Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Three Poems by Amanda Boschetto
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
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...
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
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
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
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.
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.
Mom's in the basement,
tidying up the secrets,
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.