Truth

Truth is an underbelly

that not many people

ever want to look at.

It sounds good in the abstract-

people always seem to clamor for it,

to demand that they be given it

from those on high.

But when the rubber meets the road,

that is to say,

when the shit hits the fan,

there just aren’t a whole lot

of people brave enough, willing enough,

intelligent enough, to face it, to

deal with it in all its Awesomeness.

The truth hurts, and that’s the truth.

Most people would rather have

the little white lie

that helps them fall asleep at night,

telling them everything is alright,

rather than acknowledge the truth

of the matter, which is that

everything is not alright.

War is the truth.

Famine is the truth.

Poverty is the truth.

Death is the truth.

But people want to live forever,

so they hide from the truth,

they ignore the truth, until that

final breath when the truth comes

calling, whether they like it or not.

Truth is a destructive force;

it tears down all the fake plastic walls

that people build up around

themselves all their lives.

Truth can be a bastard and a bitch,

remorseless; without emotion, it

trudges its way forward through

time and space, taking no prisoners.

Truth does not hold hands;

it doesn’t play patty-cake.

Truth is a sharp knife;

it cuts with absolute precision.

Truth is the most powerful force

in all existence,

and that is why it is scary as hell.

Truth does not play favorites;

it doesn’t care about petty trivialities

such as skin color, political leaning,

or how much cheese someone

has stored away for a rainy day.

Truth is an Apocalyptic fire;

it is a final Revelation;

it is an end and a beginning.

Scott Thomas Outlar

Truth

Truth is an underbelly

that not many people

ever want to look at.

It sounds good in the abstract-

people always seem to clamor for it,

to demand that they be given it

from those on high.

But when the rubber meets the road,

that is to say,

when the shit hits the fan,

there just aren’t a whole lot

of people brave enough, willing enough,

intelligent enough, to face it, to

deal with it in all its Awesomeness.

The truth hurts, and that’s the truth.

Most people would rather have

the little white lie

that helps them fall asleep at night,

telling them everything is alright,

rather than acknowledge the truth

of the matter, which is that

everything is not alright.

War is the truth.

Famine is the truth.

Poverty is the truth.

Death is the truth.

But people want to live forever,

so they hide from the truth,

they ignore the truth, until that

final breath when the truth comes

calling, whether they like it or not.

Truth is a destructive force;

it tears down all the fake plastic walls

that people build up around

themselves all their lives.

Truth can be a bastard and a bitch,

remorseless; without emotion, it

trudges its way forward through

time and space, taking no prisoners.

Truth does not hold hands;

it doesn’t play patty-cake.

Truth is a sharp knife;

it cuts with absolute precision.

Truth is the most powerful force

in all existence,

and that is why it is scary as hell.

Truth does not play favorites;

it doesn’t care about petty trivialities

such as skin color, political leaning,

or how much cheese someone

has stored away for a rainy day.

Truth is an Apocalyptic fire;

it is a final Revelation;

it is an end and a beginning.

Getting on the Level

The most important

realization/revelation

I have ever experienced

was when I was struck

by the fact

that I didn’t need

to worry

about being alone,

that I didn’t need

to look

at every female

who was attractive

as being a potential

bedmate,

soul mate,

or womb for my seed.

Once I was able

to look at every person

as being just another person,

all the subconscious worry

just melted away

like butter.

Sweet butter, singing like a symphony

from the stars

into my soul.

Once I was able

to stop putting

every attractive female

on a pedestal,

I was able to rise

and come in contact

with the high sound

of the holy spheres.

In a Pinch

When the stage lights go on,

whether it’s full stadium lighting

or just a single spotlight,

to state it simply,

there are those who are ready,

and there are those who aren’t.

Those who aren’t

tend not to matter much;

they might get laughed

or booed off the stage,

but that’s about it;

no real lasting memory is created

in the mind or heart

of anyone who saw the performance,

or, more to the point, lack of performance.

They simply disappear beneath the waves of history.

Those who are ready to answer the call

come in all shapes, sizes and styles.

Some of them seize the moment,

come out with both barrels blazing,

and basically own the place

from bell to bell.

Some start off more slowly,

work the crowd, get a rising tempo going,

build up to a crescendo, and then

bring the hammer down for a

grand finale.

Some do just enough

to keep the edge on,

never rising too high

or dipping too low,

just keeping a steady tension throughout.

Maybe what it all comes down to is this:

Who is in control of the light switch?

Co-Dependent

and now everyone else is dead

and you are old

and wrinkled

and are nothing

without the others who are all dead

Scott Thomas Outlar

SLEEP AT LAST

The night is charm school,

Is rent monies paid.

It's me in my armor

with the feel of wool,

pajamas floating across my body

like clouds in the permanent state

of about to land.

The night needs

only breath for substance,

and gentle stuff at that,

the ripple kind,

the rustling lake surface

that soaks away dirt,

buries sweat.

The day's like

a crime that's been committed.

Sleep is the cops arriving,

this body, the perfect weapon

with its chamber-full of stillness,

Arms crunched into my body,

I keep the turmoil

from getting at the chaos,

but allow space enough

for dreams to pass on through.

WHAT IF

What if

all that kisses and touches

should turn to stone,

Medusa's eye-print on the couple

in the car, or strolling through the park,

or rolling on the bed.

I’d still risk it, even blind, deaf, dumb,

as crippled as a statue.

And then if, frozen, we screamed out

inside ourselves, that cry lost in marble,

in granite, in a church wall, a building's foundation.

I’d shriek until my throat burned,

keep on believing you would hear me.

They could ship us anywhere:

one in city center anchoring a fountain,

the other in the wilderness,

crumbling into earth's catch-all.

But I’d still be feeling it,

still be fighting it.

Yes, these are the days when anything could happen:

spontaneous combustion, elephant stampede,

second coming, black hole.

Love's under threat

from ways you can't imagine.

You can't die of it

but it can die of you.

THE SETTING

Comes the night,

the sun sinks in the lake,

leaves a rippling scarlet wake.

It drops down over mountains,

paints the white tips.

It disappears somewhere

inside the windowpane,

streaks the glass.

Mantle souvenirs swallow it,

the orange Eiffel Tower,

the golden silver dollar.

My parents clink their glasses.

A star melts in the wine.

From gleaming rug

to ruby walls,

the room's a resting place

for fire, for light

On the coffee table,

that orb descends in photographs,

a most revered dwelling place,

grandparents’ ruby eyes.

Up in my room,

I capture sunset

in the pages of a crimson book,

bleeding Stevenson,

wounded Pyle.

The red world is brief

but beautiful.

For a time we live color,

thwart the ageless black.

John Grey

DEUCE for Aurelius Piper      [Stefanie Bennett]

 

When he whispers incantations

Across the ceremonial pit

In late winter

The last snow-drift

Orbits the tree tops

Like smoke

On a morning stroll

Headed towards

Infinity’s skylight.

 

Praise abounds. The sun soars.

Raven gives a jocular

Caw matched by

The smiling Elder

                            Who has

My father’s eyes

                            And more.

 

With hands wide open

We spread

The wealth.

 

 

THE PLEDGE...       [Stefanie Bennett]

 

                         (The danger of the road

                         is not in the distance)

 

                                             Meng Chiao

 

He did not like the shape of its handle, nor

Suitcases that opened unaided at night.

Favour was furlongs apart –,

Sentiment, rot-wracked clay

 

[The way of the loose wristed potter...].

 

      Error’s triad may say –, “Those

      Who’ve never belonged

      Within belonging

                                 Cannot fit

      The given whole...”

 

Perhaps that’s why the handle held fast,

And the suitcase –, knowing

Pity –, swallowed

A stranger.

 

 

LEGEND             [Stefanie Bennett]

 

At precisely five o’clock

Each afternoon

Old aerograms, like

Blue-green butterflies,

Surge round her head

 

... Decades in front of

Yesterday’s false ceilings,

And betwixt the immediate

Flood-light’s

Festival obscura:

 

Such wanton abandonment!

The collector

Carousels

And grasps

The irresolute voice-strokes,

 

Bows and vows

A bygone

               Allegiance.

Who hasn’t been there (?)

Will be there

Once again

 

... “Good-night South-East Asis,

Turkey, Berlin...”.

Actualised, she’d

‘Drop the pilot’

                        If only

She know how.

 

 

THE CLASH       [Stefanie Bennett]

 

What simplicity –,

God is.

What simplicity –,

Buddha too.

 

The equation! Both

Exist –, make

One of

The mould –:

 

Who’s there

To be fooled... ?

Who thought up

The disguise ?

panacea

 

are they fresh or rotten?

ripe with love?

juicy with joy?

they polish your lips and insides:

the cherries of their kidneys, the peaches of their bladder

the pomegranates of their liver, the raisins of their heart

 

dressed fashionably in cellophane

perfumed with pesticides

soon they’ll be out of season

they desperately pimp themselves

to fill your fickle shelves

 

hurry and eat them

before they hemorrhage sickly sweet

please don’t scrap them

to be assimilated by eerie possums

 

removed with forceps

from a tree in labor

born to be groped and sampled

they marry some dashing vegan

not some bloodless omnivore

 

puree them into a shake

kindly imbibe

just don’t wipe them from your mouth

 

they live on your tongue and …

in your spirit.

James Mirarchi

LEXIGRAPHY PASTE-UP, The Times      [Stefanie Bennett]
 
 
She said
 
- "Trash is for
The lesser God's
Keeper."           
 
He reasoned
 
- "And tomorrow
Is back
Where we found it."
 
In the streetlight's
Hamstrung glare...
 
The shrew sits
Beside
The shot-glass
Prophet
 
... And
 
Between them
Eddies
The crucified
Air.
 
 
BLING 2, Documentation     [Stefanie Bennett]
 
 
At world's end, and the voice
Of birds a pandemonium,
Something peculiar
Is happening to poets -.
 
They don't
Feel well,
 
Their appetite's
Abated and
 
The citadel of song's
Off-key.
 
Blows may follow. If
You will
 
Stay sober, stay
Serene -,
 
Play pat-a-cake with
The screech-owl
 
In God's sweet acre.
 
 
CHANCE - After 'Kikahu'     [Stefanie Bennett]
 
 
Didn't you know, we get
What we don't deserve
The precise
Moment
Vulcan rocks
                    Fall
About-face
To tell it
The way it is
- A saffron
"No Chorus"
 
Sound...
 
 
OFFERING      [Stefanie Bennett]
 
 
I'm to blame -.
I was born
A nondescript
Rhythmist
Repeatedly drumming
A tin plate
With a wooden spoon.
 
It can't get
Any better
Than
        That..., It's
 
What you do with
What you've got.