Monday, June 25, 2012


Truly this place is filled with enchantments.
Fairies, talking animals, insects, and elves.
These will amaze the women, men, girls, and boys.
It’s beyond imagination better than puppets and toys.

What else would you ask if you have magic in your hands?
You could have anything with a wave of your wand.
A talking cat on his boots and sharp sword,
And a mirror who knows everything by its words.

I could praise a tinker who dusts us and let us fly,
With a boy whose shadows’ stays away but he never cries.
Someday I will wish on a star to find my princess.
Fight the dragons in dungeons, destroy walls and fences.

I am scared but I don’t care if I will turn into a frog.
Leap on thousand lilies and stay on a quiet pond.
Talk with fishes and crocs, but with a little fun,
Because I know I’m sure someday my princess will come.

Oh! I will build an army and fight the evil queen.
Ride my stallion, wear my armor, and lead my men.
Conquer on the battlefield and widen my kingdom.
This will be my gift to my princess the time she’ll come.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -


Simply amazing the way she talks
while she teaches us things in the book.
Simple thought we could use in our walk,
no one compares to her as we look.

She waves her rod to shine our mind
and sooner we will shine to the inside.
She casts her words to its most unkind
but to make sure we’ll not be left behind.

Dearest she is when we share our downs,
and shares her words to avoid the drown.
Dear like a mother she puts down her crown,
sits with us and laugh like a clown.

Truly I say she is simply the very best.
A friend, a mother, who gives her caress.
True to herself though at times like a beast,
but to mold us to stand above the rest.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -


Everything is ready in my mind,
the ring, the flowers, the cards,
the maids and the bridal car.
All is set except for the bride.

Maybe I’m the only who’s too excited.
The calendar’s pages has been counted,
I am too busy for myself,
I who knows when to be wed.

I have to come back to my reality
that we will not be able to marry.
I’m not for her and she’s not for me.
My bride is just a fantasy.

- - - - - - - - - - - -


I’m getting older like what we supposed to.
I’m getting weaker and less we could do.
I am not afraid to die for we will all too.
My days are counted and we are nearly zero.

I’m getting rougher but it is only my skin.
I’m getting tougher but only deep within.
I have already accepted whatever may happen.
Only the end will bring me to the start again.

I’m getting richer of my friends and memories.
I’m getting more worthy of my legacies.
I will come to rest and resting means peace,
for I fulfilled all my purposes and duties.

- - - - - - - - - -


I am old now but I still do what I like,
play with my dolls and ride the bike.
I don’t mind the gentlemen and the boys,
but I still like the flowers and the toys.

So set aside the powder and the lipstick,
I still have my story books and fairy magic.
I still play with my lovely Ken and Barbie;
watch the Looney Tunes and Disney.

Yes, it’s fun when I bite my tiny fingernail
and swirl every tip of my wavy curly hair.
I still wish when the stars starts to shoot,
and enjoy the pouring rain on our roof.

So what if I still do the things I always like?
Who cares if they see me ride on my bike?
Who cares if I still play with my toys?
And… Who cares about the stupid boys?

- - - - - - - - - -


I love to die when it means resting.
To leave all things without thinking.
I love to die and forget every thing.
I love to die when I know I’m nothing.

I love to die so problems will fade away.
To rest my body and mind to gently decay.
I love to die and dying is really okay.
I love to die when I’m a loser anyway.

I love to die and leave all my friends.
To know who really cares until the end.
I love to die so my works will mend.
I love to die when my story will become a legend.
Rey C. Jimena

Monday, June 18, 2012

Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia, he is an active member of the growing poetry/lit scene within the city and hopes to spread the word on Philadelphia’s new poets. He maintains a poetry blog: His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he'd rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia's old Skid Row. 

To dream of Reality and the Outcome
We stood back-to-back
against the insane map of the stars
bordering on un-reality,
I saw every twinkling existence
the shroud of the milky way
the black holes and supernova
births, we stepped toward them
and the darkened moving away,
our footholds were hard, invisible
but concrete, space was something
else entirely, not what we'd been told,
each time we moved forward
it was like gigantic light-speed leaps,
the stars were merely illusory lights
a thumbnail of burning gases on black wallpaper,
the was the great charade, the great
universal lie,
our lives were vindicated.


Saw the tracks on the
wrong side of Columbus,
Vitaly had pulled out into
oncoming traffic, wrong side
of the road, heading right into
old broken down trolley River
Styx and we were next to try
and cross it, but I noticed in those
final seconds and we slid to a halt
on a patch of grass, and the faces in
the cars were watching, the headlights
blaring, the last vespa bent to the road south
before we could u-turn the bitch and
get on I-95, "Fuck, Vitaly, you
almost killed us!" Will was hammering
the dashboard, "Yea,
I admit that but they gotta put up some fucking signs,"
He's right I thought in the back seat
there weren't any signs, no signs
pointing the wrong direction.

The factory

We can find the bed forever
for whatever you want
or nothing, heaving dry promises
at the crowds, I'm full of promises
and most don't work out as I planned,
or work out for me, or ever come
to fruition,
I get caught up in making them
preparing them like a cracker
each layer folded over the last
until it's so heavy I can't lift it
and you have to chew through it,
all the flour and salt and no water
to wash it down

The scene is set after shower

Avoiding the puddle spreading out
on the desk, a piano playing some wheres
I couldn't see, the shower whining behind, I
wasted my life on the screen gladly, roaring madly—
me, who was bent to the keyboard chattering,
me, trying to rip something from my soul I
wanted to be there, whether I had to make it
exist or fuck it and pretend, me, dressed in unbuttoned
flannel shirt and torn blue shorts, me, thinking
out there into the space, out there where you are walking in the rain,
I guess, walking and looking inward burying your past,
me creating this act of blister, mortar, pound—
at the clock ticking with the water's dripping, the rhythm invading
Kerouac's voice as he reads from Visions leaning to
the piano's soothing unpredictably, as the pattern rises,
as the keys spread achingly indistinguishably forward
through perceived stop motion time, slam! Here it goes, Aw!
across gulfs of years and experience without sadness, leaving me
here, a lone fleshy brainless lump, tapping, avoiding, beaming, bleeding,
sleeping, eating, ending, forgiving, careening, caring, repeating,
watching the water dry out

 We killed them

Artists don't sit inside all
day to write and type and suffer,
they play on their iphones and macs
with dull eyes editing music files,
remixing old sounds, taking
photographs that seem
somehow older even though they
don't know why, they catch the movie
to marvel at the book (it's YA fiction)
then the next day read it on the train
cover out and facing the crowd, and
they dance at night clubs to hip-hop and
techno in the nearest up-and-coming
neighborhood, their drunken image tagged on
facebook, exchanging that for actual fame,
and remain blissfully ignorant of the truth
because artists don't think for themselves
or think at all anymore, hell,
they don't even try, because
for the most part
when their head hits the pillow
around 5am
they're plain fucking dead
and nobody gives a fuck.

Trying to get some sleep

I could hold the sky in my palm,
wipe it onto depth-less reality like
an unguent cure in this after-night
morning glow pink rising to a
dark purple that settles like a fog on abandoned streets,
instead I get up and walk heavily to the bathroom
to wash my face and hands,
the floor boards creak with each step,
my ceiling fan whines non-stop,
the subway makes its first run, and
I'm alone counting the surges of pain in my knees,
waiting for the next rattle of tracks heading north,
waiting for the sun to rise from the east
and annihilate this perfect thought

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Eighteen Dollar Gogi Berries

In the conventional living-rooms of hipsters’ America,
concentrated spiritual epiphanies manifest in the hemp satchels
of eighteen dollar Gogi Berries,
while monsoon’s drop down from the Tibetan Plateau,
To wash nothingness over nothingness,
In Phnom Penh.

Lobsters and Hipsters
Some male birds sing doggedly to claim territory.
Lobsters monger power pinch by pinch.  Literary
control mongers select ‘works’ from pools of hipsters
who compete by being cool, cooler, or coolest.  At
one point in the continuum, Macramé skills were
the ‘twin of aces’, in the arena of
competitive zeitgeist.

Judy Garland Part Two

When I realized that you were born in Grand Rapids, Minnesota,
which is on the Mississippi, your ability to ‘haunt’ increased by a
factor of twenty-nine.   In our thoughts about legends, the haunting
ratio is mathematical, expressed and measured by various notches
of beauty, including ‘hometown’ and connection to natural lore,
such as proximity to sacred ‘literary’ rivers.

Dan Hedges

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...