Issue #9

Two Poems by Holly Day


Hand-Written Vows

I will, she says, I will
Lose it one of these days, some day
When the dishwasher breaks, when
The kids get sick, when
I get yelled at because you’ve had a hard day at work. I will lose it
And that’ll be it, I will
Pull out the suitcase I have
Hidden under the bed, the tight roll of twenties
Stashed in my jewelry box
All the phone numbers and addresses of relatives
That haven’t seen me since I was single
And I’ll be gone


The Button in the Garage

when the toaster has a brain
and the chair has a heartbeat
and the microwave
knows my schedule through the day
is it assault
to turn off the power
is it murder
to shut the house down for the night?
when the car knows
where I live
and the garage
recognizes my car
does that count as friendship?
is it divorce
when I trade my old car in for a new one
is it torture
for the garage to have to learn
a new face?


Biography Note:

Holly Day is a travel writing instructor living in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with her husband and two children. Her most recent nonfiction books are Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, and Walking Twin Cities.


Flash Fiction by Katie Moore


My Boyfriend and Catwoman

My boyfriend has an imaginary friend. I’ve always been attracted to eccentric artsy types but it’s getting a little ridiculous now. It’s almost like having a hovering mother in law. He has to stop and ask her what she thinks about every little thing, from the grocery list to the day’s schedule.

“How do you feel about Mexican for dinner, Catwoman?”

“Which movie do you want to see this week, Catwoman?”

“Wait, Jamie, we can’t go yet, she’s still lacing up her boots.”

Yeah, his imaginary friend is Catwoman. Not Michelle Pfeiffer, Eartha Kitt, or any of the other actresses who played Catwoman in movies or on TV, but the actual comic book vixen herself. His version is skinnier, younger, and even more naked of course. She never leaves his side. I’ve even heard him talking to her in the shower, soothing her hurt feelings after she witnessed our lovemaking…How…how, weird!

It used to make me giggle. I thought he was pretending. That lasted for a few weeks. I’m easily blinded by a shaggy haired musician with quirks. When I figured out that he never stopped pretending I was intrigued. I wondered if he saw her as a drawing, lying next to him on the couch whispering her preferences into his ear, or if she looked like a real girl when he…imagined her. Did she have big fake breasts or was she more natural? When I asked him he said they were covered in black vinyl, like her face, duh…

I assume that means he isn’t having a sexual relationship with his feline female friend, though I have heard him mutter, “Tease,” under his breath while wearing a particularly pained expression, and I know he isn’t talking about me. I’m fucking a guy with an imaginary friend, after all.


Biography Note:

Katie Moore is a mother, writer, and wife...in that order. Sorry, husband. She is completely unfit for "real" work, as all she ever does is scribble. Her fiction and poetry appears here and there, but she enjoys being vague. Most of her time is spent as a devoted editor for The Legendary, a place where weirdos put their best words.


Pinching Pennies
Sue Ellis

On a summer morning we head out to
the back yard. I've got the scissors and
comb, he's carrying a plastic lawn chair.

In the shade of the lilacs, I sit in the
chair. He does a warm-up with the
scissors, slicing air into ribbons while a
magpie tugs at my shoelaces.

He's learned to shape, not shingle, with
hands more suited to hammers. We visit
about everything and nothing. Easy and
hard. My scalp tingles at his touch.

When he's finished, I brush off my shirt
and thank him. The haircut will be good
enough. Then I notice that the neighbor
has seen us from a vantage point beyond
the raspberry canes.

I wonder how the observer interpreted
our geriatric still life, if he could fathom
chemical sensitivity, how I can't visit
hairdressers now.

I doubt he sees the patient man who cuts
my hair, and makes plain soap for me.
Or gets how water, lye, and oil saponify,
merging into something pure. He
probably thinks we're pinching pennies.


Biography Note:

Sue Ellis is a retired postmaster from Spokane, Washington. Her short stories and poetry have been previously published in various online venues including Dead Mule, Flash Me Magazine, Six Sentences, Camroc Press Review and Ken Again. She has also appeared at Birmingham Arts Journal and SpokeWrite, a local writers' journal.


The Bard’s Shirt
Aleathia Drehmer

It is stained with organic ginger beer
near the buttons, a faded dribble
that lept from loose lips that act as anchors.

Saffron edges curl at the neck,
a blessing from the Rinpoche
with vows taken to live in the middle.

In the glass, the cream linen
lies old and nearly transparent
against the contrast of hot skin

steeped in the shower, nipples
colored like berries in summer,
flat beneath the fabric.

Pleased, I stare at myself
and begin to think, if I were a man,
would I like this kind of mystery?

An almost tangible outline of breast,
the sternum’s valley cast in shadow,
thoughts about the skin’s smell,

its taste upon the tongue, and then
deny it to myself, grinning, knowing
the imagination depends on what

cannot be seen.


Biography Note:

Aleathia Drehmer is happy. She is the Editor of a print micro-zine called Durable Goods and the Special Editions Editor for Zygote in my Coffee. Her work has been published in fine journals and magazines, both online and in print, such as: Ottawa Arts Review, Word Riot, The Cerebral Catalyst, Flutter, Laura Hird, Silence Press, Nibble, Munyori Poetry Journal, and Hobo Camp Review. She has had two small collections of poetry published at Kendra Steiner Editions called “Thickets of Mayapple” and “Circles”. Her forthcoming full collection called “Empty Spaces” will be in a book shared with Dan Provost published by Tainted Coffee Press. Her previously published work can be viewed here: http://www.myabdication.blogspot.com/


Two Poems by Anne Brooke


Weaponsalve

Keep the dagger bright,
grease its shining metal
to cure the wound
and lay it across
the sick man’s bed.
Such a sympathetic salve
might bury a scar
deep in the earth
if you let it.


A recipe for marital harmony

Bow-tie tying’s
a private thing
that man must do alone;
just like the space
his wife requires
whenever she’s on the phone.


Biography Note:

Anne Brooke’s fiction has been shortlisted for the Harry Bowling Novel Award, the Royal Literary Fund Awards and the Asham Award for Women Writers. She has also twice been the winner of the DSJT Charitable Trust Open Poetry Competition. Her latest novel is The Bones of Summer, a romantic thriller about religion, murder and the chance for a new beginning. More information can be found at http://www.annebrooke.com/ and she keeps a terrifyingly honest journal at http://annebrooke.blogspot.com/.


Sun God Poet
Karolina Manko

Every poet is a spark,
But you are a full-fledged fire.
Flame body dancing,
Hypnotized by the rhythm of the ancients.
You are limbs composed of
The licks of charring oaks and cedars.
Your insides erupt in volcanic proportions,
Leaving the rest of you matter blackened.
You are systematic and predictable,
You are impulsive yet controllable,
Self illuminating and self blinding.
You are blessed flint,
Rubbing and vexing your skin
In hope of conquering the darkness of illiteracy.
But sometimes the intensity of your intensity
Squelches the sparks of every other living thing around you.
Ashes to ashes; dust to dust.
But tell me, boy…
Which one among you will bury the sun?
Is there one brave enough?


Biography Note:

Karolina Manko is a current sophomore at The City College of New York where she is an English Literature major with a concetration in Secondary Education. She writes poems mostly for the stage, focusing on Spoken Word (or Slam Poetry) as her main medium for artistic expression. She greatly enjoys performing her poetry locally and hopes to one day tour the country with her spoken word creations.
Link: http://www.myspace.com/wallflowerpoet

Issue #8

Two Poems by Felino Soriano


Painters’ Exhalations 371
—after Edmunds Lucis’ The Hunter

Hands, hefty thickness,
innate skeletal construction, forthcoming
predetermined
unaltered scope, target-escape
unlikely demeanor. Head
an extraordinary still. Eyes
roam in oscillating fashion,
ambulate into distance of
ascertaining ignorant prey.
Senses, serial in gradating
grace, the armor of attack
untouched by the runners
into swallowing, devastating
expanse.


Painters’ Exhalations 375
—after Dale Grimshaw’s Window to the Soul

Copacetic cliché
bound to the language-fib
conundrum,
belief sans empirical
clothing. Soul window
stained, hummingbird wing
apparatus visual disbelief
holding value in a vernacular
staircase leading into unknown
regions of philosophical inquiry.
Soul, existent, or, a fabrication
of structural design
waving eastwest among the
wind’s weight delegated to
construct formational harmony.


Biography Note:

Felino A. Soriano (b. 1974, California) is a case manager and advocate for developmentally and physically disabled adults. He edits/publishes Counterexample Poetics, www.counterexamplepoetics.com, an online journal of experimental artistry, and Differentia Press, www.differentiapress.com, dedicated to publishing e-chapbooks of experimental poetry. As a poet, he has authored ten collections of poetry, including Among the Interrogated (BlazeVOX [books], 2008), Search among the Absent Found (Recycled Karma Press, 2009), and r (please press, 2009). The internal collocation of philosophical studies and love of classic and avant-garde jazz is the explanation for his poetic stimulation. Details are at his website, http://www.felinosoriano.com/.


Two Poems by Gary Beck


Ode to Dave Dawson and Freddie Farmer

I remember your books
blighting my childhood lust for learning,
reading you over and over,
when nothing else was left.
You were always winning;
sometimes wounded, but always winning.
Vacuum sealed for freshness, inventive,
heroic, resourceful, and always winning.
The Japs, the Jerries, so easily defeated,
you would have even beaten the commies,
but I grew up, ending your wars.
Today a man,
I smile your asinine morality
that rooted in my child’s mind
and wonder what you did for fun
after crushing the enemy.


Crash Landing

After moon set
wing tips lost in darkness
flickering lights at 30,000 feet
transit the airborne traveler.
Centuries below
clouds pitter patter
little girl toes
digging in the sand.
The endangered bird
flails the air,
hiccups an octopus explosion
that frees the stewardess,
rigid smile waxed in place,
offers coffee, tea, chocolate,
as the last hand gropes blindly,
veins surfacing in the pantry,
reaching for survival.


Biography Note:

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His chapbook 'Remembrance' was published by Origami Condom Press and 'The Conquest of Somalia' was published by Cervena Barva Press. A collection of his poetry 'Days of Destruction' has been published in 2009 by Skive Press. Another collection 'Expectations' is being published by Rogue Scholars Press. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway and toured colleges and outdoor performance venues. He currently lives in New York City , where he's busy writing. His poetry and short stories have appeared in numerous literary magazines.


Two Poems by Mark Jackley


AFTER BEING UP ALL NIGHT
AS HER HUSBAND EXPLAINED HE WAS LEAVING

Soon she moved to Baton Rouge,
where lost souls washed up
from New Orleans, some of whom
perhaps would also greet the day
clutching their ribs, bobbing
tearfully as morning
bled into the bedroom like a slow,
quiet flood of words.


AND

the drunken fifty-year-old
carpenter who leans against
the chain-link fence puking his guts out after hurling
his whiskey bottle
(finally)
through the living room window and
the slumping telephone
cable above him burdened by the weight of all those angry,
tearful and inadequate words
yet defying gravity,
held up by the strength
of something hard and splintered,
teetering and weathered, shit upon for years,
made by calloused hands
much like his


MONUMENTAL SCRAPINGS
Jeffrey S. Callico

Harbingers of delight these skeptics.
Forms shift upon dark piano benches.
Lovers crawl on shards,
Their droplets red reminders of rage.
No one knows why and so they stay
Alive, lights dotting skylines, muddy faces
Caked like bricks; even a mist cannot console.
Swallows crash to pavement, wings
Sudden displays of terror, undergrowth of night.
All warnings exhausted, legs running out:
Space left for nothing, tender shoots frail as death.


Biography Note:

Jeffrey S. Callico has been featured in several online literary journals, including FRiGG, Johnny America, Dispatch, Origami Condom and Full of Crow. His collection of short fiction, Fighting Off The Sun: Stories, Tales, and Other Matters of Opinion, is available on Amazon. He can be reached at wiredwriter26@gmail.com.


Who Cut The Cheese
Peter Magliocco

Fart jokes plug your nostrils
with smells of urban pollution
in the key of broken violin strings
sounding like zippers snapping off
faces of the dead Mandalay Bay chorus
assaulted by jokes of a suicide bomber
barfing out punch lines with sickening zeal
somebody tells you the world ended
yesterday after you received a cell call
giving you pinkeye forever

That's when your girlfriend materialized
with duct-taped nipples
from back issues of Smut Today

lit with a match
behind that rectal gas
igniting

your
exhausted
passion


Biography Note:

Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada. He has poetry at THE SMOKING POET, A HUDSON VIEW POETRY DIGEST, THE BEAT, HEELTAP, THE BLUE HOUSE and elsewhere... His new novel is The Burgher of Virtual Eden from Publish America (www.publishamerica.com). He was Pushcart nominated for poetry in 2008.

Issue #7

Two Poems by Joanna Valente


She Was An Awkward, Quiet Child

What are you saying? I asked. She spoke

so gently across the table as though forks

& spoons would curl & glasses would splinter.


I'm talking to my unicorn, he says he likes you;

she seemed affronted I could not see anything

other than an empty seat next to her, where


her father used to be. Is he hungry, does he want

to eat anything? I asked almost amused, but not quite.

He doesn't eat people food, most of it makes him


sick, except peas. I gave him some of mine.

Laughing, I cleared away our plates & ran them

under hot water knowing she was better than I.


The Regular

He was eating. The waitress poured coffee

into his cup, tenderly falling homeward

some streaming onto the saucer, ringing around.


There were coffee rings on the end table in his

mother's house. His father didn't give a damn about

furniture, not when it couldn't scream from beneath


the weight of all the books. Moscow

was just like North Carolina, all of it furniture

furniture from your aunt & uncle, furniture


waiting outside on the curb

to be picked up by women, not girls. Fritz, is this

going to be it? the waitress asked like he was


her father (who moved out with a

young girl almost her age.) He was surprised

that Fritz was still his name, it hadn't changed


like his body shrinking (could it one day

be gone? like the snowman he made at eight

before they moved.) No, that will be it, he said, indefinitely.


Biography Note:

Joanna Valente lives in New York, and is currently completing her bachelor's degree in Creative Writing and Literature. She has been published in various magazines and one upcoming anthology from Uphook Press. A few of her favorite things include the smell of library books, museums and the ocean. She can be found at her blog: anoldconversation.tumblr.com


The Sunflowers' Roar
Sandy Benitez

In the cutting garden,
sunflowers tilt their faces
towards the sun. Wait for
the shock of heat to
awaken their lazy limbs.

Black eyes steal glances
behind golden manes;
once outrageous and wild,
tousled from the bi-polar wind
as The Scorpions' Rock me Like
a Hurricane whips by
from an aging radio.

With a roar, they proclaim
their strength to the alert
ears of corn in the field
and the crows who fly in formation,
cawking curses in unison.

Maybe this time, the lady
of the house will take notice
and carry them far away--
to the porch, the dining table,
or even the farmer's market.

Anywhere but here,
where time buries its head
in the dirt among the seeds
and purring has become
an afterthought.


Biography Note:

Sandy's poetry has appeared in over 85 print and online poetry journals such as Words-Myth, Falling Star Magazine, Chantarelle's Notebook, Tipton Poetry Journal, The Orange Room Review, Elimae, Lily, and Loch Raven Review. Sandy resides in Wyoming with her two hyper children and darling husband. Her first book of poetry, Ever Violet, by DN Publishing is available by contacting the author at SandyB1070@msn.com.


Two Poems by Stephen Jarrell Williams


Clock Ticking

This fit of time
trying
to squeeze us
into a whimper of submission,
with its snake head,
bear's body,
vulture claws,
underdeveloped wings.

Scream...
Wiggle loose...
Fight back with the vastness of our numbers.

Tomorrow is already here.


Turn Of The Night Runner

Run me into the ground.
Sit on my back, spreading your legs,
huffing from the chase
I let you win.

Pull my hairy head back.
Slit my throat with your fingernail.
Watch me pour
heat into the wilting grass.

I roar with the beasts
you've saddled in the past,
except I created the fire
within the whisk of your existence.


Biography Note:

Stephen Jarrell Williams' poetry has recently appeared in Aphelion, Fissure Magazine, Hungur, Liquid Imagination, Mirror Dance, Tales From The Moonlit Path, and Scifaikuest.


Backlash
John Grey

Late Spring, chilly Canadian backlash.

The forest’s up in arms,

thin wind-shaken limbs,

with buds about to burst.

Pollen freezes in the air.

The hungry lose their appetite

to flakes of snow.


The frog’s croak is a bitter one.

Brown ponds shudder with ice.

Chickadees bite down on their mating calls,

huddle in the prickly brush.

Once more, survival trumps nest building.


The change came and then it didn’t.

The landscape fell for an ancient trick.

The thaw was a lie, insatiably believed.

The air grows cold. The faith grows colder still.


Biography Note:

John Grey has been published in the Georgetown Review, Connecticut Review, South Carolina Review and The Pedestal. He also has work upcoming in Poetry East and The Pinch.


Porn of the Dead
P.A.Levy

The only way to to tell the living,
those sitting there watching
news reports, from those that return home,
laid to rest, is a slight movement
of the chest. But watching
somehow it makes all less real,
and something not to be mentioned
when queuing in the Post Office
like watching porn in the afternoon;
curtains drawn.

It’s all about dying,
and dying a good death.
Praise be
a climax
between clean white cotton sheets
and the money shot final breath;
cut to a blissful smile …
fade.

The fluffers
and the spin swingers
can carry a flag beautifully,
(practice makes perfect)
and with clipboards and Biros
count body bags
like used condoms
wrapped in Union Jacks
and call it glory.

Pass the tissues.


Biography Note:

P.A.Levy hides in the heart of Suffolk countryside (UK) learning the lost arts of hedge mumbling and clod watching. He is an original member of the Clueless Collective (http://www.cluelesscollective.co.uk/) and has been in many publications.

Issue #6

Three Poems by Amanda Boschetto


Africa

i too dream of the children's deaths
and all of Africa's sky is filled with hunger
pain still holds the weapon of anxiety
the real war is inside me

a letter to some black boy with only one arm
he writes of hope and somewhere half around
the world there is tears and guilt embedded
in the alphabet

the burning sun sets and lions feed on laughing
hyenas, vultures of fun and in the eyes of
a missionary, cutting God out of the land, forgotten
and our crimes are obesity, money, greed
life's undying need we tell us

as Africa continues to bleed


night trace

the trees are hungover, drained of all
the snow its branches must carry
and cancer is stuck on the icy milky way
this bleak season where light must suffer
my nerves on my face are frozen and i try to
stretch them with my palm but nothing but
blood comes out

there is frost in my heart, taken from your
illusion of heaven and it rains skulls from
my own cheap hell, words and worlds are
fictional things, like an illness in the broken wind
you are gone but like a ghost you
move in my tired nights, i count the feathers
fallen behind your instant trace but you're still...

...slipping away


the maddest tree

night's maddest tree is a bore to
the suicides that surround it,
its leaves smother the ground

large and heavy orgasms lick the
roads clean,
like snow flakes gone insane
and it rains frogs from the sky

the tree agrees with winter, with
its silly death spread to everything
even the yawning roots
that love forgot

and on a clear day i can see the
rape that the tree does to every
ray of sunlight
everything's broken within me
but
memory
of
you
remains


Biography Note:

Amanda Boschetto lives in Sweden. She has one chapbook with deadbeatpress and one forthcoming with epic rites in 2010 as well a couple of poems in a few zines. She has facebook at; www.facebook.com/amanda.boschetto


The Shredder
Kenneth Pobo

Jezziaro’s Used Cars has

a today-only sale on vans.

Super-size your car, the ad says.


We nail our kids into activity schedules.

After Internet porn, chat rooms,

and Google, we watch the latest

metroplex movie--about a terrorist

who works at Burger King, poisons our fries,

gets away with murder. Home again,


we shred trash which reveals

information about us, turn the lock,

steady ourselves with the TV’s glow.


Biography Note:

Kenneth Pobo had a book of poems published in 2008 from WordTech Press called Glass Garden . His online chapbook, Crazy Cakes, also came out in 2008 and can be accessed at http//scars.tv. Kenneth's chapbook, “Trina and the Sky,” won the 2009 Main Street Rag chapbook contest.

Catch Ken’s radio show, “Obscure Oldies,” at WDNR.com on Saturdays from 6-8pm EST.


Omerta
Iris Odonata

Mom's in the basement,

tidying up the secrets,

double-checking inventory.


Dad's in the pantry,

tallying up his markers,

counting with a rosary.


Sister's pulling straight-A's,

fiddling with her violin,

playing at being au pair.


And me? Sitting in corner,

just seen, not heard,

awaiting ripening to share.


Biography Note:

Iris has logged 30k hours in hands-on healing work. Iris wrote her first poem at nine. A staunch advocate of mirth, Iris laughs belly laughs daily as exercise against becoming too serious. Iris invites inspiration with all her senses from a multi-universe. http://www.samuraidragonfly.blogspot.com/


Two Poems by Ben Nardolilli


Under Certain Conditions

The smokestack and the whole poisonous family

Belching away at the sky, with no apology,

To end to the dirty painting and the muted singing,

Can make you think, what was here before,

What was lost for this gain?


The bottles on the shore with black water inside

And burnt-out cigarettes, messages

From those stranded a shore away,

You look at them and wonder if the waves

Had any idea they were moving anything polluting,

Like the backs of rats giving free rides to flees.


The strip mall was a functional emporium,

You know that, but still, you ask out loud

Because the muzak gives you the freedom of the muzzle,

Why it could not look at least a bit different

From the one you passed by down the road.


But the rose that opens up like your lover’s face,

In the middle of the field with every stalk in its place,

And the sky holding no storm in its canopy,

With every thorn a perfect aquiline, and the petals

Right in their number, the color of moving blood,

You are quiet, you understand, you have no more questions.


A Spring Enclosed

How could I have avoided you,

All those years in Catholic school

And you were so pale,

Pale as the virgin, and those

Who surrounded her, and like them

Your dark hair flowing down your head

Made for a convenient veil,

And when all you let me see

Was your neck and ankles,

You expected me to think of you

As someone just in it for the money?


No, you pretended to be his bride,

Even though you did not believe

He was heaven sent, or in heaven itself,

But when I found out you had not made

A home in any man’s bed, I told you

The black was no longer necessary,

And that you could cut your hair,

Tan your skin, you were clean of heart,

Even if you said your mouth had kissed the streets.


Biography Note:

Ben Nardolilli is a twenty three year old writer currently living in Arlington, Virginia. His work has appeared in Houston Literary Review, Perigee Magazine, Canopic Jar, Lachryma: Modern Songs of Lament, Baker’s Dozen, Thieves Jargon, Farmhouse Magazine, Elimae, Poems Niederngasse, Gold Dust, The Delmarva Review, Underground Voices Magazine, SoMa Literary Review, Heroin Love Songs, Shakespeare’s Monkey Revue, Cantaraville, and Perspectives Magazine. In addition, he was the poetry editor for West 10th Magazine at NYU and maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com.


Oh, please. They didn’t sneak into the country to be your friends.
-Lucille Bluth on Arrested Development.


Friends
Paul Handley

The largesse involved in making friends

is offset by, well, having friends.

My balance sheet overrunneth with credits.

Thank you cards a must, especially

a thank you for a thank you,

so as to keep on the ledger’s best side.


Terms of contacts and networking gather warmth,

when congeal beneath a layer of loyalty.

Admiration of political ideas while impractical

and lack principle, allow me to be part

of a panorama of you, and me,

a bar, or restaurant and the aura of your success

and blandly handsome anchor man looks,

to friends of others who want to walk onto the set.


Only ones I trust are from before I fall

or have success and I have had both,

and even before I had both, I kinda had both.


Biography Note:

Paul Handley spent a career as a student and a student of odd jobs. He has an MA, an MPA, and is ABD. He has driven a cab and sold meat door-to-door. Paul has work included or forthcoming in Anemone Sidecar, Apollo’s Lyre, Boston Literary Magazine, The Shine Journal, and others.


Dolores
Justin Ehrlich

Indifferent eyes burn with cruel

Restraint, calculating malign

Designs; unstirred by Golden rule.

Her icy fingers hold a shrine…


My queen of suffering presents

A coruscating crown of thorns

While whispering sweet sentiments;

Stigmata kisses reign forlorn.


Snowflakes pulse vellum arteries.

She tastes the shapes of altered states,

Adrift in abstract quiddities.

In reverence before her gates:


I took a sparkling razorblade

And tore my flesh with vigorous

Calligraphy: a serenade

To my eternal Dolores.


Unveiling my ripped, ravaged chest

I proudly flaunt the spoils of love.

She ordered I expunge my breast

With acid, and a kitchen glove.


The brittle diamonds of despair

Fall flippantly from out my tongue.

Responding with a solar-flare

From the inferno of her lung:


‘One day I’ll push you to the skirt

Of reason; snapping sanity

Unleashes rage, repressed, inert:

You’ll strangle my last breath from me…


Through placid wreaths of floral smoke

I spied psychosis in your eyes;

Amidst the verdant words you spoke,

I heard a buzzing plague of flies.’


Nails oxidized by pity pierce

Emaciated flesh in tuned

Compliant silence. My last tierce

Of famished pride drains from each wound.


Forsaken on this crucifix,

The desert sun swarms blistered bone:

I thirst for vinegar-laced lips!

My vulture goddess long has flown.


Biography Note:

Justin Ehrlich was born in 1985. He holds honours in philosophy and learned to appreciate the aesthetic of a theory over and above significance. His poetry has been published online in Pens on Fire, The-Beat, Ancient Heart, Gloom Cupboard, and The Recusant.

Issue #5

Two Poems from William Doreski


Tortilla Soup

Watching you brew tortilla soup
in the bathtub amazes me.
A tray of tortillas, two heads
of cabbage, a dozen carrots,
a slew of potato pancakes,
fish heads, carrots, and beef shanks—

and then you run the hot water
and stir with a softball bat.
The muscles in your lean arms creak
You grunt as the mixture slathers red
when you pour in Tabasco sauce
and salsa. A few sheep lungs

fried in lard. Parboiled mushrooms,
psychedelic. A bucket or two
of corn chips. When the soup looks grim
as the drainage of an abattoir
you ladle it into kettles
to cook on the range for a day

or two before you serve bowlfuls
to each of the bristling men
you’ve loved. While you feed
and flatter your lapsed paramours
I inspect the empty bathtub.
I’m impressed by the residue,

thick as a layer of napalm.
The men cough blood after eating
their first bowl, spit bone and gristle
after their second. Their breath
smells brutal as an afterbirth,
and they belch with justified pride.


A Single Gray Tone

The day strikes a single gray tone—
detail elided by snowfall
hovering like a frozen breath.

I want to solve the books I love
not by reading but pressing them
against my chest until the words

bleed from my pores and dehydrate
the creature that has haunted me
a lifetime. Instead, I’ll shovel

both the snow and myself into grief
of misplaced priorities like
a government gone bad. They say

not everything is politics—
but the heart attack that drops me
into a comfortable drift

will delete one vote from the sea
of democracy rising even
as global warming melts the ice caps.

The snow falls daintily as scripture
in the daydreams of a prophet.
I can’t say what it codifies,

not being prophetic as I’d like—
but surely all that symmetry
competes with the finest alphabets.

I settle in my straight-backed chair
and keep an eye on the window
in case the color shifts. Sunday

in February always means snow
no matter how the brass organs
protest. Too bad for the church,

where few parishioners will show;
but the two apple trees out front
will fill with waxwings plucking

last autumn’s frostbitten fruit—
and the silence of their devotion
will atone for the featureless light.


Biography Note:

William Doreski teaches at Keene State College in New Hampshire. His most recent collection of poetry is Waiting for the Angel (2009). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, and reviews have appeared in many journals, including Massachusetts Review, Notre Dame Review, The Alembic, New England Quarterly, Harvard Review, Modern Philology, Antioch Review, Natural Bridge. For a link: http://www.williamdoreski.blogspot.com/


Anniversary
A.D.Hitchin

a passing car illumines his sweat and anything else to which it briefly attaches …
he slops whiskey petulantly, her glittering eye crossing his at random; disassociated

her washed hair separating with relinquished repugnance as he scratches stark naked, scrunching animal hair and rubbing his sticky sacs with peacock exhibitionism

the dark creeps with furtive phrases as she stares into the full length mirror - a fugitive,
before simian shadows conceal her
and thick paws crawl with
grunting chants.


Biography Note:

A.D.Hitchin is a poetry and prose writer published extensively in small press and independent journals including ‘Blaze VOX‘, ‘Ditch’ and ‘Dogmatika’. His 'The Holy Hermaphrodite’ chapbook has recently been released by Shadow Archer Press. You can catch newly updated experiments at: www.myspace.com/antonyhitchin and http://antonyhitchin.blogspot.com/


Two Poems by Barry Basden


Morning Walk

I walk in the old cemetery near my house,
away from what little traffic and noise
there is here. I used to get up early enough
to watch the sun rise--north of a distant
hill in summer and way south of the empty
factory during the winter. These days I

tend to walk a little later. Usually I take
the dogs, but they are always so joyfully into
the Now, that today, on this crisp spring
morning, I've come alone. I don't remember
the crepe myrtles being this heavy with bloom.
A black cat darts among the headstones and

catches me up. Farther along, when I stop
on a shady path near the back gate, I hear
the wind--or is it murmuring from a grave
that gives me this shiver? I turn around as
if called and see beneath an old oak a
granite stone, slightly tilted, that reads

I'd rather be standing
where you are


Retirement Haven

This place was selected one
of the five best retirement
havens in the world by a glossy
magazine full of color photographs.

I visited there once and drove
through the countryside past a
grand house where a balding man
with a gray pony tail stood yelling
at men working in his garden.

Down the road, near a hillside fragrant
with coffee blooms, I passed a row of
tin-roofed huts next to a river. Women
washed clothes in the muddy current
while men sat in doorways and
sharpened gleaming machetes.

The flowers are lovely this time
of year, and the coffee is fine.


Biography Note:

Barry Basden writes mostly short pieces these days. Some have been published in various online venues. Some have not. He is co-author of CRACK! AND THUMP: WITH A COMBAT INFANTRY OFFICER IN WORLD WAR II, and edits Camroc Press Review at http://www.camrocpressreview.com/


One Breath
Junie Moon

Grey mist under purple sky,
twilights prelude, ink dots

merge, swell,
trickle down, sealing out
traces of day; shadows

exhale; silhouettes dance
’cross cosmic dust

Time banished,
hours erased,
grandfather keeping time
like a metronome

hazy fog, vapors, feathery
mirage, rising up
filling an empty room;
murmurs, seductive

gentle whispers; obscuring stealthy
cowards, hiding a
hypnotic prophecy,

unleashed in darkness...
abyss; mystical, insistent

collage of images
through cellophane
changing colors;
heart beats
listless, laden;
no heroic salutations;

transparent illusions, counterfeit
memories …voluminous darkness;
seductive, mesmerizing;

no borders, no boundaries;
no guarantees;
reality distorted, spiraling
in inner space,
life lay silent in one breath,
death lay silent in the next


Biography Note:

Junie Moon's work has appeared in Eat a Peach, Poe Little Thing, Black River Press, Down in the Dirt, Dogma Publication, Poetic Hours, Sage of Consciousness, The Persistent Mirage, Poetry Today, Black Book Press, the anthology ‘Lives of Artists’ compiled by Melanie M. Eyth, The Pink Chameleon, to name a few.


When I’m Horny and Suicidal
Steve Calamars

I play hacky-sack with
hand-grenades and lust
after land-mines strutting
in stilettos and fishnet
stockings—

I chug molotov cocktails
and swallow cyanide
parading down my throat
in strip-teases and
tassels—

I wink at hourglass-
shaped 357s and
catch bullets beneath
my eyelids . . .


Biography Note:

Steve Calamars lives in San Antonio, TX. He has a B.A. in Philosophy and works in a grocery store. When he is not working or sleeping, he writes (mainly prose). The stuff he writes can be found in bottle rockets, Chiron Review, Harpur Palate, Zygote in My Coffee and other places he won’t bore you with. He can be found in sccalamars@yahoo.com..


Sob-
Loren Fay

Bow down upon this severe bend.
Bones wither & do not mend.
On thy hand’s & knee’s..
Oh, I bleed my blood for thee.
Dearth, I tuck thou heart under the sea.
Cover the beating sound beneath the
Brackish waves.
Universal solvent, dissolve my broken lungs.
You do me no good, stranger of the months.
Beetle brown eyes pollute my ocean blues.
Dig away at my frightened charm,
I veil my battered pain.
My poise vanished during your perfect masquerade.
Who would sweep away a girl in an unending weep?


Biography Note:

Loren Fay was born in London, England and moved to America for schooling in Wisconsin and Florida when she was a young child. She is currently attending college in the Tampa Bay area of Florida. Her major is Creative Writing and Poetics. She is currently in the process of writing a set of epic fictional novels, to be published one day soon. She has two blogs of which she posts on rather frequently. The first is titled '& as of now..', which contains much of her poetic works, mixed amongst some short stories as well. Loren Fay's second blog shares her journey with the world as she embarks on writing her novel(s). This blog is titled 'In the making- By: Loren Fay'. She picked up her talent and passion for writing by accident as she was a teachers assistant to a creative writing teacher. Since that fated semester of high school, writing has become a none stop passion for Loren Fay. She has been published in the St. Pete times, numerous literary magazines, and won the award for writer of the year in 2007 from her high school.


The Odds
Lucy Walters

I’ll go to Vegas for a day-
I’ll beat the house,
And triple figure fruits
Will roll down gold
From double tasseled breast
And glittering thighs.
Domed palaces where
Plush carpets roll
Like Savannah plains,
And despair and glee
Lie mischievous lovers
Side on side
Of a shiny coin.
I’d cheat death for just one happy day
Of life where odds are 12 to 1,
Lap at a bowl of bluffing games,
If only for just one
Tiny taste of light,
Then trudge home,
Broke again, at night.

Featured Poet #3

Seven Poems From Richard Wink


The Retired Lifeboat

The retired lifeboat

beached,

lame

overturned like an empty crab shell

surrounded by the chalk

and harsh flint.

Weather beaten the boat’s name

had been reduced to a solitary ‘h’

in lower-case,

the shade of navy blue had faded

to a sheepish turquoise.

The sea touched the lifeboat

permissively surrounding it

sympathetically.

In the crude sun

the tide departed without

taking anything


Piranha

The Piranha could not swim

so he was fitted with wheels,

he spun around the shelf

just above the glass tank that contained

his brother and sisters.

Fresh air did the Piranha good

sure he was a fish out of water

plenty of people pointed that out

before chuckling righteously to themselves

but the Piranha paid no attention to unpleasant jibes,

though he did wonder how he was able to breathe.

His gills contracted and bristled

when irritated by the lazy drift of smoke

that billowed from his keeper’s cigarette


Burlesque Memories

The talent was fresh, simmering in a sterling rimmed champagne glass

I wasn’t sure what we were observing

but when the performance ended

we stood and applauded.

Her model was of immaculate design,

not garish like Van Gogh’s prostitute muse

with downcast sagging droops.

No, this vision was crafted

around the finest bone


I missed the last train

and sat in an all night café

sipping dirt brown coffee.

Why was I involved with the arts?


The Thames,

a river of grey romance

I could not smell.


The Page Turner

When the skin cracked

fingertips became tender

each page turned

causing a flinch


eyes wandered

tears rolled

as the final word

was read


Rambling

Circumstances swam away as swans,

cowardly legs frantically paddling under water


Tides tickled the South East Coast

causing the North to sneeze


Trinkets sugar coated

diabetic deliberate


brandy flavoured blokes lick

the lollipop hat stand


fields dream beneath metallic covers

magnets spin

a clown’s bow tie

tickling barley humour


The Fox in the Furnace

The Fox in the Furnace

a temper of orange

warming the room

causing feet to surrender snug slippers


The Fox in the Furnace

crackles and sparks

a firefly ember glides over shoulder

catching us by surprise


Rail

Tremors shuttle

green blurs in awkward motion

rattling rails

bypassing through mustard fields,

specs of rain

streak windows

distracting


Daffodils suffer cramp

their stalks kicked,

crushed, then trampled

by the busy men


They shuffle into the burdened carriages

removing and rolling their coats

stacking coral briefcases into overhead compartments

polite theatrics

the newspapers spread open

like maps of the world


Q@A with Richard Wink


CH: How long have you been writing and why did you start in the first place?

RW: I started writing for kicks when I was sixteen. I discovered a knack for poetry one afternoon; I think it was during some little creative writing exercise that I really gravitated towards the art. No longer was I bored by Charles Dickens or trying to figure out what the heck Onomatopoeia meant. At last something in literature was speaking to me, throwing down a gauntlet.

I consider sixteen to be the age when my life went wrong, and since that point for nearly a decade, through ten years of mistakes and misadventure poetry has been the one constant. Of course it has been glorious attempting to play the ‘tortured’ Rimbaud role, but eventually you sit bolt up, waking up at four in the morning in cold sweats and realize that this is something you have to do for the rest of your life. That I guess is when the bug has bitten you.

For about two years I was writing in secret, which is to say at the time I was ashamed. Poetry was seen as pretentious and without wishing to sound homophobic it was considered to be “poncey”. Growing up with laddish mates who had no real love for the arts, and perhaps their cultural outlook stretched just about to drunken sing-along’s to ‘Wonderwall’ on a Friday night. I guess I was afraid to reveal myself as a poet.

By the time I was eighteen I began to send out submissions and got a couple of poems featured in Print Anthologies. My first published poem was titled ‘Driving Miss Daisy’ and was simply about learning to drive. That experience was quite eventful, it took me three attempts to pass the test, and I even failed the theory test once because I came into the testing centre feeling hungover. I recall one lesson occurred on 9/11, the instructor didn’t believe me when I told him about two planes hitting the twin towers. But yeah, I digress. I’m a terrible driver.

Then after getting the taste after those publications I took advantage of the internet, and put together my first chapbook with a publisher in Chicago. The Beehives though not a critical or commercial success got my foot in the door and gave me a bit of confidence. Since then I have managed to produce five more chapbooks, and hopefully later this year, or early next, my first full length collection.


CH: Who or what were your inspirations?

RW: Early on I was heavily influenced by the current poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy, her poems about everyday subject matter spoke to me and made me realize that to write poetry you didn’t have to hole yourself away in opium dens. This was a good two or three years before I discovered Bukowski and the Beats, who truly flipped my lid. I’m still only getting started on people like Corso and Snyder, so there is plenty left to discover. I genuinely prefer writers from the States. Anne Sexton and Wallace Stevens are big influences.

A lot of songwriters have influenced me. I especially dig the throwaway nonsense of Stephen Malkmus, the morose heartbreak of Elliott Smith and the genius of Ray Davies. Music is a big deal to me, without it I don’t really think life would be worth living.


CH: What would you say is the hardest thing about writing?

RW: Each and every writer is gripped by the struggle between their ego and their own delusions. Obviously the internal duel is in direct conflict with those who read your writing, so whilst at the peak of your powers you are thinking you are the shit, when in fact you could actually be churning out….. shit poetry.

I mentioned utilizing the internet earlier, and this is going to sound rather hypocritical, considering without the internet (a) I wouldn’t be talking to you now and (b) I wouldn’t have networked enough to get publishers from Liverpool to Los Angeles to put out my words.

But I am concerned that a lot of writing gets lost in the void of the World Wide Web. I still think we are in the early stages of online publishing, if indeed you can call it publishing. We need to build up writers, something like this is good, it acts as a showcase, but as an editor of an online zine myself (Gloom Cupboard) I’ve realized that you have a responsibility to make sure the aces don’t get lost in the pack.

Feature writers, try to put them in Print Editions and work with them. Support your local scenes, encourage your contemporaries. Literary movements only happen when people get together and collaborate.

Perhaps the hardest thing about writing is that it can be easy to plough the lone furrow. The role of the outsider is an overstated one. Get out and about, mingle.


CH: What advice would you give to a new writer who is struggling to find his or her identity?

RW: I’m a great believer in writing about what you know. For instance there is no good attempting to write from the perspective of a heroin addict if you fainted after getting a flu vaccination. Stick with what you know, write about what you experience and I don’t think you can go far wrong.

Of course another perspective is that originality is overrated, throughout history artists have ripped liberally from other artists. T.S Elliot plundered from Shakespeare and the
Bible and it didn’t do him much harm. But I guess if you are going to steal, then you better be able to dress it up, if you merely cut and paste then you’ll probably get caught out. Jesus, I guess this is a sign of cultural decline. Advocating plagiarism!

End of Interview


Links

'Apple Road' is available to order from Trainwreck Press
http://www.ditchpoetry.com/trainwreckpress.htm

'Delirium is a Disease of the Night' is available to order from Shadow Archer Press
http://www.shadowarcherpress.com/richardwink.htm

'The Magnificent Guffaw' is available to order from Erbacce Press
http://www.erbacce-press.com/#/richard-wink/4527659949

You can follow Richard on twitter
http://twitter.com/thewinkisonfire

Issue #4

Three Poems by David Whitehouse


Ode to the Tabloids

A serious newspaper will tell you why the next teenage misfit
will dress his teachers in yellow jump suits
before decapitating them with an ornate samurai sword;
but not where or when.
So give me a pinky perky red-top tabloid.
Of a winter's morning I warm my hands on tales of minor celebrity shoplifters,
their speeding trolleys crammed with tracksuits, dog food and flip flops,
and enter competitions to try to win free shopping
to the total value of the theft.


Preservation Society: Blackheath, London

Starbucks will never open in Blackheath
because of the ancient Egyptian kings
who, knowing the evil of iced coffee and muffins,
embalm the place by injunction
they sniffed the evil on the phone
and to their tombs will take dewy chunks of heath,
church brick dust and piano recital sheets
to roam forever across the skies
their servants buried with them,
dead or alive, according to the season
in the British Museum they'll ponder the ancient script
before pausing for cinnamon scones and cappuccino


The Graveyard Shift

Once a woman beat me there.
In the empty newsroom's pre-dawn hour,
her fingers punched the keyboard.
The copy moved, not waiting for me.
Her mother-in-law had come to stay.
There was lots of slack time on the graveyard shift, she said,
enough for her to finish her Pol Pot history book.
I relaxed. Now I had time to watch Gary Glitter,
kiddie-fiddler deported from Asia, touch down live on TV.
The pilot didn't flinch, the plane didn't quiver, as it slid along the wet black tarmac.


Biography Note:

David Whitehouse, who is British, works as a journalist in Paris, where he has lived for 14 years. Previously he lived in Japan. He's married with three children and edits the The Lesser Flamingo ezine, which accepts poetry, flash fiction and short stories. You can find The Lesser Flamingo here. http://www.lesserflamingo.net/


Three poems by Charles C Brooks III


Gas Station Purgatory

People drone into tiny phones.
Their mouths are ragged metal
that clang
while I'm standing in line.
I'm deaf to everything else
but that clanging
clamoring in.

Their ruckus is a jumble of nonsense
pilfered
from some relative, friend, TV show.
Sartre’s right
about other people.

This gas station is necessary.
I am stuck,
strangled by lottery tickets.
Beef jerky looks lethal.
There’s a rack of legal
speed for construction workers.
That clanging
is a test.


Brunch

The waitress is too chipper,
She knows my wife somehow.
Soccer rushes by one television,
another shows stock cars.

The hedges are cut
in rectangles.
The parking lot is clogged
with hybrid cars
that look like Easter eggs.


Dream Casting

On the backs of pine beetles
burrowed beneath dense
tree bark
this journey is hidden.
…

The bedroom window’s hairline cracks
turn streetlights into muted prisms.
In the parking lot below,
talk of pancakes and bar fights.
I’m somewhere between it
and sleep, finally drifting off.

Next morning hands
cupped around coffee, I sit
a fresh persona.
Bare feet feel alive
on this hardwood floor.
Dust sparkles,
sifts, and settles.


Biography Note:

Charles Clifford Brooks III is a poet and freelance writer living in Georgia, USA. He was inducted into the National Creative Society as a Master Member his senior year at Shorter College. There he also obtained a BS in History\Political Science with a minor in English Literature. Along with his creative endeavors, he also contributes articles to three magazines and a newspaper. Charles Clifford has been published in over 40 magazines, 3 anthologies, and printed in five foreign countries. He is currently Poetry Editor for Literary Magic Magazine. Ghost Shadow Press picked up his first book of poetry “Whirling Metaphysics”.


Three poems by Hal Sirowitz


Bad at Friendships

Mother said I’d be better off if I

let her pick who to become friends with.

I don’t have much luck at it.

Friendships are supposed

to last a lifetime. Mine last a week.

That doesn’t bode well for marriage.

My wife is supposed to be my friend.

But if I’m incapable of making friends

with men, how am I going to make

them with women? It’s the same concept,

just a different sex. But I shouldn’t worry.

She’ll be my wife’s friend. And a friend

of hers is automatically a friend of mine.


The End of Blame

Father made a yearly pilgrimage

to his parents’ graves. He said if

his family got along better, they’d

all be buried close together and he

wouldn’t feel guilty about not visiting

his dead relatives. All he knows

is they’re buried somewhere nearby.

He figured he could pray for them, too,

since they’re in the vicinity. But it’s

hard to put fervor in a prayer when

you’re not sure what the people

you’re praying for look like. He

remembers how his Aunts and Uncles

looked when they were young.

Then his father got sick, his Uncles

ran the factory, and his father’s

coat business flopped. Everyone

blamed everyone else. They were

too busy blaming the other to visit.

They did it on the phone.


The Effects of Bagels

Mother didn’t keep a kosher home.

She wanted us to be free to use any fork

we desired. Out of respect for her father,

she would use plastic silverware when

he came over for brunch. She’d send

me to the bakery to get challhah

We weren’t very religious, but we

lived in a town where you could buy bagels.

And that gave grandfather hope. He’d pray

that eating Jewish food would eventually

accomplish what he couldn’t, make us more Jewish.


Biography Note:

Hal Sirowitz is the former Poet Laureate of Queens, New York. His last collection of poetry is called 'Father Said' (Soft Skull Press).


April Fool’s Day in Boston
Francis Raven

The pale that came after the impale of winter.
A slight greening on the edges of distance.
Yet, ice in the pockmarks.
The scouring that Spring cleaning is supposed to
Take advantage of
And simultaneously
Erase the traces of.
In keeping with civilization

There is a doubt that things
Left to their own leaves
Will ever amount to anything
But the next season.
And yet, the knife is removed
On slender feet, evaporating
In quick crystals’
Neighborhood expansion plan.


Biography Note:

Francis Raven is a graduate student in philosophy at Temple University. His books include 5-Haifun: Of Being Divisible (Blue Lion Books, 2008), Shifting the Question More Complicated (Otoliths, 2007), Taste: Gastronomic Poems (Blazevox 2005) and the novel, Inverted Curvatures (Spuyten Duyvil, 2005). Francis lives in Washington DC; you can check out more of his work at his website here: http://www.ravensaesthetica.com/Ravens_Aesthetica/Home.html.


Morning
Isaiah Vianese

The smell of bacon, fried eggs,
and brewed coffee.

Hunters and old men have gathered
at the greasy spoon to warm their stomachs

before spending hours in the cold,
some to shovel last night’s snow fall,

knock icicles from the gutters,
and others to sit high in the trees

with a rifle, essence of deer piss
spread on the trunk below.

The waitress keeps their cups warm
between buttering toast, working the register,

yelling orders to the cook
through the little window.

By eight, they will be gone to their work
their play, and she can have a cigarette,

but for now they keep her running,
raising their mugs for more.


Biography Note:

Isaiah Vianese is author of the chapbook, Stopping on the Old Highway (recycled karma press, 2009). He grew up in upstate New York, and currently lives in Missouri.