Sunday, February 27, 2011

THE SUBURBAN SAMHAIN

Arching my back to retrieve every last morsel,

plucking that box of mementos from under my bed.

Pissing sunlight aerating my reluctant dream,

through a window set authoritatively over my head.



Clawing calico tumblers spinning a fire rug.

Cooling autumn breeze coaxes my pray for quiet.

Timing a reason, for a time of some reason;

reasoning with myself as I attempt a guess.



The snake parade barely makes the soft corner.

Silly schoolyard plays for our reluctant dead.

Applauding round steamy cups of flavor,

warming my insides with weekend-baked bread.



Smelling the taste of damp flattened leaves,

lurching for supremacy with our tricks and our treats.

Shaking to unload the night-hijacked bounty.

Tabulating pirate counts we still have to beat.



Running with Andy to the end of endurance…

(or ‘til 9:15, three blocks over).

Slipping sheet slipping on my 12year-old poundage;

pretending ‘Little Jon’ loyalty that last day of October.



Surrendering to feelings I forget I forgot.

Rippling Polaroid shows the smile I’ve misplaced.

Leaving Andy to run Sisyphean circles in rhythm.

Throwing up my hands to save time and save face.



Resting that box back to its casket.

Shaking to the breeze in my cold solid condo.

Twisting insomnia, sweat on my pillow.

For when Halloween dies, when will I follow?


GOOD RED WINE

Now, forever, in the sudden summer rain,

I released the line of worn orange silk.

Across the fluted expanse of this new river,

dancing a quick jig as my makeshift boat floated.



Who was that likeness made under me?

I was asked to carry, but not told his name.

When hired I had replied, “For a price, I will travel anyplace.

My luggage is inconsequential, my destination only an end.”



It was a gray three days, but we made the most of it;

silence is a welcome treat for a rusted heart.

He allowed me a fine supper from his wares.

“Contraband on my boat?” I teased, but he only smiled.



There was a contact that met us.

With no handshake, leading us to three tethered steeds.

I commented about the downpour, but only the forest had ears.

Our guide never once looked behind.



I had no care to meet my employer.

I had since puzzled through the hierarchy here.

The man from the castle greeted me wearing a mask of blue velvet.

My charge and our guide gathered the horses inside the drawbridge.



For what seemed like hours-but surely only minutes-

I waited in that mist with the tall man in the blue covering.

He lifted his hand and from it fell another bag of gold:

“Leave before you must stay,” he said and turned.



I rode the horse left me and galloped towards the bay.

I left the horse, then saddled the calm sea.

My hungry boat ignored me, a jealous mistress.

But in the storm I drank from a bottle of good red wine I could now well afford.


THE SMELL AT THE BACK OF YOUR NECK

I see you go out.



All is not well with my wanting;

my fingers stretch to his car,

my eyes burn through his metallic paint,

my fat prick dents his brittle, brand new, short bumper.



Where is his tongue in the dark when you cry that you need me, yet you don’t even know my real name...I am only a symbol to you.



A symbol who watches as you go out.



A symbol that yearns for the smell at the back of your neck.


FOR THE RECORD


Gold records were sent beyond the way out.

A Voyage of hope, a welcoming shout.

From a simple planet, full of people with ears.

Computes listening, for years upon years.



Finally a sign, from uncharted space.

At long last, an alien face.

Interpreted signals the scientists read:
“When you get the time, send more Chuck Berry!”


IN THE LOUVRE

There is a story about Picasso some years ago...



Seems there was a guard, walking his rounds though the Louvre; that big museum in Paris-the too tight city of temper and cigarettes-who stumbled upon an intruder; a gray haired defacer, actually applying fresh paint to one of the Picassos!



Horrified and alerted the guard reaches the old man, quickly disconnecting the fellow from his crime-which of course was no crime at all since the old man was (as you have already guessed, you were always so much quicker then I) Picasso!



When asked for an explanation, the old master replied:

“It’s never finished” or words to that effect; illustrating my point, that...



One can grow very tired attempting to make passable the fruits of diligent unwavering labor, but most people will scoff and regard that fruit indulgent geometric bullshit anyway, and they’ll hang the stuff you think really abysmal, dull and ‘unfinished’ under the brightest lights.


HER BREASTS



I have lost

the ability

to recall

the exact

picture

of her breasts.

Maybe too much time has passed

or there are simply too many other things occupying my mind these days.

Either way.

I have forgotten what her breasts looked like.

It is a bit disconcerting

when I consider

that her breasts

were at one time

the very nectar of my existence.

How could what I once needed to sustain my very life

now be impossible for me to recall?

Ralph Greco

Friday, February 25, 2011

Romance language

Five days in bed with the company of the porcelain princess lurking nearby , I sing Wars "why can't we be friends"I must be feeling better now as I have picked up and am piloting my cynical pen, that has been handed down to me from the past, and am navigating it in any direction I choose once again. It is the crack of dawn Sunday , it occurred to me Friday night , why i have been having such vivid dreams., and shaking like a leaf while searching for an extra blanket here in the tropics.....

I realize I must be experiencing some slight brain swelling, perhaps a bit more then usual. In clouded resolve I decide if no better by morn I will resort to the devices of the hospital in Jaco, Sat: Fever has broken and "Sure feels good feelin good again
Elvin Bishop. etc......

All you can stand like this and more can be found at www.americanworkmule.com and also under my pen name of John Q Smith on our dear friend face book...... At your service. I am looking for a Goddess as well. J.
Nicole Taylor has attended college in Salem, Oregon where she lives near her siblings, British mother and other family. She has been published in her college newspaper, one local and one recipe anthology and some online. She has had two poems online at

wordgathering.com, three bicycling and nature poems in a bicycling storytelling journal at http://www.myspace.com/boneshakeralmanac, one poem performed in her DanceAbility dance group, through Chemeketa College,http://building45.chemeketa.edu/issues/issue_one/inada_workshop.html. A dance member has read a few of her poems at campus Soapbox Readings and published one in her poetry e-mail newsletter, Very Local Poetry.


Nicole currently has many hopeful projects, a variety of styles and a wide variety of subjects. She hopes for more chapbooks and a nicely bound poetry book soon. She has been accepted at

http://abrahamlincolnmagazine.blogspot.com/,

http://asphodelmadness.blogspot.com/search/label/Nicole%20Taylor,

http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/search/label/Nicole%20Taylor, http://www.groundwaterspublishing.com/Taylor.htm,

http://kenagain.freeservers.com/TOC.HTML, http://www.kerouacsdogmag.com/, http://www.shoemusicpress.com/nefariousballerina/issue41/nbissue41taylor, http://pigeonbike.blogspot.com/2011/02/gothic-black-dont-wear-black.html, html http://thescrambler.com/jan10-contents.html, and other journals online and in print. Nicole Taylor has been published and winning locally. She is dancer, an artist and a volunteer. She blogs at http://www.apoetessanthology.blogspot.com/


You can find more of her poetry at

http://visualorganisms.blogspot.com/label/Nicole%20Taylor

and at

http://alternativereel.com/includes/poets-corner/display_review.php?id=00103


many more about disabilities, dance, family, nature, traveling and more ideas.




Neighbor Andy Notes

"Do you
want to watch
this movie,
The State
of Grace? One
of my favorites."
"Do you like
this poster,
the Rolling Stones
hanging tongue poster?"
Do you want
to listen
to music instead?
KC and the
Sunshine Band disco?
Classic or alternative rock?"

"Can I borrow
this music, Andy?"
"Thanks, Bye,
Andy." He's sometimes
too hyper and
too confused of
his wishes,
too confused
for me

"Do you
want more?" "
Is the drink
too strong? Sorry."
"Do you
want to
be my girlfriend?"

I should
have said
"no" more.
I did not
say yes
or no
until moving
the next summer.

Summer 2009


On Feb 23, 2011, at 11:24 AM, Nicole Taylor wrote:


A Dream, A Goal, A Passion

Precipitate

Drizzle

Shower

Stimulate

Inspire

Envision

Differentiate

Fluctuate

Deviate

Illuminate

Brighten

Shine

Aspire

Desire

Dedicate



Sympathy Pains?

My friend Jerry

fell yesterday,

far off a weak rope

climbing at a fair.

I was told

he had

hours of

back and shoulder surgery,

hospitalization and rehabilitation.

A phone call

awoke my mind.

A sore shoulder awoke,

my arthritic left shoulder.

Winter aches

awoke my thoughts.

Sympathy pains?


March 9, 2008



How is She

"How is that lady,

that lady upstairs?"

Our neighbor Eric

asked me again as

he has for several weeks.

Sad, she must be. Proud, she

was of her months sober.

"Tell him I have twelve,

twelve months sober."

I heard her tell her

mother to her brother

last December.


Then two weeks later her

body was found,

apparently in her sleep.


March 11, 2008





A Smile

There were emails to a Jeremy, a cute flirt.

Later there was consternate, discompose, disconcert.

We were quickly enamored.

The keyboard and phones were clamored.

Mutual teasing.

Stimulations appeasing.

Our feelings were aroused,

and sometimes busily doused.

His smile

was a beguile.

Words and bicycle adventures stimulated.

Attractions were quickly captivated.

Your poetic words were enchanting.

Attraction and fascination planting.

An evening kiss of disdain

My confusion and pain.

A kiss - brusk, curt.

My feelings - confused, hurt.

He was charming,

and not too harming.

March 16 2004,

Revised December 2010



Teasing

tease

appease


volley

folly


arousal

trivial


confused

angered


hurt

curt


hope

cope


wanting

needing


The Oxymoron

My oldest brother picks me up for dinner at his home. We listen to “Alice's Restaurant” on his stereo.


My other brother and his friend watch the Dallas Cowboys on television.

They and my sister-in-law discuss the team's classic uniforms.


My mom and my sister-in-law are cooking meats,

mushrooms, mashed potatoes and more.


We snack on cooked vegetables with bacon and raw vegetables.


My sisters arrive soon with their families, one with Lil' Smokies sausages and the other with pumpkin roll and cake.


At dinner my Mexican-American sister-in-law and us discuss weather and news from Uncle Gerry in Yorkshire, England. Our parents immigrated family to the U. S. over forty years for dad's woolen mill work.


I watch Will and Grace shows with mom after she helps cleans tables and counters. My brother's sons argue over cleaning dishes.


and the Moron


I hear Erik ask “Can Blake come over?”


“No.”


“PLEASE . . .”


“Ok for a few minutes.”

I am invited to stay over in mom's room.

At 3AM she answers her phone downstairs and then walks up to talk to my brother and his wife, her son and daughter-in-law.


They leave for a few hours. Mom and I listen to footsteps and voices. We hear a few, my fifteen year old nephew and his parents, returning over an hour later with my sister-in-law's Toyota four-

runner vehicle.

We fall back to sleep for a few hours.

I leave late morning after a big breakfast and mom tells me “Don't ask questions”and not to share this news.


Erik is sometimes a regular joke at Thanksgiving. He is managing a small business at downtown mall and studying.


Neighbor Andy Notes

"Do you want to watch this movie,
The State of Grace? One of my favorites."
"Do you like this poster, the Rolling Stones
hanging tongue poster?" Do you want to listen to music
instead KC and the Sunshine Band disco,
classic or alternative rock?"


"Can I borrow this music, Andy?"
"Thanks, Bye, Andy." He's sometimes
too hyper and too confused of his wishes,
too confused for me


"Do you you want more?" "Is the drink too strong? Sorry."
"Do you want to be my girlfriend?"


I should have said "no" more.
I did not say yes or no until moving
the next summer.


Nicole Taylor

Saturday, February 19, 2011

My name is Nathan Nobbe and I have enclosed here a sampling of some of my poems for your publication consideration. Should you have further interest, I have several others that I could make available to you.

Thank You,
Nathan Nobbe


Questions


There are so many questions

And so few answers.

Those that come

Seem to only supply temporary relief

From the haunting consciousness

That follows every path

Until each new realization says

Go back three spaces and

Start again.

But start where and in what direction?

Were it possible to ignore the question

Would only add to the emptiness.

To adhere seems only to make

The container larger.

What’s it all for anyway?

To see who has the biggest container

In the end?

If that’s the case

Then I don’t want to play.

But we can’t just quit,

Because we are the game.

Besides,

There are still questions

To be answered.

We are all actors in a play.

But what is my part?

I’m tired of looking for things

To do

And ways to change

The scene.

It all seems like such a waste,

But I don’t even know what it’s

A waste of.

I am sinking in sand

And hoping for a hand.

I wish upon a star but the star

Only laughs in my face.

Perhaps the star is trying

To tell me the answer.

Oh well,

I think I’ll just hum a tune

And wait…

Perhaps the star is trying

To tell me the answer.

Oh well,

I think I’ll just hum a tune

And wait…

Oh well,

I think I’ll just hum a tune

And wait…

And wait…

Wait…wait…wait…wait…

Will tomorrow ever come?


Somewhere Between


It’s funny how things go down

Sometimes.

I take a long pull off a cigarette

And seek

To let myself fade into truth,

To be in harmony with that

Which is.

Whatever that is.

It’s said that the universe

Is vibrating,

Is pulsing.

The in and out.

The positive and negative.

The yin and yang.

The light,

And the darkness.

I keep seeing in mind

The sight of an old Chevy.

I see the back of it

As if pointed away.

Away from where I am now.

It’s nighttime in that vision.

The cover of night,

Where heartache feels at home.

Is that my ride?

My vehicle out of here?

That car is old.

It is ancient.

It is as old as me.

I will give it this,

It appears well preserved.

It is in pristine condition.

I wonder what would happen

If I just got in and drove.

A long empty road into the night.

To choose to go,

Or not.

It’s hard to know sometimes,

It seems that God tries to tell me.

But I don’t understand,

To be honest I mean.

I can keep guessing

And just bounce from guess to guess.

At some point I have to cry out.

My soul screams

Where now God?

The ruin of mistakes haunt me.

The same old riddle confronts me.

There isn’t an end to this.

It’s only a still photo

Snatched out of the air.

And medicine never does taste good.

A dog bays at the moon.

It calls out for all its worth

And somehow that is what it needs to do.

It is helpless to do anything else.

The loneliness of a dog.

Come share my pain, come cry with me.

The depth of my release.

Dogs have no tears, no self pity.

And still that old Chevy just sits there.

And I can’t move.

Nothing is sadder than a man who has lost

His soul.

I heard it said.

I will sleep now for a time

And hope let fashion some dreams,

That wakening may move me.

My hunger now is just bare.

I’ll lay with those dogs in the moonlight

And watch while stars move round.

Their breathing express the timelessness

Of a universe pulsing to and fro.


The Spirit


The magic is here

It is in the air.

You can believe it if

You dare.

But please don’t tell me

That it’s not there.

The twins came and

Went.

Their smiles a nourishment

Now spent.

The magic not from them.

Their appearance

A result from Him.

It cannot be called upon

But remembering can help.

Be ready and prepared

For it,

A power hard to hold.

If lost or has moved away,

Be sure it will return.

Because when in the renewal

In the time that you can see,

It was never far away

From your reach and from your grasp.


Vapor Visions


Surrounded by sale and trade and commerce

The modern world well lit.

The unattainable goal is near,

And draws my attention e’en though

Distractions appeal.

Differences reconciled.

A new goal appears. Or so I think.

Plans are pursued.

And where my focus had been

Is now gone away.

As I go toward the one,

The best I have ever seen.

My plans are in full motion,

Another yet appears.

This one is clearly distant,

An investment I cannot afford.

Now what of the other?

It has disappeared.

Was not at the end of the plan

As I had been convinced.

Must have been a distraction but

Now where is the real.

Many visions arrive, then pass by

My attention now fleeting

A direction is not there.


The Legend of Him and Her


She was shy and kinda pretty,

But never really quite sure of herself.

He was a lonely man

And wanted more than he had.

But then she learned a secret once,

What she could do with a skirt and hose.

And he really thought he could

Pretend his way

To be the man with more.

She could slide and shimmy and move,

And get most everything.

And he kept lying and cheating his way,

But never really could be the one

That had that elusive more.

So as it is and must be so

Their paths came by their destined ride.

For in him she saw a mark,

A useful and easy means.

And in her he saw himself

Obtaining that hopeful more.

He did the thing she asked him do

And rewarded him in her way.

The reward received was not the one

Envisioned by that man.

Now he is left sitting there

Alone as never before.

He ponders the deed and the price to pay,

He counts it o’er and o’er.

And off somewhere that is not that place

She continues on her way.

She allows herself a quick look back

And wonders his unhappy state.

But such a thing with some don’t stay

Unallowed a hindrance be.

Alone he sits and alone she’s not,

She’s off with another mark.

Friday, February 11, 2011

'shexed'

I am
doomed.
this feeling that weighs
down like the weight
of all the regret of
men before me
that
chokes the life from my
chest.
the feeling whispers
"never ever"
and I know
as the breeze flows
and the fragrance invades
my soul and envelopes
my being.

'clementine'

you see,
this is how it will always be
me stuck, rotting here,
without my Clementine.
you always liked that
when I called you that
when I told you that
no girl but you would ever be called that,
it's true.

Clementine, I miss you
once again disastrous timing,
but,
I'll forgive you soon.
until then here I'll sit,
writing poems about you while some
other woman reads them
(they turn her on).

your lips were tiny
tight mouthed Clementine.
the hospital was cold,
my bed was better,

dont you think so Clementine?

'round two'

now I've got you,
surprising me that you came back.

I wont miss again.

she's nowhere near
my mind.

saddle up, on top you mount
sucking away the pain,
fucking numbing my
mind.

I had to make up for last time.
I flipped her back
onto her
back,
and thrust it in.

"go easy, it's so big!"

I never listen.
I went, and went,
never slowing
until I
finished.

she limped to the bathroom.

(and this poem doesn't mean much to me because neither did she)

'STBY'

I don't find it fair when I hear someone say,
"don't commit suicide, think of all the hurt people you'll leave behind."
well,
those people may not know
what is best for that person,
and
why should someone continue living in
pain or continue a life they despise
just so your not left behind with the
pain of loss?
and what about these cold,
lonely nights spent thinking about
actually doing it and thinking about
them
and how it would affect them
and what they would think
and what they would do
and what would happen;
but I just ask one thing,
while sitting alone in the dark
thinking about those people,
are they thinking about me?

'Es Gee'

oh you,
yea, oh
yea, you.
when will
you, yea
you, quit
this tease?
it's mutual.
it's there.
your eyes
tell me
so, yea,
oh yea.
you put
yourself
out there
like air.
be careful.
be sure.
before I
lay you
down
and fuck
the shit
out of
you. yea,
oh you.


'to whom it may concern'

can you distract me?
from all the things around me
the death inside of me
dying to get out
the life in me
that rejects it's host
from the circumstances that take my knees
out from underneath me
from those that have decieved me
and the scars they've left on me
which is the only thing
that seems to stick around
these days
weighing on me

can you distract me?

from this place that's slowly
sucking
my spirit out of me
I can feel it leaving me
as I breathe
inhale-exhale
I can't seem to keep my eyes
steady or my body still
and my hands tremble and
my limbs quiver
so can you tell me
can you distract me?

anything to take my mind off of
me

Cody Michael

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Terry Foote lives near Chicago with his wife Pat and the memory of their departed feline. His father ignited his passion for poetry and his work as a nurse inspires him to write. Terry’s poetry has been published by Long Story Short and The Darkling Magazine. Terry enjoys home brewing and wine making and being spiritually renewed by nature.



The Grim Reaper

by Terry Foote



He lay on a cart

With a fresh scar on his chest

Unclothed with body swollen

We gave it our best


I touch his skin

That is clammy and cold

I gaze at his lips

That unknown secrets have told


I look at his eyes-

No one home

I look at his legs

That cannot roam


I wonder where he is right now-

Floating or flying

I wonder what it was like

Just before he gave up trying


The Declination of Independence

by Terry Foote


Oh Yeah, The rope has broken

Oh Yeah, The sail is torn

Oh Yeah, We’re taking in water

Oh Yeah, We’re tired and worn


It’s over, we’ll never be the same

Can’t keep playing the same old game

Hope is gone, it looks real grim

Can’t go back to where we’ve been


Oh Yeah, The rope has broken

Oh Yeah, The sail is torn

Oh Yeah, We’re taking in water

Oh Yeah, We’re tired and worn


Everything has changed and we’re standing still

Get out your tin cup and fire up the still

Ease, comfort and no concern for tomorrow

Will drive us to the ultimate sorrow


Oh Yeah, The rope has broken

Oh Yeah, The sail is torn

Oh Yeah, We’re taking in water

Oh Yeah, We’re tired and worn


Corporations and their politicians control us all

Lulled into complacency, our eyes off the ball

Those who thump bibles have no fear

For Armageddon is almost here


Naturally

by Terry Foote



I create my own

chasms of craziness


I frolic in fields

of frustration


I traverse the trail

with no end in sight
Train Wreck

Like a train with one car, you’re going, going, getting somewhere,
But it’s no good, it’s no good.

Maybe this winter was just a little too cold,
A little too much to be so alone.

You’re playing the same note over every time,
And wondering why it sounds so similar.

Oh, that guitar on your back and the poison in your hand
Is your ticket out of this gray town, there’s nothing here for you.

But you’re still sitting on this porch swing at the house
Where you grew up.

You aren’t getting out,
You aren’t going South.

On the bottom of three bottles, you’re just searching, seeking,
Where is the truth, you ask, where is the Truth?

Another cold winter, maybe start a fire,
And the trees are naked, oh, your soul.

You’re running in circles and you’re so mistaken--
There are no round trips in this one-way life.


The Mystery of the Carnival

I am a bag of bones on a carousel,
Spinning around, around, left for dead.
Horses painted gentle colors, eternally confined,
Float up with ease, hopes dreams,
Then sink, surrounded by laughter.

I travel hundreds of miles every day,
I go nowhere, I reach nothing.
Lights twinkle, blues, golds, reds,
Disturbing my rest, my thoughts, my travel.

A soft song trickles into my ears as I spin,
Not loudly, inviting—a lullaby, a sweet serenade.
It drains wattage from the light bulbs;
It drowns out the giggles that feed me truth.
The song coaxes me back to sleep, guides me to slumber.

I almost made it off this ceramic cycle,
But it chews me up and won’t spit me out.
That song in my ears is the only voice I hear,
And though it makes them bleed, it is easier to stay.

So I am a bag of bones on a carousel,
Spinning around, around, left for dead.


A Single Sip

Although it had been eight months in the heat
of July I finally realized he was dead.

The fireworks illuminated a hidden corner of my brain,
and I saw for the first time the cup’s warm brim
approaching his pink lips, and the he dumped
the toxic cocktail on his tongue ,
like happy hour in Cabo,
changing so many futures by drinking
a single sip.

I saw her heart shatter, unbeknownst to her in that moment
Because her whole world just shifted beneath her two small feet.
I saw her laugh and flip her hair and rest
her tongue behind a smile so alive you couldn’t help but think
She’s got it all.

But somewhere she wasn’t, it was turning his veins to ice.
And she laughed her last laugh before her Earth collapsed,
before she discovered what he’d done,
and all things hidden were revealed.

I saw the wet streaks on her face
where tears were removing makeup and
replacing it with black stripes like tire marks
on an abused parking lot.

I saw her in that dress, vulnerable,
wearing her heart on the bottom of everyone else’s shoes.
I saw her mouth moving in the form of
expressions of gratitude.
And her eyes blinked shut longer than typical.

I saw the already wilting flowers placed delicately on the floor
as if the ground was made of tissue paper
and any sudden movements might bust a hole
through the floor and gobble us all up.

Then the grand finale began—two big sunbursts
of blue and a huge firework that lit up the pond below.
And I saw her sitting on my lap
in the fanciest dress she’d ever worn.

And I thought--
Maybe people do get second chances.


Almond Buttered Whore

A light right danced gently towards the earth
so softly that the lilies were laughing and
butterflies were flapping merrily,
receiving long-awaited showers.

The scent of Breakfast snuck quietly down the hall,
its back pressed against the wall as it slid
around corners and doorways,
hoping to catch me off guard and hear my stomach groan.

Moments later, I was admiring my neatly arranged plate,
boasting colors of fall--

An artichoke quiche with a clipping of parsley,
(not to be eaten, but merely appreciated, of course.)
A medley of fruits so unusually beautiful, despite recent death,
and an almond buttered scone, warm and inviting.

The scone sat there between his neighbors, Fruit and Quiche,
luring me, enticing me, flaunting his thin flecks
of almond placed so randomly on his top
like the first snow of winter that forgot where to go
after a long spring and summer and fall.

I watched lustfully as ghosts of heat swirled up,
aiming for the heavens,
but somehow couldn’t seem to make it.

I lifted the precious scone to my mouth so reluctantly,
not wanting to extinguish its elegance.
Before the first bite, the scent of Breakfast sprinted into the room,
catching me in the act.
He crept up my nose before I noticed his presence.

Then I bit into the scone, crumbs raining onto the plate,
some sticking to my lips
like hopefuls clinging to the vertically bobbing Titanic.

My taste buds became suddenly overwhelmed
with the unknown, unfamiliar tastes
there were confusing my palette.

And that’s when I heard it--
the Scone was laughing at me,
at my increasing disorientation with every movement of my jaw,
every time my teeth met.

The Scone had played me like a sexy topless dancer
taken home and given the benefit of the doubt.

And just like the discovery about the “adult entertainer,”
the Scone set me back four dollars and fifty-two cents
and tasted like a crowded department store.

Thinking Things

Certain thoughts are like those rare worms
that burrow inside apples,
infecting them all the way to the tiny seeds.

Or like a child permitted to rummage
through an attic full of treasures,
rearranging it into a chaotic junk drawer.

But what makes us so sick is that
they’re also like twinkling police cars
that force everyone in their path to step aside,
chasing the evil that they labeled so.


Imaginary Rebel

I gaze in awe at phenomenal monuments--
Big Ben, for one--
and internally inquire how the structure might appear
as it is detonated at the ankles and
crumbles away from the heavens.

Would bits of gold soar into the river
and be consumed by confused fish?
Might the face leap from the neck and
flatten a group of pedestrian tourists below
before they finish saying cheese?

What a marvelous scene to witness
as the whole world would pause and
release their troubles
to remember Ben’s height.

Ashley Doty
today i cried for you
salty tears down my face
snotty nosed
ballin for you
pulled my hair
screamed for you
prayed to your god today

i felt your pain
and released it today

i cried those un-named
un-talked about
un-forgiven pains

i cried for rapes that took place
i cried for fathers who were misplaced
for the cheating men/womyn
the drug habits
i cried for your self doubt
i cried for your self doubt

today i cried for you

cried for your beatings and those hurtful words
every bad feeling ever had
every negative word you had to hear
everything that has brought you fear
every shameful thing

i cried for you today

every stab in your back
for the lack of encouragement you had
for the fat girl jokes
the over-sized meals
for the starvation to be thin

i cried for parents that you've lost
and the children you've lost
every death
every illness
every sadness

i cried your pains today
from the pit of my soul
i cried your pains today
to give you more room

you amaze me
you are so wonderful
so magical
so smart
you are perfection
a unique gift

extending my arms like bridges to reach you
your greatness is you
i love you


MY UNION OF THE SOULS ADDRESS

i am living my life passionately
spending more time serving my heart

re-aquainting with my mind

feeding my soul

wholesome purposeful real food


new eyes

positively PERCEIVING LIFE

for our planet

for our children

for all beings


sistahs we must vibrate higher


live out our hearts deepest desire

cuz that is our souls pit of fire

create new wires

that transmit an electrical shift of waves

that open enclaved caves

that have restricted us


find each purpose and heartedly give back

to any who lack an understanding of the power they have


generations are in extreme need

angry frustrated lost

and we are seeing the results

and we talk about others who are at fault but

we must ask ourselves

what am i doing?



WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

how are you healing?


we must take some time now

we must take some time now

we must take some time now


and focus on how else i can help

focus right now on how you can help right now

help yourself

help another


sistahs we must realize our food

is supposed to be our body's natural fuel

not some genetically modified version and

animals are alive and deserve to be treated as such

they should be raised kindly and fed properly

slaughtered proudly handled respectfully

so they can provide us

nutritionally beneficially


we must vibrate higher


we must take back our bodies

and be more aware of what we put inside of them

rid them of the created diseases



we must take back our minds

rid them of negative entertainment simply put

it weakens your mind

and makes you a less powerful energy



DO YOU FEEL ME?

WE MUST DOMINATE my sistahs

we must HYDRATE OUR THIRSTY SOULS my sistahs

we must vibrate higher my sistahs


shift your energy like you shift your thoughts but in uplifting spirals

because harboring negative emotions weakens your system

which is a part of a powerful source

but its just a small piece of a much larger universal life force


collectively we are united

we must be stronger ready

be true to yourself my sistahs

my people

we must vibrate higher


get lost in the real stars

get lost in the sun and moon that rise daily no matter what

get lost in exploration of the magnificant manifestations your mind can create


be love

healing

light

natural

be the beginning

powerful

unconditional

infinite

extensions

of higher

vibrating beings


my people we must vibrate higher

we must


THERE WILL NEVER COME A DAY YOU WILL EVER HEAR ME SAY THAT I WANT OR NEED TO BE WITHOUT YOU.....

BUT WHAT HAPPENS WHEN TODAY BECOMES THAT DAY AND MY EMOTIONS ARE FLOWING THROUGH MY VEINS MENTALLY AND PHYSICALY MAKING ME INSANE

HEART AND MIND ARE AT WAR ONE KNOWS IT NEEDS TO SOAR BUT THE OTHER ONE JUST WON'T LET GO

I WANTED TO GIVE MY ALL AND BABY I FELT LIKE I GAVE MY ALL STOOD NEXT TO YOU PROUD AND TALL WAS READY TO CATCH YOU IF YOU WERE TO FALL

I WANTED YOU TO HOLD ME BUT YOU TRIED TO MOLD ME AND FOLD AND KEEP ME IN YOUR POCKET HAD YOU JUST ASKED I WOULD'VE GIVEN YOU A PIECE OF ME TO WEAR AROUND YOU LIKE A LOCKET

I LOOKED ITO MY EYES AND SAW NO SPARKLE OR GLOW I

I REALIZED THAT YOU AND I WELL

WE COULD'NT GROW AND NOW IT WAS TIME FOR ME TO GO

I STILL WANT YOU IN MY LIFE

BUT

ITS TIME FOR ME TO FIND SOMEONE WHO CAN INTERTWINE WITHIN THE DEPTHS OF MY MIND

WHO'S NOT AFRAID AS I WORK THROUGH MY LAYERS TILL I GET TO MY CENTER MY CORE MYSELF EVEN THE PARTS OF ME THAT BEEN COLLECTING DUST ON A SHELF

THEY WILL BE STANDING THERE WITH A DUST RAG AND A MOP READY TO HELP

NOT THAT YOU DIDN'T HELP BUT YOU HAD TO MANY DUSTY SHELVES THAT YOU HADN'T EVEN DEALT WITH

AND WELL MY ALLERGIES STARTED ACTING UP AND YES I BECAME FED UP

BUT YESTERDAY WAS THE LAST DAY THAT MY EMOTIONS WERE FLOWING THROUGH MY VEINS

MENTALLY AND PHYSICALLY MAKING ME INSANE

NO LONGER AM I IN PAIN NOW I ONLY LOOK WHAT I HAVE GAINED

NEW NAMES INSCRIPTED IN MY HEART

WHERE THEY WILL REMAIN

TILL DEATH DO US PART


Still I’m not good enough


TAKING MY STYLE AND EXPRESSION PUSHING IT TO SUPPRESSION

BECAUSE IT CREATED A TENSION IN YOU

but still im not good enough

MY FRIENDS AND FAMILY

IT WAS LIKE THEY DIDN'T EXIST

AS IF I DISSOLVED THEM IN A COMBINATION OF SOLVENTS

but still im not good enough

ON MY HANDS AND KNEES

TO CATER TO YOUR NEEDS

EVEN WHEN THE FLOOR WAS COLD AND MY KNEES BEGAN TO CALLUS

but still im not good enough

PUTTING YOU BEFORE ME

YOUR NEEDS

YOUR FEELINGS

YOUR DREAMS

WITHHOLDING MY NEEDS

MY FEELINGS

MY DREAMS

TO INVOLVED IN HELPING you GAIN STRENGTH

WHILE I REMAINED WEAK

but still im not good enough

THROUGH ALL YOUR PHASES OF GROWTH

GOOD AND BAD

EVEN WHEN THE MADNESS OF YOUR STRANGERS MADE ME FEEL LIKE I WAS IN DANGER

but still im not good enough

WHEN YOUR HANDS LEFT THEIR PRINTS ON MY SKIN

CAUSE YOU WERE HANDLING ME LIKE I WAS A HIM

AFTER YOUR VERBAL ASSAULTS MANY TIMES WITHOUT LEGITIMATE CAUSE

JUDGING MY FLAWS

3 STRIKES AND YOUR STILL NOT OUT

but still im not good enough

LIES WERE TOLD

SECRETS WERE KEPT

FORGIVEN I'VE DONE

ACCEPTED IT WAS THE PAST I'VE DONE

MOVED ON FROM YOUR DECEIT AND OPENED MY ARMS TO LOVINGLY GREET YOU

I'VE DONE

but still im not good enough

COULD'NT KEEP UP WITH ME ON MY LEVEL

I NEVER LOOKED DOWN AT YOU WITH RIDICULE

INSTEAD I EXTENDED MY HAND TO HELP YOU STAND ON MY SYMMETRICAL LAND

but still im not good enough

ALWAYS TRIED TO KEEP OUR WEAKNESS AND STRENTGH COUNTERBALANCED

NO MATTER HOW HARD I TRIED I TRIED I TRIED

I NEVER SEEM TO SASTIFY

but still im not good enough

INVITED YOU ON MY GREAT JOURNEY

WANTING TO SEE THIS LIFETIME WITH YOU

WILLING TO TAKE YOU PLACES YOU'VE NEVER BEEN AND INTRODUCE YOU TO TOTAL FULLFILLMENT AND PLEASURE

but still im not good enough

OPENED MY WHOLE SELF TO

YOU

NEVER LIED TO

YOU

DIDN'T WANT TO FAKE MY LOVE TO

YOU

ALWAYS THERE TO SUPPORT

YOU

WANTED ONLY THE BEST FOR

YOU

ACCEPTED

YOU

FOR

YOU

DIDN'T TRY TO CHANGE

YOU

YOU! YOU! YOU! YOU! YOU!

but still im not good enough

still im not good enough

im not good enough

not good enough

good enough

enough

I'M TOO GOOD

Spoken Chapters

Friday, February 4, 2011

I am a long-time poet. A Native from France I enjoy playing with language. I pursued my education in United States and currently I am about to receive a M.F.A in creative writing from Antioch University, Los Angeles. I taught English and French classes at the University of Alaska, Southeast and currently I reside in Riverside, California. I write original pieces in both English and French and also self-translate my work.
My poetry has appeared in Tidal Echoes and Cirque.


Thank you for considering my work. I look forward to hearing from you.



Sincerely,


Alicia Ristau


One



The

rose

bush

hears

mothers

weep

in

the

swirls

of

a

morning

rain

drop

at

the

edge

of

a

petal.


Amstramgram
(inspired by Picasso’s ‘Les Demoiselles d’Avignon’)

ainsi, c'est ainsi
imitation of the real
reinterpretation of the human
deformed figure, face, body
squares, angles, and arrows
ainsi, c'est ainsi
the nude skin tones
roses and peaches
become amstramgram
a grape of vine
ainsi, c'est ainsi
subtle and reinvented
a game of the real
a canvas of a lost man
amongst women, body parts
a nursery rhyme
amstramgram


Nude in a Tree

I saw a nude in a tree
I touched, caressed, and massaged nude breasts
I pressed down on a breast, prayed to God, placed my tongue on a nipple,
and played with its tip. Green leaves circled my tongue, branches framed her skin, and afternoon birds. The green veins spread like forest fire.

Legs took root in the earth
water, soil, wood pulp
she had green feathered wings

let me put a crown on her head!
she is the paper to my poem
she pulls each word out of my typography
a fine page

there is my tree
there is my nude
"one thirty"

The night,
it calls in quiet refrains
and I listen,
With ears attentive
and a soul laid bare.
The murmurs and hush
of crickets
tides of wind
mourning of bark
distant hum of the earth,
spiral around in the air
in a symphony of solitude.
To exist
to revel
in this simple
unparalleled wonder of being,
it deserves the highest recognition.
There should be
grand awards,
international conferences,
late night specials,
legislation,
on the innate power
of doing absolutely
nothing,
but enjoying the whispered seduction
of one in the morning.
Where the world
takes a kind breath,
and you can talk
with the landscape
around you.
It's a nice visit
with old friends,
and they like it when you
come by.
And when the sun
steals into your eyes,
and the roar of the day
comes
pounding
pounding
pounding
with the sun,
you
and the world
smile with a secret understanding,
as time cuts through the air
once again.


"birth"

I walked down to the tree in the back
My mind was a burden, my thoughts off track
So I laid down in the palm of the earth
I let my eyes close, and dreamt
of rebirth

I counted the pebbles etched in my skin,
They outnumbered the scars of where you had been
And as the ants carried me away,
I smiled at their tracks in the clay.

Humbly,
I thank the nights
Humbly,
I thank the days
They carry me where I laugh at my body,
oh they may, they may, they may


A hummingbird sang and told me a story,
about a boy made of bark, a real forest glory
I laughed at the thought, but to my surprise
a morning dawn shown through my eyes,
Bury me soil,
bury me soon,
show me the way to the moon

Paul DeMerritt

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

at this time & location & juxtaposition to jello-soul

this is the

kind of bar

i went to

in my early twenties

when i wore tight lycra shirts

& fisted speed

& still

ignominiously genuflected

to pussy

as a

viable

long-term

concept.



decade later

i'm old man

at a coworker's

bachelor party.


my face rudolph


my fat arms

sweaty anvils

choking the bar.



i haven't seen

coworker

or his other

penny-nails

in over

an hour.



one of the

poor little shits

lost his muesli

when i bought everyone

a double 151.



what’s this?

here comes daffodil

of razor-blade hair

& peach-fuzz midriff

for another

twelve dollar martini.



i wouldn't

fuck you

for all the olives

in italy,

i say

in deference to principle

while watching a blade

on the ceiling fan

up and left.



leather huaraches

calves like minnows

to the

other side of the bar

where she

points me out

to the tender



he

who whistles for the doorman

to come over.



good

good,

i smile to myself

& squeegee sweat

from my eyebrows

& forearms

preparing an

adequate

acceptance speech.



like cracking a beer



feeding

a stray dog



or rolling your sleeves

up past elbow

as the first eye

of spring sun

kisses the skin:


a night


of new pussy


never gets old.


man in a wheelchair in front of the VA hospital


gayle was a brick tender

his entire

working life.



at forty-five

he took a night class

in sociology

at drake.


sometimes after class

he'd drink irish whiskey

with the professor

at Flanagan's.


one night

the professor was shit-faced

he hit on the girlfriend

of drake's middle linebacker.


gayle stepped in

broke the kid's jaw

spent a week in jail.


the professor

is now an esteemed lecturer

at an ivy league university.


he's written an autobiography

and there is gayle

on page 122.


only the sum-bitch

calls me randy

and says he saved my ass

with some slick words,

gayle says

as i light his cigarette for him.


but i'll give him that

seein' as i took thirty

maybe forty

good pulls

on his wife.

Justin Hyde
Dear Editor,

Please consider poems from 'Songs of a Clerk': 'Decline', 'Condemned', 'Vengeance', 'Pettiness', 'Time', 'Greeley Square II'.

Songs of a Clerk, an unpublished collection of poetry, expresses the frustration of a young man trapped in a menial clerks job, while dreaming of a meaningful life.

Poems from 'Songs of a Clerk' have appeared in: Istanbul Literary Review, Agency Magazine, Fiction Press, Kyoto Journal, Poetry Life and Times, Rattlesnake Review, Written Word Literary Magazine, Pegasus Magazine, MadSwirl, YaSou!, Words Words Words, Juice Magazine, Struggle Magazine, Flutter Poetry Journal, Iddie, Strange Road, Halfway Down the Stairs, Poetry Monthly, Calliope Nerve and many more.

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, 'The Conquest of Somalia' was published by Cervena Barva Press, 'The Dance of Hate' was published by Calliope Nerve Media, 'Material Questions' was published by Silkworms Ink, 'Dispossessed' was published by Medulla Press and 'Mutilated Girls is being published by Heavy Hands Ink. A collection of his poetry 'Days of Destruction' was published in by Skive Press. Another collection 'Expectations' was 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. His poetry has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.


Sincerely,

Gary Beck


Decline

Our crippled sons
do not have their forefathers crusades.
They whine the ancient songs,
wheezing in their heated rooms.
They cry for causes,
but curse the test-tube plans
that guide us to new motions.
They would be led,
spearmen in Agamemnon’s band,
these tiring office mites,
who would sack a city.
Fanciers of fair captives,
yearning for distant glory,
not even the poet’s song
can make epic of your dullness.

Condemned

Man of my rheumatic days,
who sits at office desk
adoze, adrift
on some lost continent,
flooded by machine seepage.
The distant voices of creaky clerks,
shrill and chatty girls,
the torpor until 5:00.
Then out into that lost day’s air,
the quick awakening from canned breathing
and I am released,
until imprisonment tomorrow.

Vengeance

On this dreary afternoon,
in the desert of imagination,
I summon Gengis Khan
and Tartar host.
See my power.
I command them.
Slaughter the Boss,
the babbling secretaries,
cut out their tongues,
rape and pillage.
Don’t let that one escape,
the office idiot.
Some dire torture must be his.
Let him be crucified
by his protruding ears,
for awful jokes.

Pettiness

This fruitless job
planned by some angel of despair,
bursting his halo with joy at my anguish.
Secure in his triumph,
he gloats on his cloud,
but then I spite him
and quit without notice.

Time

The creeping, sullen fingers
of my unloving clock
point my life away,
falling with a sad droop
on 7:00 A.M.
(stumble awake, shuffle to work)
then 12:00, quick lunch,
the drowsy, mindless waiting until 5:00,
then home to watch your uncaring hands
tick away tomorrows.

Greeley Square II

Greeley Square at lunchtime
dreary and severe,
the office workers
drabber than pigeons,
the out-of-towners
lost in their clothing.
The black men
wearing radios, caps and sneakers,
pushing handcarts and resentment.
The Spanish men
read jokebooks in the doorways.
The old men sit upon the benches,
pale and flimsy in the sun
and gather newspapers and empty bags,
after the clerks return to work.
My biography is the following:
April A. has been writing for almost five years, getting inspiration from various experiences seen by the eyes of a thinker. The purpose of her creativity is urging people to see beyond the bounds, to be themselves, to speak their minds loud, not to be afraid to differ from the crowd.
She creates to destroy. To destroy the naive beliefs. To destroy the stereotypes.
April lives in St. Petersburg at the moment and hopes to succeed further both as a poet and a songwriter.

Changes

I'm looking around and searching you there,
The bright prospect lights only frown as I stare,
My heart's getting lost in the shatters.
I know you'll pick them all up when you come,
And I'll never mind if you steal at least some,
Just keep them, and nothing else matters.

Those white and green lights got my secret revealed,
I'll write it all down and cherish it sealed,
One day it will find destination.
Whoever discovers the mystery penned,
They won't guess a word, I have got it all planned,
This madness becomes my salvation.

The eyes of the suburbs will warm and appease
My heart, ever-aching, with evident ease.
Your look in the window still shows.
It's fixed in the soul, it's fixed in the glass,
This moment can linger for good either pass,
It's changing. Well, destiny knows.

Only Dreaming

My arms held so tightly around your waist
Just spoke for me, as I'd got my lips sealed.
At least they indulged in a new better taste -
Embraced by temptations, I chose to yield.

This night was a blinding exhilarant flash
Of life that's unfiltered, of love that's pristine.
You found the beauty within such a crash,
You planted some hope in the dream world of mine.

But pleasure is gone like this cherry cigar -
The dawn didn't let fortune's secret unfold
Or give me a sign, leading where you are.
A dream half believed in is all that I hold.


From The Heart

I'm here in the corner, devoured by cold,
My little ribbed shell hides a desperate sigh,
It holds an enigma for you to unfold
Until I'm asleep to your breath's lullaby.

My soul is rushing beyond the extremes,
Revealing the vibe that is hard to appease,
But once you discover the door to my dreams,
My consciousness lives through a moment of peace.

Whenever my lips start exploring your skin,
They bleed unexplainable bitter remorse -
My poison leaves stains, and it feels from within,
But lips ever sealed do appear much worse.


Riot Of Word

Guys, all you are good at is scolding a cop,
Yes, some of your statements have meaning, indeed,
But words with no reasons won't get you on top,
You're giving your fellows a casual feed
Of rhyming curse words that you cast out loud,
So over-inflated and false-emphasized,
You try to be brusque, and you merge with the crowd,
Your ego is stained by the fact you are biased.

You crave for a rebel, so get it all planned,
Clean out the dump in your mind for a start!
Use word as a weapon when perfectly penned,
Withdrawn from the ultimate depth of your heart.

Guys, all you are good at is scolding a cop,
As they are subdued by the careless chief
For dubious joys of a desperate job.
They've sold their true and most cherished beliefs.
But what you are doing is always the same,
You're telling them what they are waiting to hear.
You know they quote you, you choke on your fame,
You don't even care if it sounds sincere.

You crave for a rebel, so get it all planned,
Clean out the dump in your mind for a start!
Use word as a weapon when perfectly penned,
Withdrawn from the ultimate depth of your heart.

The crowds keep rocking, applauding, exclaiming,
Quoting your words, lacking ones of their own,
If being a poet is what you are claiming,
Declare what really needs to be known!

You crave for a rebel, so get it all planned,
Clean out the dump in your mind for a start!
Use word as a weapon when perfectly penned,
Withdrawn from the ultimate depth of your heart.


Madness

I'm riding the cloud of bright blanket dreams,
The coconut smoke entwines with the mist,
The potion of madness in violet streams
Is carving the urge that I cannot resist.

The mysteries find me still lying in bed,
Enjoying the pleasures of drunken grapefruit.
Just several gulps, and a room painted red
Will turn to a princess' incredible suit.

I'm a swift errand girl of my fortunate fate,
When my fantasies leak, the reality hides
In the weirdest world I could ever create
With my eyes tightly shut, with my heart as a guide.

A rose with sharp yet invisible thorns
Will bloom in my gardens in endless July -
The country of fairies and pink unicorns
Beneath the enchanting and welcoming sky.

I trust in the might of the element Earth,
However, the Air attracts me much more.
I'm hovering free, and I feel the rebirth.
This madness is tempting like never before.

I'm a swift errand girl of my fortunate fate,
When my fantasies leak, the reality hides
In the weirdest world I could ever create
With my eyes tightly shut, with my heart as a guide.

I giggle and slap the reality's face,
I found salvation in madness' embrace.

I'm a swift errand girl of my fortunate fate,
When my fantasies leak, the reality hides
In the weirdest world I could ever create
With my eyes tightly shut, with my heart as a guide.

April Avalon