23T15:54:00.005-04:00

by Leila Fortier

(click or double-click to view full size)

Fallen

2010-08-23T15:52:00.003-04:00

by Leila Fortier

(click or double-click to view full size)

within five minutes of entering the supermarket

2010-08-21T05:18:00.001-04:00

by J.J. Campbell

standing in the beer

aisle wondering if the

imported shit is really

worth four extra dollars

when this attractive

black woman fell to

the floor

my first inclination

was to laugh

my mom of course

rushed over to see if

she was alright as the

woman was blaming

her heels and diabetes

for the fall

i settled for domestic

later in the fruits and

vegetables section this

little kid said hello to

me but he didn't use

my name or mister

he said hello to the

big fat guy

i laughed and thought

about karma

and the more i thought

about it the more i

wanted to teach that

kid how much the

truth really hurts

but i refrained

figured life would

get to him soon

enough

*http://sites.google.com/site/losersincsite/

at the community picnic

2010-08-21T05:15:00.002-04:00

by J.J. Campbell

just another lost soul

that thinks the world

has gone to hell since

duane allman died

and here come the

other fuckers who

hate the government

until they want

something done for

nothing

a slinky dress falling

off the shoulder of a

leggy blonde that

knows how to get

what she wants

there goes the lawyer

busted for having sex

with underage girls

and all the whispers

that follow him

and here comes the

pastor whom no one

would expect holds

the darkest secrets

of all

but nothing stays

hidden forever in

this small town

infamy is as close

as the nearest

prying eye

The Rancid Rooms of Montreal

2010-08-19T03:51:00.001-04:00

by Denis Robillard

I’m thinking of Montreal again
Sleepy out of the way diners
Run by hard working immigrants
Clatter of dishes, noisy kitchens
Cheap tips under chipped coffee cups.
Find jack there, c. 1953.
Sneering at red rancid rooms off St. Catherine
The gloom time of Peel or a Papineau Tavern
Where he’s drunk on Sang Du Caribou again.
I settle for a Cheval Blanc
Where my morning coffee is still doing its job
& Alcohol fumes from last night’s mess
Are still drilling a deliberate hole in my skull.
Today in a hypnogogic state I saw the face
Of a young Jean Louis Kerouac
On the back of a cloth mottled chair
At The Station Restaurant 8 am.
And this day will never be the same.

Items of Amorous Intent

2010-08-19T03:50:00.001-04:00

by Denis Robillard

Dark sad eyes
Wild, wild eyes
Sweet look of
Innocence untried
Youthful charm
Long, artistic fingers
A tilted head
A poutey mouth
Shock pink lips
Soft white neck
Hair in pigtails
With bouncy wisps
And erotic curlicews
Eternal hours
Our nights of lovemaking
The weekends of
Wet ,wet rain
Descending into
Darkness as we
Dissolve these items
Of amorous intent.

What a Man Needs

2010-08-18T16:56:00.000-04:00

by James Babbs

he needs water
and food
and cases of beer
for the long nights
when he doesn’t have a woman
beer for those nights
when she’s around
but he doesn’t want to talk
he needs money
and moments of anger
he needs rooms
he can go to
and hide from the light
telephones
with caller ID
so he can choose
whether or not to answer
he needs dreams
dreams of beauty
and death
hung with darkness
something
that feels like love
but doesn’t have a name

Nine In the Morning

2010-08-18T16:55:00.000-04:00

by James Babbs

empty Bud Light box
blowing across the fields
it’s nine in the morning and
I’m thinking about sex
I haven’t been with a woman
in a really long time and
it seems to be a lot windier
around here these days and
whenever I see a woman
I try to picture
what she looks like naked
imagining
how her body feels
rubbing against my own and
I think
that’s one of the reasons
why I’ve been drinking so much
mostly
cold bottles of beer
but sometimes red wine
or whiskey in my coffee
when it starts getting cold

Cruel Summer

2010-08-18T16:53:00.002-04:00

by James Babbs

it was a cruel summer
if you don’t believe me
just go ask
the women from Bananarama
see what they’re doing now
maybe
if you ask them nicely
they’ll perform
their remake of Venus for you
I used to masturbate
while watching their videos
I think one of them
married Dave Stewart
from the band Eurythmics
I wonder if they’re still together
does anybody here know
whatever happened to Annie Lennox
she frightened me
the first time I saw her
in the video for Sweet Dreams
late-night Friday
on cable TV and
I never had any plans for the weekend
I usually just slept in late

Fran’s Building

2010-08-16T23:29:00.003-04:00

by John Rocco

A guy jumped out of Fran’s building

the 6th floor

3 floors above Fran’s place where

we play poker and drink.

The guy who jumped was

a loner. No one in the building

talked to the guy because they

thought he was a weirdo

and Fran turned out to be

the only one to talk to the guy

who was a recluse and fucked up

but he talked to Fran and two days

before he jumped Fran saw

him in an ambulance down

the block and had a dilemma:

stop and see him or meet the

band to jam but he stopped

and asked the guy if he needed

anything from his apartment.

The guy said no

thanks anyway

and that was the last

Fran thought of him

before he heard he

jumped early in the morning.

Also in Fran’s builidng

was

this WW2

Navy Captain

who had to order

hundreds of sailors

to their deaths

to save thousands of

other sailors

at Iwo Jima.

Fran plays chess with

the old guy

many games drinking

Anisette and the last

time the phone rang

and it was the Captain’s

nephew who told Fran

to tell the old guy to shave

in the morning because he

was going to take him to

the doctor but they were

really taking him to a hearing

to put him away in a home.

Fran didn’t tell him to shave

and they stayed up late

drinking Anisette and

playing chess.

I’m going over to Fran’s now

to drink in the middle of the day

and if the bricks could drink

in his building they would

and I’d give them a shot

but they can’t drink

but they can remember

because

architecture is alive

blood hard music

that we all live inside.

Summer

2010-08-16T23:28:00.000-04:00

by John Rocco

All the teeth in my head are exploding

wet firecrackers finally going off

hunks of old lead and decay and

untouched summer girls in the park

down the hatch with a river of bourbon

thank god for bourbon

the true ones

drink 4 gallons of bourbon

a day in their minds

to become Davy Crockett

King of the Wild Frontier

who fought Mexico

16 corpses surrounding his corpse

his knife in all of them.

My summer has been like this.

The Age of Sail

2010-08-16T05:05:00.002-04:00

by John Rocco

I’m a stowaway

on the bad ship NEVERMORE

her sails black with blood

her decks awash in whale cum

the Red Clock of Death

a doomed heartbeat below.

Our Captain, my Captain

is the Mad One

branded to kill

the cold fish world

the oceans endless

hot Siren crack pipes whispering

always whispering to him.

I hide in the stinking hold

entombed with rotting meat

and casks of grog.

I tap into both

and when I walk the

decks at night

past the humping shadows

the cursed meat

and the blazing booze

rush through me

pissing blood and guts

over the side.

This is bait

of course

for the aqua chicks

the Sirens, the Mermaids

the stacked sea Princesses

all tails and big tits.

This is bait to attract them

call to them

so I can sing my song

to them for a change.

I sing to them

each to each

as the Allman Brothers say

to eat a sea peach.

I sing of cemetery screwing

and churchyard orgies.

I sing of cannibal pages

and oxygen words.

I sing of the Harbour Inn

and the powerful Polish kiss.

I sing of sweet revenge

and always going too far.

I sing of eating

her whale’s tail

morning noon night.

I sing this mating call

of love to scales and tails

and to their land-loving doubles

you know who you are.

Shark Week

2010-08-16T05:03:00.002-04:00

by John Rocco

Watching endless Shark Week shows

on shark bites and attacks and anatomy

I learn some important facts:

Sharks have two sex organs,

the second one a back-up

if the first fails.

Sharks have violent sex

often biting, tearing

huge chucks of flesh

off each other. You can

see the marks on many

of them.

Sharks will die

drown

if they stop moving.

The shark has a third

eyelid that closes over

the blank shark eye

during frenzied feeding.

I don’t know why

but these shark facts

make me think of the

time this beautiful

Chinese girl said to me:

“I don’t love you.

I just want you to

fuck me…

haaaaarrrrrrdddddddd.”

FRESH MORNING COFFEE

2010-08-13T21:12:00.002-04:00

by LD Wilkinson

everyday
before work
I find myself
staring
into the Earth-blue eyes
of the Starbucks girl
thinking
how beautiful
these eyes
how beautiful
this aroma
of fresh morning coffee
and sticky
breakfast treats
how beautiful
these fleeting moments
of caffeine
and sugar
and dots
of electric light
in blue
green eyes
and
if it weren’t for
the fact
that I hate my job
and despise my boss
and wear my life
like a burn
I would leave
this misted paradise
everyday
in search of
indispensable misery

Gateway

2010-08-10T06:13:00.001-04:00

by Daria Souchkova

There’s a blindness that stings
a sun-encrusted sky. A rooftop,
bloodless, dies. The night
is singing. Plucks a lonely

eye. Shadows are blind.
Whiter white. Down they filter
salt. Whose sound is light. Saccade

on through the million sockets
in the night. Grope on your starry
cavern’s voice…enough!

Where Janus splits, a skyline
sickle rims a blind. Which-
inscribes sight?

Elegy

2010-08-10T06:11:00.006-04:00

by Daria Souchkova

A blue ray enshrines
a sphere's crater
lips, that,
splitting, scream the sun.

Cosmic scars reticulate
the sky’s
heart that,
scattering, captures light.

Bury my blue veins. Unearth
the shroud.
Grounding,
thunders my celestial pulse.

A Guided Tour of Hell

2010-08-08T19:54:00.004-04:00

by Alan Catlin

"Sometimes hot sauce was the only

way I knew I was alive."

--Michael Connelly

Drunk on Stout and wee lads

of Irish whiskey: the Black

Bush, Tullamore, Power's,

Jamie and the boys, all the dead

soldiers of an armed conflict

with the unseen, boggy nights of

smoke, the landlord's face the last

sight I would see before the fall

and after, lying back down in

sawdust and ash, three quarters of

my way through a liquid guided tour

of hell, the blessed isle, a drink for

each county taken, until the weight

of it all dragged me down and I could

no longer separate the people from

the light that awaits me at the end

of this long, dark tunnel I'm sliding

toward the end of.

In the bottom of some hour

2010-08-08T19:52:00.002-04:00

by Alan Catlin

after last call, nearly

snow blind in some field

on a stoned drunk mission

to head due north of nowhere,

alone and lost, skating ice,

the suicide oceans of night,

subzero windchill through

a forest of dead trees.

mounds of snow like headstones

in the Gravesend where no

man goes; staggering, close to

brain death, the body's folly,

walking on when there is no

place to go.

Your Eyes Are The Saddest Cowboy Lament

2010-08-08T00:10:00.002-04:00

by Melanie Browne

Your eyes are

lonely like

the Streets

of Laredo,

at high noon,

with 100% humidity

You aren't a

jolly cowboy,

and I ain't a pretty

maiden,

I don't have any

roses for

your coffin,

because I had

to buy a

40 ounce,

your eyes are

the saddest

cowboy lament,

when I look

in them

I see roadkill,

scavenger

birds &

old people

with cataracts

I might dress up

fancy for your

funeral,

I have some

new stilettos,

back seam

stockings,

a handkerchief

made of

white linen

Skipping Rosetta Stones Across the Backs of the Ages

2010-08-05T19:40:00.001-04:00

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The dancing bear does circus tricks,

piñatas on the cover of S&M Monthly,

and my days are filled with little more

than laying here

staring at the ceiling

waiting for the muse to arrive

with the fire.

Skipping Rosetta stones across

the backs of the ages.

There are large craters in the couch upholstery

from where the heels of my idleness

have come to rest for far too long.

I run my hands across the contours

of another wasted moon landing

and wait

for it to get dark.

The dancing bear mauls a midget,

shadows dance across my walls;

sometimes a foxtrot

never a waltz.

Homesickness

2010-08-03T04:05:00.001-04:00

by Ben Simon

Back when I searched through wanton weeds for the lone lotus flower

The seasons all looked the same

And my indifference would not glide away

The summer equinox was oblivion

Until I met you on a blossoming hill overlooking your hometown

And I realized that the weeds were vestigial.

Our paths often crossed, no matter how many forks

We made light of Tiger Beat and left darkness for the birds and fish

I’d trade paperbacks for your warmth and intellectualism

And everything would always shine with you

As you’d fill me in on who was shallow and who devious

While we chatted by the lake.

As another sun dies down to Earth

I think of stars we should have crossed

I talk of shrinks who said “give up”

But, clenching our story tight

I must be on my way to the moon

Where we can count the constellations in our private hemisphere

And believe that nothing is absurd.

Namesake (For My Grandfather)

2010-08-03T04:03:00.000-04:00

by Ben Simon

All of my images of you are taken from one photo
With your balding round head and your thick beige frames
I took you for granted my initial decade
Now I wonder if I have inherited you
And if you are more than a namesake
You’ve been away longer than you were here
But during your time here you made an impact
I’m pondering what of that’s mine and what is just yours
As I glue in the details of my namesake’s forty years.

55

2010-07-31T23:04:00.000-04:00

by Mike Meraz

fifty-five, he looks like
he's forty-five
lifting those weights.
Marlon Brando eyes,
standing there
in a white t-shirt,
against a screen
looking at me
with such indifference.

I do not recognize him.

his heart usually beats loud,
and his face always shines
with fatherly love.
but on this day
with the weight of death,
loss and the drama
of new love
resting on his shoulders,
he looks at me for once
and does not smile.

I do not recognize him.

my writing style

2010-07-31T02:24:00.001-04:00

by J.J. Campbell

i somehow ended up in

a conversation with some

college kids the other day

and one of them asked

me what i do for a living

i told him i'm a writer

but these shining bundles

of light didn't understand

that writer was code for

i'm poor and live at home

with my mother

then one of the clowns

asked me to describe

my writing style

i paused

thought for a second

and then said have you

ever had a back spasm

while wiping a bloody

asshole all the while trying

to light some firecrackers

that pretty much sums

it up

all i got from that

was blank stares

and dumbfounded

faces

i walked away feeling

justified for my horrific

view of the future of

the free world

*http://sites.google.com/site/losersincsite/

The best part

2010-07-30T19:02:00.000-04:00

by Melanie Browne

of the poem,

about the chill

that travels

down my

sticky thigh,

shivers

up every bone

in my spine,

I lost that part,

I'm left with

a few lines

about

the sunrise,

waves crashing,

the seashell

in my hand,

both parts

are a lie,

but that

was the best part

STREET SEX

2010-07-29T22:58:00.001-04:00

by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Moving it
up
on you
dear girl
dancing
on the sidewalk,

summer
on your skin
in your bikini
hot
steps
barefooted,

please
stump your toe
on me,

I'll
cauterize
your wound,

in a back alley
suite.

nowheresville

2010-07-27T03:54:00.000-04:00

by M. P. Powers

past midnight, in this dark room
i inhale a cigarette
and wonder where you are
as a splintered piece of moonlight
floats along the floor
and climbs up my pantleg
my nose is burning
and i feel like lord alfred
tennyson's corpse
caught in a pale dream
i feel like all the dud fireworks
in the world and i walk
onto the balcony;
it creaks below me, despair
disguised as a dog
is barking somewhere; a slender
thread of purple
smoke loops
around my fingers, this silver cloud
eats silently the moon
as night drowns itself
in darkness,
i take another drag
and wonder where you are

Gregorian

2010-07-24T20:53:00.004-04:00

by Michael B. Tager

The days are crossed off
with pen slashes

Some blue, some red
a few X’s with a purple ballpoint

The countdown began
before you left

but it continues in your absense.

I assume
(please, correct me if I’m wrong, please)
it will not stop
until the snows melt
and the birds chirp
once more
outside our bedroom window.

Best case scenario.

The calendar is full of empty pages;
numbers mocking coldly
with their bold lines
and pictures of cats
in stupid outfits.

The pens are arranged symmetrically
because you'd like that.
Does that help?

The rain drops

2010-07-24T20:52:00.001-04:00

On my exposed skull
where I wait, unmoving
A day’s distance, a momentary lull
Skies remained dark, uncaring
Upon this hilltop, an empty hull

by Michael B. Tager

When I’m Drunk I Think She’s Beautiful

2010-07-23T21:37:00.000-04:00

by James Babbs

Connie’s behind the bar
tonight
where she’s been for the past
35 years or so
serving up drinks and
trying to keep everybody in line
I’m one of her regulars
so she comes over and
talks to me
whenever she gets the chance
sometimes
I flirt with her
making her laugh
she tells me
she’s old enough to be my mother
but when I’m drunk
I think she’s beautiful and
I tell her
I want to marry her
I tell her
I want to live with her
right here in the bar
she comes back with
I just want her
for all the free booze
but I tell her
my voice louder this time
no
it’s not true
I tell her
I love her and
every time I say it
she just laughs
on one of my better nights
when I end up leaving
with some other woman
turning back one last time
toward the bar
I don’t know
maybe
it’s just me
or the lighting
or something
but I swear
Connie always looks sad
when I tell her goodbye

I’ve Been In Love

2010-07-23T21:33:00.001-04:00

by James Babbs

I’ve been in love with countless women
over the years
but none of them ever loved me
and how many unrequited loves
does one man need
before he seeks solace
from something else
like the warm touch of madness
or the bottle’s sweet pull
and the sky at night
littered with stars
tiny lights without meaning
pieces of broken glass
scattered beneath my feet
after I dropped the cup
spilling the last of the wine
red
looks almost like blood

Sausage Fest

2010-07-22T13:44:00.001-04:00

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Winston

promised there would be girls

and plenty to drink,

but when I arrived with a six pack

and a fifth of rum

I walked in ten to fifteen guys

talking about their feelings;

straight as a bent straw

and in the confessional

after two beers.

Plenty to drink

had become seven beers

in the fridge

and a bottle of gin

(split fourteen ways)

and there wasn't a girl

in sight

as I started in on my six pack

in the corner.

A knock at the door

and some surfer types

in Bermuda shorts arrived,

followed by a couple of roid freaks

doing pushups

in tanks tops

and two delicate little blonde boys

with their guitars

and harmonicas

playing the worst of Simon

and Garfunkel

as I polished off the beer

and started in on the fifth

of rum.

People collapse

like economies collapse,

and with prohibition making a comeback

and not a woman in sight,

I slunk down into my chair

and grew ever more

despondent.

I puked a little in my mouth

as the conversation shifted aimlessly

from sports

to cars

to protein shakes

and back to sports.

Even the music

had grown all baritone

and facial hair.

All adam,

no eve.

It was a real sausage fest

in there.

And according to the calendar

on the wall,

Oktoberfest was still

seven months

away.

In and Out of Mexico

2010-07-21T21:26:00.000-04:00

by John Rocco

In Mexico
the street kids
sniff glue
outside the church
holding big statues of
St. Jude
patron saint of lost causes
and pulling the glue fumes
deep into their lungs
before entering the church
to feel
the hands
of a terrifyingly real God
growing a face in the dark.

In Mexico
the patron saint of drug addicts
and drug dealers and criminals
is Santa Muerte
St. Death
and she has big tits
and a skull face
grinning in the falling walls
of heavy dripping candles.

In Mexico
at breakfast
at four in the afternoon
she drinks hot spicy soup
loaded with killer peppers
spooning some into my mouth
telling me, “It’s Aztec!”
She spent time in an LA jail
because she got caught with
a fake passport. She has a
jail tattoo on the back of her
left hand. “How I cross
the border into Texas?”
she asked me after I
asked her. “Waving
my hands and with
these,” she said.
“With these,”
she said cupping her
big dark wonderful tits.

Slow Children at Play

2010-07-20T05:14:00.002-04:00

by Chris Butler

The constant deprivation of oxygen

to our brains,

causes us to be

slow children at play.

We think we’re gifted

even though we lack all

the trimmings,

chasing that bouncing

black ball across narrow

yellow roads

while blissfully depicting

caricatures in cumulonimbus

clouds;

drawn towards autistic artistry,

as innocence is meshed

into mush inside of Michelin

treads.

Only the dumb die young.

A little

2010-07-19T02:35:00.002-04:00

by Mike Boyle

Not much. No bragging rights. It's
Saturday, lawn done cut to nubs.
This front garden space needs some-
thing. Little bush or tree. Put some-
thing there. Violets bloom early,
now look like weeds.

Put something there. Tomorrow.
Next day. Earth rolling under-
neath, burping fractured planet.
Yes, hike. You like this. When
it's hot not many, just you,
sweating all that out.

All of it. You know what it is
and know it's bad. That you are
possibly bad, also, personally,
to the core, in the large scope
of things with demands of
participation.

Fuck that. Hold onto planet
spinning around black hole.
Keep your side of the street
clean in metaphoric and
physical sense. Buy some

underwear that fits. Last trip
to box store you came out
with droopy things in some
box store trance. Who does
that.

Not William Burroughs

2010-07-17T05:47:00.002-04:00

by Melanie Browne

I locked myself in the

bedroom closet

with the glass

skull liquor bottle

my husband got

for Christmas

I balance the bottle

on my head

and took some

pics with

my cell phone

I never

showed anyone

but tell me,

is that strange?

The sculptor looks hard

2010-07-15T01:25:00.001-04:00

by Robert Laughlin

The sculptor looks hard

At the stone block.

Tons of encasing matter

Melt away and liberate

The captive figure inside.

FOR HART CRANE

2010-07-14T11:14:00.003-04:00

by Randall Rogers

IT’S OUT OF HABIT

NECCESSITY

SCULPTS

A FOOL’S HEAD.

BRACKISH

IT'S OBAMA

STEREOPHONIC

PLAY SPACE WITH

YOUR WOOFERS

AND TWEETERS

PUSHERS

AND POLICERS

INCARCERATING

MIGHTY

EMPIRE DREAD.

YEAH IT'S

A REAL PALACE

OF WISDOM

YOUR DRUNKEN HEAD.

HAND DRAWING

ART? INSIDE

ME SKULL.

JUST REMEMBER

IN REALITIES

LESS REAL

AND PROFOUND

ONE MAY NOT

EQUATE MOUTAIN LION = COUGAR

EITHER.

OR EVENTUALLY DISCOVER

AFTER THIRTY EIGHT OR FORTY

YEARS OF HARD STUDY

LIFE AND READING

‘TIS RATHER A STRANGE SENSATION

WHEN YOU

DISCOVER

THERE IS

NO ‘’D’’

IN PRIVILEGE.

EXIT STRATEGY/SUICIDE OF AN AMERICAN PRIVATE FIRST CLASS

2010-07-12T21:18:00.001-04:00

MOSUL, Iraq - A soldier from the 2nd Infantry Division died from a non-combat related shooting here yesterday. The incident is under investigation. (Centcom news release)

Gung ho

Flag and anthem

Through the flames

Army strong

Shoot first

Ask questions later

Then the bayonet

he said

Blood the desert takes the sand will not return

No exit from the RPG

No exit from the mortar round

No exit from the roadside bomb

No exit from the helicopter crash

Blood the desert takes the sand will not release

No exit from the Tigris River

No exit from the green canal

No exit from the Shat Al Hillah

No exit from the drowning pool

Blood the desert takes the sand will not replace

No way out of Umm Qasr

No way out of Tall Afar

No way off Haditha Dam

No way out of Balad Ruz

No exit from the water

Blood the desert takes the sand will not reprieve

No exit from the sky

No way home to Eagle Pass

No way home to Santa Fe

No way home to Baton Rouge

No way home to Seven Hills

Blood the desert takes the sand will not release

No way out of Abu Hanifa Mosque

No way out of Taraniyat Square

No way out of the corner café.

No way out of Hotel Mount Lebanon

Blood the desert takes the sand will not replace

No exit from the sniper scope

No exit from the rifle sight

No exit from the bullet hole

No exit from the body bag

Blood the desert takes the sand will not return.

And looking down the pistol barrel

Saw St. Barbara

Clothed in swallows and veil

Waiting at the gate across the river with welcoming arms

Kept his eyes on her

And pulled the trigger.

by Russell Streur

*http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/

DOWNTOWN ALBANY, THE DARKBLUE WIND STREETS

2010-07-11T14:19:00.001-04:00

by Lyn Lifshin

Blue wind

whips around

Belardo’s.

Melville lived in

this place once.

Now, it’s a

greasy bar. A

fat woman with stringy

hair screams

lousy, lousy

Blood spurts from

somebody’s mouth.

It’s still on the

floor when

we leave.

Yellow snow.

Dove St, Providence.

The names of the

streets nothing

like them

*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm

One of the Reasons I will Never Read Ulysess

2010-07-10T16:56:00.000-04:00

by Melanie Browne

My friend came over

and wanted us to

go get some Slurpies

and we layered them,

the Coke flavor and

the Cherry flavor and

Then we were blowing

our Slurpees

at each other,

I don’t know,

If I want

nonsense

I’ll read

a bunch of

German Expressionist

dream diaries,

I'll watch an Andy

Warhol movie while

Wearing

3-D glasses

and sipping

Absinthe in

my waterbed

angie

2010-07-08T23:02:00.001-04:00

by Justin Hyde

was my cubicle mate

when i was

a bank examiner.

she chewed her fingernails

and

gnawed her cuticles

until her fingers

were bright red

sores.

she told me

as a teenager

she'd gone from two-fifty

to one-fifty

by eating nothing but

unbuttered popcorn

and swallowing bottles

of phentermine.

while in chicago

for training

we ended up drunk

in her room.

this is why

i'll never get

a husband,

she said

lifting her shirt.

the skin was

shriveled

and hung down

below her waist.

i slid off

the edge of the bed

and slowly pulled her shirt

up and over

her shoulders.

don't underestimate

yourself,

i said

and unhooked her bra

and kissed

from waist

to neck.

you don't have to

feel sorry

for me,

she said.

i told her

it had nothing to do

with pity.

then i

ran her hands

over the buttons

of my shirt

and we

stopped

talking.

Sleeping

2010-07-07T13:14:00.001-04:00

by Michael Estabrook

on short
stiff benches beside
dusty
plastic plants and
torn magazines
on ugly
brown end tables in
the hospital
waiting room
waiting
for her mother
to emerge
from her coma
or not

MILF IN THE SHOWER

2010-07-06T23:08:00.002-04:00

by John Rocco

I’m at the doctor’s on the 4th of July

with a bad case of strep throat

I think I got from making out

with two strippers in a bathroom.

It’s not a long wait but later

the nurse at the clinic tells me

they’ll come

pouring in like war

causalities: blown up

hands, faces, feet.

“It’s the 4th. You’re

lucky you’re early.”

When she takes my

blood pressure

she is surprised it is so high.

She gets another machine

and does it again.

“What kind of morning

did you have?” she asks.

“Hectic?”

I did nothing before

except

I remembered

I watched

MILF IN THE SHOWER

online while paying bills.

“I had a crazy morning.”

She looks at me.

“That must be it.”

Tuesday Afternoon

2010-07-06T23:04:00.001-04:00

by John Rocco

“Writing on the walls with shit and period blood,” she said.
“The girl’s bathroom at our high school was insane!
You wouldn’t believe it.”

It’s turning late afternoon in the Bronx
in the bar
and I’m at the end
listening to Monica
on her high school bathroom.

The bartender is blasted on coke
talking years a minute
shooting complete games
of pool by herself
calling every two shots in advance
hitting most of them
her great ass humping the table.

Later,
again behind the bar
she says:
“Fuck that! I don’t wanna be going with the Angels!
I wanna be sniffing stuff, and drinking, and having sex!”

I go home
have 3 beers in cans
and watch the Mets lose
6-5 to the Padres
and I don’t even think about her.

Imitation is the Sincerest Form of ...

2010-07-04T20:16:00.002-04:00

by Paul Hellweg

Thirty plus years as a

university professor

preaching about the perils

of plagiarism, then tonight

read a poem in an online ‘zine

that stole lines directly from me.

Move over Hemingway,

move over Bukowski,

move over Céline,

you ain’t the only ones

with words worth stealing.

I’m giddy with excitement,

I’m drunk on joy (well, Corona too),

I feel like I’ve finally arrived ...

I’ve been plagiarized!

THE FIRST WEEK AT THE ARTIST’S RETREAT

2010-07-02T21:00:00.002-04:00

When I went to

type rain fills the

morning

it came out

pain

You would have liked, you

always saw things

as unfolding (said you

never knew past the

next plane

ticket where

I’ve been living in a house

with paper partitions,

like in Japan, keeping

everyone separate

But I didn’t know that

when I started this poem

*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm

Adrift on a Black Sea

2010-07-01T13:09:00.003-04:00

by Barry Basden

Tattered sails flap above the schooner,
all but worn out.
I am on the teak deck,
sitting with ladies holding parasols,
drinking mojitos and
watching the warships
maneuver off the starboard bow.

Violence and commerce
are officially in season.

Genetically-modified wind
wails toward the beaches.
Greenpeace hides in the seine with the bluefin.
Grappling hooks are brought to bear and
there is a jumble of silver bellies,
flashing knives,
bright blood.

Later, we can hear
whales keening
across the pearly waters,
giving up their young for base metals.
Albatrosses gasp in the waves.
A rainbow sheen rubs salt into wounds.

From inland comes a distant rumble and,
somewhere out in that wild yonder,
rusty car bombs
exchange furious needs
with predator drones.
Orange traffic cones stand guard
in the burning desert.

The ladies lift their glasses as
I toss the wreath overboard.

*Barry Basden has been published here and there and edits Camroc Press Review

Caseworker: Yams and Plantain

2010-06-30T17:45:00.003-04:00

by Donal Mahoney

Cabrini-Green
The Housing Project
Summer in Chicago

Bienvenido’s comin’ over,
says his wife,
to ‘splain me

why the kids
have got no rice,
no beans,

how the landlord’s
shovin’ notes beneath
the door again.

In Puerto Rico Bienvenido
dug up yams,
was paid in plantain,

came over here,
brought his wife,
then his kids.

First New York,
then Chicago,
gave up yams,

gave up plantain,
just to drum
and make a living.

Mixed Messages

2010-06-29T15:57:00.000-04:00

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The latest apartment
I've moved into
is loaded with personality.

The whore who lived here last
left three keys to nearby motels
in the linen closet
and carved the word DIE
in the front door.

It was okay as long as
she used the motels
but a neighbour ratted her out
when she worked from home.
There are some interesting stains
on the bedroom wall
under fluorescence
but the word DIE
carved in the front door
takes the cake.

I was thinking about getting
a WELCOME mat
to send
mixed messages
and
watch the mailman

flounder with
indecision.

Christ On the Lawn

2010-06-29T15:55:00.001-04:00

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

A mob gathered outside

my front window and

beat the shit out of

a dealer they said was

getting their kids hooked

on dangerous stuff.

At first

I thought about intervening

on the dealer's behalf

but I had things to do.

The mob passed judgement with sticks

and I

decided to let them use my lawn

while I grabbed a fresh beer

from the fridge

filled the dish sink with soap and

washed my hands of

the whole affair.

Two weeks later

the lawn across the street

was littered with pink flamingos

but

the mob

left them alone.

Four is greater than pi

2010-06-28T17:44:00.003-04:00

by Lynne Hayes

numbers always elude me
yet I think I have it now.
there are three hundred
puke green cinder blocks
in this place where death and life collide,
four windows with bars
to keep what, spirits in or out?
a radar blip
every two seconds to confirm
air is still given
and taken
one bed so shiny
it’s glare hurts my eyes
one three by six device in my palm
holding four words
that broke me in two
but pulse rates over a hundred
do not kill
so
I counted two hundred three steps
to the car that took three left turns,
passed four green lights
a lone police car watching
to arrive at one house
where the message
repeats like that awful remainder
in algebra,

Have a great life.

counting has stopped.

worse than a gun

2010-06-25T05:12:00.001-04:00

by Rob Plath

when i was fifteen
i found rubbers
in my father's drawer
along w/knives
a pistol
cigarette lighters
gambling slips
& a bayonet

he was a collector
for a loanshark

i knew he committed
many crimes

but the condoms
reminded me of
his biggest crime

the act
of becoming
a father

something sad and slow

2010-06-24T02:27:00.001-04:00

by J.J. Campbell

i saw one of my

phone sex buddies

online last night

we started our

usual chit chat

which would

normally lead us

to getting offline

and her making

a call

she told me she

wasn't interested

tonight, she was

busy playing her

video game

i told her i

understand

and got

offline

dragged my body

upstairs sadly

realizing at 33

years of age i'm

facing the same

rejection i did at

age 14

i closed my eyes

and turned on the

radio

something sad

and slow

reckoning that if

anyone ever took

the time to read

this mountain of

pages this suicide

would make sense

no note required

*seeking like minds to thin the herd, contact jcampb4593@aol.com

now i believe

2010-06-24T02:26:00.002-04:00

by J.J. Campbell

a 62 foot high

statue of jesus

burned to the

ground after a

lightning strike

all the while the

hustler megastore

across the highway

was left untouched

by the storm

now i believe

in god

Reckless Endangerment

2010-06-23T05:42:00.001-04:00

by Joseph Veronneau

Mostly used by states attorneys

for defense purposes

against a defendant.

But we are light with the BP's

of the nation

hazardous to health

we don't want to step on too

many toes

we want

an open communication

"they will pay"

we are told

but they have paid

12%

of the amount filed against them

suits and ties look so much neater

than tennis shoes

that stock the shelves at supermarkets

and you can't polish a sneaker.

Unaccountable we stand

as a tarnished nation

with a flag rescinding its stripes

day by day

with the lesson being

those who have not, will not.

Laundromat Girls

2010-06-23T05:40:00.001-04:00

by Mike Meraz

I am sitting in a parking lot waiting
for my laundry to dry.
all around me are Latin women
walking, talking, laughing, giggling;
young girls, teenage girls, girls my own age,
older women: hair, hips, eyes, lips, bodies,
breasts. sometimes I think the whole
Mexican culture is based on sex.

one of them locks eyes with me and smiles.
how is a man to stay pure in all this?
I am too shy to approach any of them.
it is my only saving grace.

How Complex Geometry Gets

2010-06-23T05:38:00.001-04:00

by William Doreski

The angles at which forest trees
lean into each other suggest
how complex geometry gets
before it resolves anything.
You and I meet at angles
even more oblique than birch
leaning into the boughs of oak.
On Main Street clutching book bags
we avoid a fatal meeting
of mutually brown eyes. We crouch
at an iron café table
and speak at angles so acute
they behead the strangers around us.

The afternoon sickens with cloud.
Shadows and other subtleties
fade as thunder trips on Beech Hill
and topples full-length on the town.
In Penn Station twenty years ago
I saw a child crushed when a man
rushing for a train fell over
a suitcase. As I describe this crime
your face becomes a hole through which
a downdraft funnels with a howl.
The child looked broken all over,
whimpering for several minutes
but dying before the cops came.

Despite your love of Dostoevsky
you’ve never heard so casual
a disaster recounted before.
You’d rather not hear details,
but the rain blazing in the street
prevents your escape, and the weight
of The Brothers Karamazov stashed
in your book bag anchors you
to characters much riper than me,
and the angles at which we’re sitting
add up to a perfect horizon
of a hundred and eighty degrees.

it just doesn’t seem like you

2010-06-23T05:36:00.001-04:00

by John Grochalski

i’m at my desk

in this semi-private office they’ve given to me

i listened to brahm’s fist symphony

as i walked to work this morning

forcing myself not to think about the job.

i’m reading the new york times

on the computer

and thinking that it can’t get much

worse in the world

she walks in the office

she startles me.

she says, here this came for you in the mail

she throws a book on my desk

i look up from the new york times and i thank her

she lingers in the office.

she has on a red zip-up sweater

that has the word disney emblazoned across it

there is a picture of mickey mouse in a top hat.

he’s waving to me.

i hate disney and i hate mickey mouse.

she looks at me and i look at her.

she looks down at the book.

ezra pound, she says.

i nod.

i never would’ve took you for an ezra pound fan.

oh no, i say.

nah, you just don’t seem like that kinda person.

this book doesn’t seem like you.

then she walks out of the office before i get a chance

to ask her what seems like me

i want to know what impression i’ve made on her

in the month that i’ve been there.

i follow her out into the work room.

she’s standing with a bunch of my other co-workers

they are laughing and drinking coffee

she’s doing clerical work and telling everyone

how funny the alvin and the chipmunks movie was.

they all suddenly want to see the movie

alvin and the chipmunks has become the height

of american cinema at this place.

i go back in the office

i look down at ezra pound and he stares

maddeningly back up at me.

i think, well ez, we truly are alone in this.

i sit back down at the computer.

i open up the new york times online

and start to read it again.

the world has really gone to shit, i say quietly.

and now i know what kind of a person i am.

Bring It On

2010-06-23T05:32:00.000-04:00

by Ivan Brkaric

He once cried
to Old Yeller.

Now
for too long
he has sobbed
with Captain Morgan.

Everyday,
an infinite circle.

Where were the days
of sandy beaches
filled with sea shells,
blue skies and castles?

Like a piece of
driftwood,
he has washed ashore.

To finally draw
a line in the sand
and take a stand.

To tap ‘life’
on its shoulder
and say

“Bring it on!”

BAREFOOT

2010-06-22T06:52:00.000-04:00

by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

Barefoot, her swollen feet
are weary of the road.
She ditches the road and walking
and sits on the bus bench.

When people see her talk
to the advertisement on
the bus bench they become weary
of her. The woman pays no

attention to the people
or to the police on the scene.
She could barely walk to the
squad car with her swollen feet.

Cloud Can

2010-06-22T05:49:00.000-04:00

by Tasha Klein

I think in your ear, a flood that has a
no-ended expression. above. away from
feel.

doorway lips

vacant, glossy hips

a good cig kill

need. need. everything. you know
& that raging.

plastic waist. wrinkles move an emotion.

lie back. shower heat.

wet stop. until your mouth can't.

spongy elbows. foot laugh.

dark, tilting irises.

swollen knot. more blinked. your eyes
masturbate.

Time Left Over

2010-06-22T05:41:00.002-04:00

by Holly Day

I wear my mother’s winter coat, reflect
on the life she never had—sacrifice
the father that wasn’t ghost hand in mine
sixteen years old and so much in love so
flamboyant, faded photos on the mantle
a smile I never saw, collapsing seduction
fading into the gray woman who held me
and cried. And now I’m her, wearing
her clothes and fighting against natural
reorientation. I remember growing old
growing up in her my house, lawnmower
squealing banging in my head, echoing father’s
private mantra. It’s easy to forgive
terror him of what he did to me
us both this one—thank god
there isn’t a gun in this house.

Last Night

2010-06-22T05:38:00.000-04:00

by Chris Vaillancourt

Last night
I dreamed
of solace
and rest.

Peace and
quiet. Solitude.

All the
darkness
permeating
into
one place.

One point
of
view

that

would

become

one

state of
mind.

Last night
I pulled
for differences.

Looking out
my
eyes

into the
gloom.

The doom-scenes
filled
the
dreaming.

Last night
becomes
this night,

becomes
every
night.

I still dream

*Chris Vaillancourt has had two poetry books published, the first "Teardrop of Coloured Soul" in 2005 and his latest to be released in Jan. of 2010 entitled "I Walk Naked into a Cloud".

The Other Woman

2010-06-22T05:27:00.000-04:00

by Bobbi Sinha-Morey

The other woman
who knew my father
saved all the letters
he'd ever written her
inside a trunk, and
now it's been fifty
years since she loved
him, even before I
was born when she
used to live beside
the Thames river.
One day she and my
mother wore sarees
for him as if it were
his birthday and he
thought she looked
like a jewel standing
by the lake water.
His passions were
opera and Brahms,
the music he shared
with her, and when
my mother died he
married her. My
stepbrother and
stepsister seldom
visit, and years ago
they used to be my
childhood friends.
Above the fireplace
is my stepmother's
picture. I couldn't
help but notice how
much my mother
looked like her. She
could've been her
sister.

The Scene of the Crime

2010-06-21T03:33:00.002-04:00

by Aleathia Drehmer

I saw myself as I must
have been these last 10 years,
cold and alone, while lying on
the Mexican blanket listening to old tyme
fiddlers jamming in the far tent;

he rose from the makeshift bed, not knowing
that woman, never having the opportunity
to see her on his weekend jaunts to the country
when she was always on her best behavior.

And there it stood in the air between us,
a small firm command with no hint of malice
that stiffened his shoulders and furrowed my brow.
Silence followed as we abandoned the sea
stitched in green and white, opting
for places of stolid separation.

Strings from the banjo and double bass
tuned in the summer air and old folks
gathered closer to hear endearing songs
from youths long gone. I felt inexplicably
ugly in the face of tenderness; always
pushing and pushing until bridges
collapse and I’ve no way home.

IRON OVERLOAD

2010-06-21T02:47:00.001-04:00

(For my mother, Roberta Crawford)

Most people dying from iron overload
never hear the tick of the clock,

or tiny church bells
rattling the rafters of the brain.

As iron settles into the heart, pancreas and liver,
carefully unfolding death’s warm quilt, needlessly,

hardly anyone dying from iron overload
hears each tick of the clock

or tiny church bells
rattling the dusty rafters of the brain.

As killer iron, like Genghis Khan, ravages the body,
rusting livers, brains and hearts,

an icy chill eases beneath death’s warm quilt,
needlessly, needlessly, needlessly.

by Alan Britt

If there’s a Heaven

2010-06-20T17:01:00.003-04:00

by Charles Portolano

I watch her walk

to the bow of the boat,

she stands strong

against the harsh wind

that rushes past her,

pushing her long,

auburn hair back,

silhouetting her face,

her cheeks now raw,

burning bright red,

looking like an angel,

she turns towards me,

laughing, throwing

her arms open wide,

“My God,

how exhilarating!”

She parades past me,

leaving her scent

of lavender swirling

endlessly around me,

exhilarating me!

I could taste her

on my tongue.

Then she is gone.

I look everywhere

on that boat for her,

the last one to leave.

High and dry, I am

all alone with only

her words I heard

calming my inner

wild child,

touching me

all these years

in my dreams…

“My God,

how exhilarating!”

Her voice will be

the last thing I hear

while on this earth...

*Charles lives in Fountain Hills, AZ. He started writing poetry 14 years ago to celebrate the birth of his daring, darling, daughter Valerie. He wanted to preserve all the memories of the first time she walked, talked. Valerie was born with many obstacles to overcome giving him much to write about. Writing soon became his way of saving his sanity. Valerie is doing great now; she is quite the young writer. He has a new collection of poetry out, Storytelling.

Eleven Haiku / In a Narrative Sequence / Designed to Insult

2010-06-18T12:54:00.002-04:00

by Scott Owens

Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

I am going to
write a haiku for you now --
There! I have done it.

Self-Denial

This poem is not
a haiku despite the fact
that it seems to be.

By the Numbers

Five syllables to
start the poem, then seven next.
Five again to close.

Syllabic

It cannot be that
simple. Just five syllables,
then seven, then five.

Coursework

How many haiku
must I write to illustrate
such simple design?

Craft of Culture

This reminds me of
Gary Snyder’s Axe Handles
or Stephen Bishop

How we go on and
on, on and on, on and on.
Indeed, not far off.

Trepidation

I wonder just how
many haiku writers I
have pissed off with this.

Lottery

The banal haiku
tumble down the page -- Listen!
Are those stones I hear?

Monster

The poets are restless.
They think I’ve harmed their children.
Their torches are lit.

They’ve sharpened pitchforks
and carry plenty of rope.
It’s time to shut up.

empires come and go

2010-06-17T13:47:00.001-04:00

*Entering the Soviet era in America history

Real Tacos

2010-06-16T12:25:00.000-04:00

by John Rocco

In Mexico
the sky is too low beautiful
as I walk past the taqueria
Santiago the cab driver
warned me about
because they serve dog
to Americans.

Low on pesos but I
have hot horny tequila for blood
and the whole country is
an open pharmacy
and she said
she’ll give it to me
for much less tonight
because I am broke
tonight the stars
bleeding Mayan mirrors
down low on the old pyramids
and the poor new children
and the dead dog I step over
in the street.

*John Rocco at MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/292819823

To Zygote in My Coffee, 2003-2010

2010-06-16T12:24:00.001-04:00

by John Rocco

You gave my slow old horse wings
and let him out of the stinking stable.
You let me fly on acid jet planes
covered in bloody stars and bleeding stripes
shooting across the plain of pain.
You let me sing dirty songs
to the lost and found world of her
and you never let me down.

Thank you Zygote
for all you did for us
and more and I’ll watch
football someday
heavy metal drinking
remembering the helmets
crashing bloody skulls on the Zygote page.

FUCK YOU, BANK!

2010-06-16T12:19:00.013-04:00

by John Rocco

by John Rocco

I don’t know who you are but
you murdered Shea Stadium
and then asked me to close my account
because you couldn’t stand all the
“irregular” activity, overdrafts to heaven
overreaching the overdrawn accounts of the dead gods.
I’m sorry, Bank, but that’s how I bank
biting into the seeds of time
to see when this check will bounce
and this one will sail away home.

So hear this, Bank
FUCK YOU
and your accountants and tellers
and giant safes and guns and desks.

FUCK YOU, Bank
for the entire system of banking
that drove Pound crazy wrong
the Rock-Drill Cantos broken on
your terrible underbelly.

FUCK YOU, Bank
for closing your cold steel pussy on
John Dillinger, Public Enemy #1.

FUCK YOU, Bank
because I have several pints of crazy shit in my veins
and all you have is a shit load of money.

mania

2010-06-15T14:10:00.005-04:00

by The Poet Spiel

sometime wednesday morning
maybe around 2 a m you found yourself
scalding on the x spot
you’d swear all the klieg lights
were suddenly blasted directly into your pupils
blinding you witless a warm trickle down your leg
yet you knew you sensed you could hear
the riot of flesh against silk against polyester against
wool against denim chiffon ostrichfeathers against
those nylon white sometimes aqua uniforms which swish
and hiss around the armpits against rubber soles screeching
against slick painted concrete against brittle leather fracturing
against slamming wooden seats brass hinges screaming
against the rush and shove
into this massive hall echoing echoing bouncing about
the overflow of your caretakers plus all those gawkers
come for staring wanting their money’s worth

the noisome sting of hot oil dripping onto squeaky gurney axles
the indelicate crushing of candy wrappers beneath
the behemoth you believe you sense beyond your wits
you freeze you see nothing you see white like no white

you see that first time you took the chance to look
directly into the sun and never saw again you see
you cannot see a way out of here sometime
last wednesday yesterday morning yesterday night today
right now that they expect the max out of you the big one
from the x on which you stand center stage alone
as they continue to appear relentless in their stirring
their skunk perfumes the stink
of gunpowder nearing you the crack of cocked rifles the snap
of a regiment of hard boots their ultimatum these lights imposing
a vast cavern
where your head should be
you
spinning the x like a hamster wheel firing spit
into the lights popping spitting back at you as you babble
in useless fragments of your tongue your tears splattering
all of those in noisy garments banging their seats like tommy-gun fire
yet failing miserably at shattering the merciless bright
the light the light you know
you know your tears must be reaching them as they begin to close in
around you now ceaseless breathing downward
into your earholes expecting of you you you you must
and you will be here tomorrow
and tomorrow
and tomorrow
and you cannot will not no never fulfill them

*just released from March Street Press "barely breathing" a 200 page perfect bound book by The Poet Spiel celebrating this lifelong artist's past ten years as a writer. spielspeak@earthlink.net

Dancer

2010-06-14T07:36:00.000-04:00

by Holly Day

The girl on the stage winks at you
opens her blouse
and rips out her heart.
It beats frantically at your feet.
You ignore it.
The girl on the stage
begins her song.
It’s an old love song,
your song,
when the two of you were together.
Unfair of her
to dredge up your past
in front of so many people.
But the song drives you crazy.
You promise her anything
and throw her a tissue
which she stuffs in the hole
in her chest
where it blooms
blood coursing through its paper veins
like a carnation
in a buttonhole

doorbells, mornings and death or (If you are Cunt)

2010-06-12T01:19:00.002-04:00

by Michele McDannold

listen
when you start writing from the brain
chuck it out the door
feed the cats with it
call it meow meow chow
w/ever
you’ve got to be heart, shit or balls
if you’re cunt
you better know how to translate
and yes, they’ll tell you to stop
and yes, they’ll have all kinds of reasons and critiques and
blowhard bullshit
you might even believe for awhile
it will throw you off
maybe you’ll take on an old fat fuckin mentor
start writing poems about doorbells, mornings
and death that does not
matter
and maybe everyone pulls a few chains now and then
and maybe everyone has a critic in their heart
and maybe not.
you could or could not say
‘and’ so much
it wouldn’t matter
style has nothing to do with depth
and
if you shovel the shit long enough
you might forget what was under there
you might forget where you were going
you might forget how you were getting there
one day you’ll remember
you wanted to go
you’ll remember
earth doesn’t taste like
dust
heat doesn’t feel like
pain
and passion--
doesn’t need to be developed.
it either sets your ass on fire
or doesn’t

Navy Days

2010-06-12T01:18:00.005-04:00

by Michele McDannold

Ya know,
if you want a sad story,
I’ve got `em.
buckets full of guts-
yeah, tarred with cancer.
Not your trick,
fine. pass `round the corner
to the seven guys I fucked for fun
it’s not much when you think of seven
certainly not much to my man’s 100s
but I’m a gurl.

and boy, he loves to tell them stories
`bout those fuckin’ whores he did
back in the Navy days
shootin’ bananas out their twats
for fuck’s sake!

Yet I was tender once.
youth had it’s way with my head
and a girlfriend too.
well, truth be told
it was mostly just
strawberry fields and electric blankets
but my truth is like mold
in our living room.

so it’s all like
yes, cap’n
I’ll play the shame
for that one-
in trades for this.

Custer’s Last Stand

2010-06-10T02:13:00.002-04:00

by Russell Streur

It rains in Vietnam

It rains in Iraq

It rains in Afghanistan

And election year 1876

George Armstrong Custer calculated

A couple hundred dead Sioux on the Plains

Would be about enough

For a four year lease

On the White House

And so with

Red white and blue

Guidon

With crossed swords flying

And American bugle

Blowing

Splashed a fine June morning

With his 7th cavalry and his wolverines

Across the Little Big Horn

Where a couple thousand Sioux on the other side

Voted with their arrows through his balls

Whereupon George

Earned his name of Yellow Hair

By putting a bullet through his brain

Leaving his troops and dogs to die

One by one

Eyes torn out

Noses cut off

Gutted

Fingers torn off

Penises sliced off

Feet severed

And other hanging chads

Of a body count

Tough to sum

Including the heart

Of his brother Tom

Which

Rain in the Face

Cut out

Had a taste

Spit out

And threw away.

“Sheep,” said Rain,

“The soldiers went down

Like sheep.”

the last five days

2010-06-09T00:16:00.000-04:00

by Justin Hyde

i've been suspended from work
without pay
for abusing sick leave.

got it in my head
to go the whole stint
without speaking
to another human.

almost made it
but sitting at the laundry-mat
struggling through
descartes' ineptitude
a little hispanic girl
appeared over top.

she winked
and said: mister
hold onto this
no matter what
don't say anything
pinky swear?

i pinky swore
and closed a
red matchbox car
in my fist.

pretty soon
an older hispanic kid
was rooting around
under all the tables.

my benefactor
followed him.
coy smile
plastered on her face.

he started crying
making a scene.

his mother said
if he didn't calm down
she was going
to spank him.

i want my car!
he stomped
his foot.

mama took him out
and we saw him
get a thrashing
through the window.

she winked at me.

i winked back.

not sure why she did it

but i've been a big brother

i'm sure

the little bastard

had it coming.

a theme

2010-06-09T00:12:00.000-04:00

by Justin Hyde

when they
turn off my electricity
for nonpayment

or tow my car
out of my
work parking lot
for the same reason

or i
wake up
on a foreign couch
having drained my bank account
for a party i
can't remember.

it's only
at the bottom
of the chipped cup
i consider reconciling
with my ex wife.

we meet
for dinner

quit drinking

see a shrink

she goes on
and on
with her manifesto
of pragmatic
castration:

a cold
metal rod
upside my head

recalling
vividly

those years of
napalm
sunrise.

"how grimly we hold onto our misery"

2010-06-06T19:48:00.000-04:00

by Alan Catlin

Whored out and drug sick,
bumming cigarettes from half-
dead sailors in cheap side
taverns, one foot in the grave
and the other about to slide,
sharing tokes with lung sick
losers, needles with a dying
breed, eyes and mouths like
a mad dog's in the morning,
a dead one at night, still standing
but about to fall, prayer flags
from lost tribes affixed to wrists,
body prepped for plain air burial
on baked tar barroom roof, junkyard
rate in shadows, waiting.