Saturday, January 30, 2010

Issue #13

Two Poems from A.J. Kaufmann


This city, my city, a translucent fist
barb wire ghetto, history’s cripple
guard of Western code, ever leaning East
cornered everywhere, while little by little
these tenement houses, infidel streets
host voices of the homeless, sins of the free
this city, my city, panoptical screen
the scythe of a new war, the burning of will
a bigger sky is what we need
in bars the music never stops
a wider heart and hands of steel
sandpaper voice, a rifle-guitar
Tibetan flags at anarchy’s step
no fascist pigs, no Nazi threads of culture
the D.I.Y. sky, the D.I.Y. soul, perception, occasion
revision of more, a vulture
eyes be not closed, coins be never heard
oh city, my city – you dance while you kill
anti-depressives, a shot of cocaine
cowboy ego sent to Vietnam, again


Drifting without measure no point of return
only to burn
passing prisons
and nurseries of mind
leaving cinders
only to find

that it's my rebirth
the American wings
that shine
and it's my rebirth
the American wings

I've seen it before
I've been one of you
the chains of control
the carnival fool

Falling through the theater
watching the dogs
pleasing the gods
finding lanterns
and houses of crime
bathe in ashes
of lovers divine

lost in my rebirth
the American wings
that shine
yeah it's my rebirth
the American wings

Wasted, traceless
merged with the rain
river calling
my secret names
lifetime written
in solitaire blue
rotten eagles
feast on the truth

and it's my rebirth
the American wings
of fools
yeah it's my rebirth
the American wings
of fools...

I've seen it before
I've been one of you
the idol obscene
the carnival fool

Biography Note:

A.J. Kaufmann, born June 24 1989 is a poet, songwriter and traveler currently living in Poland. He's the author of "Siva in Rags", "I'm Already Not Here", "Pilgrims & Indians" and other poetry chapbooks. He can be found online at and/or at

Phil Lane

Hellborn, and like a Sioux,
every sunrise is a vice
to contend with,
a white man’s worst
tobacco, tents where no thieves
can break in, coyote runs
wild again, a child
grown so old, so
loveless, so thin,
on this postmodern frontier,
there is only one desk,
one chair. I escape and
trace a Marsh Hawk
above the water gap
where she turns a circle
and laughs
because a motel room
is a poor excuse for nature,
Budweiser, a poorer excuse
for whiskey, the tongue
does not burn, the heart
doesn’t jump,
it’s one thing to be lost
in the wild, but to be lost
at Exit 45 is neither heroic
nor romantic. Either way,
I am alone with my own blood,
carry my own history like a skull,
every past is symmetrical, intact,
ready for exposition,
even explication, if only
I had a brown-skinned woman
rather than a white-washed
imagination. Instead,
I fantasize where
a thousand others have before,
a cumcloud hung in the air
over the interstate.
When it all come down
to bones, to dust,
I hate to admit
that this is not Pocahontas,
and this is not Potomac,
this is the middle of nowhere
and it is now—

Biograph Note:

Phil Lane's poems have been published in various magazines as well as online. He is currently the editor of Breadcrumb Sins ( He lives in New Jersey and teaches English for a private tutoring company.

Two Poems from Michael Aaron Casares

The Neighborhood is Silent

The neighborhood is silent
against the raucous jeers
of abounding crowds.
Traffic rushes statically
on highways not for
from here.
The wind rhapsodizes dreamily,
lulling the silent, sleeping street.
But the neighbors are watching,
I am sure, as I carve an apple,
(its red skin sweating in the
pungent humidity).
I never speak to my neighbors.
We never barbeque, either.
We remain indoors, in our
closed circuit environments,
in our creature comfort habitats,
in our dens of solidarity.
The land has changed:
preference of security leaves
these remains, these dormant
people, silent and secluded
from extemporaneous movement.
Wheels on upturned bikes spin
like reels of family-time past
and the basketball, the children’s
games are completely forgotten.
The children are gone, locked behind
barred doors, or perhaps in their
basements. Slaves to their senses:
eyes and tongue.
The neighbors are watching though.
I am sure as I smoke a cigarette
and scream a verse or two that they
huddle quietly, waiting to break free


White walls awaken
me in the morning chill.
White walls now naked
unclothed they coldly
feel. This is home.

Rooms are rooms
of a home no more
where pictures once
covered them from
ceiling to floor. Arctic
winds through nicks
and cracks describe
the feeling this home
now lacks.

White walls awaken me
in the twilight din.
White walls now naked
form ice-like picks, a needle's
pin. This is home.

Hearts bleed hearts from
their home no more where
roots are shaken, taken from
their core and tundra’s touch
comes through each door like
winter’s grasp waits, wanting more.

White walls awaken me from sleep no more,
for without your warmth this house is poor.
A blanket’s comfort could not ignore
a home where love can live no more.
This is home.

Biography Note:

Michael Aaron Casares is a writer and artist from Austin, TX USA. He owns and operates an independent press called Virgogray. Recently his poetry has appeared in several publications both in print and online. He has two new collections just released, Green Tea America from New Polish Beat and The Winter King, an epic prose poem, from Shadow Archer Press.

Joanna M. Weston

roof and walls toss
rags of flame
from two-storey inferno

parents pin
tatters of fire
to film

children sit, catching
ash and spark
on hair, hands

in later years
will they screen home fires
keep nightmares undercover
let no one near bonfires with a camera?

or will they set match to paper
stand back and anticipate
the rush of flame
and wail of sirens?

Biography Note:

JOANNA M. WESTON. Has had poetry, reviews, and short stories published in anthologies and journals for twenty five years. Her middle-reader, ‘Those Blue Shoes', published by Clarity House Press. And poetry, ‘A Summer Father’, published by Frontenac House of Calgary. htt://

Mike Florian

The southeast wind is blowing a hundred and
The albatross flies easily over its home
Wings barely kissing the ocean
The barometer falls to unbelievable depths
The green sea rises ahead of you and
You pray the bow comes up yet one more time
You’ve held your pee for six hours
There’s no more strength
When the tide changes after the slack the wind stops
With the hot stillness the albatross disappears
Only the seagulls remain skimming the surface
Searching for a ball of feed

Biography Note:

Mike Florian had an article published in the late 60’s. He then took a fourty year hiatus from writing to do many things. Since 2008 he had a number of short stories published in various magazines including Word Riot, Ascent Aspirations. Albatross is his first published poem. He owns a manufacturing company located in Western Canada where he also spends a lot of time on the ocean.

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