Story To Tell

It was the Sweetest Thing I've ever known like Lauryn Hill.
It's Love cut me deep like the tragic ending of a dramatic movie..
It was my Most Valuable Asset. . the Intoxication to my spiritual virtue. .
so sad..so sad..that all things have to come to an end.
Even the most Sweetest . .Sweetest. . Taste of SIN.
Everyday I wake up I ask GOD what the task is that he wants me to fulfill. .
And everyday I wakeup"New Mood" Different "Feel"
I've come to a conclusion that "Everything is Everything" .
The Love I receive from GOD is rare. .
His love is like the ocean and I feel that I am the sand.
When the world and Everything else Comes to a End . .
I know where to go to reach for his Hand.
For, in the final days of my SIN . .I know that he will not leave me nor forsake me.
If you can prove me wrong please correct me.
The Love I have for Christ Cannot be counted in number's or pairs. .
it won't even amount up to your 1 millionth strand of hair. .
Everything I have and everything I am. .was created by you Dear, God. .
Lord Of Creatures. Men of all Men. . .For if I chose to lose to prove to you. .
that only you, can judge me by my Sin,
Then I will lose to prove to give to you. .
the righteousness that only you Jesus Christ Can Afford to Give.

Won't You Kome Free My Mind. . .

Looking Back On How Life Use to Be. .
Dayz were so much simpler
Fireworks On The fourth of July.
Thanksgiving had Grandma's Sweet Potato Pie. .
It's Funny How Money Changes Situations,
Back Then Didn't no one have to Worry About these Complications
I've Learned that Even when you're Grown you can still be re-born. .
I Spend Most of My Dayz Lookin back On Those Dayz, Back in the day when I was young.
Oh, How I Wish that Chapter in My LIFE could be Sang into a Song. .
Yes, Yes. . I remember those dayz when the summer's were chill..as hell
Compared to Back in the Day..two thousand ten Scream's "FAIL". . .
This decade got the New Generation's Screaming for HELP. . And The Older Generations Blaming.. Themselves. .for not making the Changes we needed. .for future preferences
Yes, we do have a black president. ."my people" what else can we do but try to make the best of it.Haha, I remember Riding in the Jeep For Hours in the way far end of the back trunk we're their were spare seats. .I'm not even going to try and rhyme , even thought I know this is a poem and all. .but it's one of those moments when my soul is speaking to me. . .
I remember when music was actually music. .
The dayz when I was positive that hip hop would never die
Those dayz when the people who created it we're still alive. .
It's Crazy to Me, How Things Change.
I See How Abstract Life is, Like Rose's Made of Concrete
Time Flew by with the Beat Of one Heart Beat. .
I know this is unlikely
But I see my Life to be the height of me
So, Won't You Kome Free My Mind. .
Before this thing called LIFE run's out of Time..


Sick and Tired

I'm sick and tired of witnessing the fakest people are the one's who "claim" to be closet to me. .
I'm sick and tired of being but in a catagory by people that i don't know for being an individual. .
I'm sick and tired of people not knowing what real musiq is. . .
I'm sick and tired of witnessing drug abuse by children under the age of ten. . .
I'm sick and tired of seeing "my people" sell their soul to the devil, inexchange for fame.
I'm sick and tired of seeing Mainstream Artists, being worshipped as Gods..
When we all know real music is irrelavent as of twenty ten. .
I'm sick and tired of everyone thinking that, the world revovles around them. .
When we all know that it doesn't. .
It's revolves around the universe, and the universe is surrounded by the star's, and most of the star's that you see in the night sky are dead, but hey, at least they stuck together at the end of it all . .
I'm sick and tired people that think it's not okay to be themselves..
I'm sick and tired of people posting unmeaningful "quotes" about keeping it real..
when you know damn well, you don't know the definition of being "real". .
You're always all up on facebook explaining shxt like. .
"Realness overpowers fakeness" but then the next minute you're saying "fake it till you make it". .
I'm sick and tired of people being unhappy within themselves..and taking it out on someone else..
I'm sick and tired of our effed up so called..American Society.."recession" Bull. .
knowing damn well. .the government has all of our money. . stashed somewhere that's unavailable to the public eye. .
I'm tired of Cold Nights and Dark sky's. .
I'm tired of fake rappers. .and fake pastors. .
I'm sick and tired of trends and fake "originality"
Oh yeah, and uh..last but not Least. .
I'm Sick and Tired of "You" and all thee rest of You people with "No Soul"..
Who Take God for Granted, and end up suffering the Consequence's. .
Yet still turn your back on other Sinner's of this earth.
So you can get back to pretending to be "Perfect". .
Yes, I'm "Sick" and I'm "Tired"
but the question is. .
Are You ?

Perfect Combination

There are people who are taken, and people who are given,
but only God's will are either of them living,Most of them are alive,
many times just hard to find but i think i've found the one,
He was sent from heaven,I don't know him i say,we've barely even spoken
but my spirit is so drawn to him,make it go away
for hearts will be broken,I dream of him in my sleep,
ever so gently in the night. .I wake up to him in my thoughts,
I kan't stop it..But i must fight for just one drope of his love,
I'll write for it, hey i'm even staying up all nite for it,
And if the night is what it takes to get whats heaven sent,
grab hold to it, cuz life was changed ever since,
for better or worse, there's only one way to find out,
so beyond the physical, tryna figure your mind out,
I found something special in this given person,
she was given by the father and for him,
there's no rehearsin,he makes no mistakes with who he gives his blessing,
so, i guess this mean's i'm taken cuz my mind is where you're resting, to say that i'm feelin you
would hardly do you justice love/ smliey face's and hearts imy text's just because ?
and although everything that glitter's isn't gold,
I'm certain you're worth it so let's see how far it can go,
third factor, yet first and formost is GOD,
and through him, we are forever,
never could we do his job,
Maybe a question i've been thinking about often,
is you on my mind, or this time have i lost it?
always going for the best never settling for less,
yet i've come up short everytime, do i let it rest? or do i press?
cuz i don't want to miss a blessing, I know what's in my heart so there won't
be any guessing and God know's my heart too, so i'll just wait on him to let
me know what to do <3
Suddenly, I stop and think what if this is not a fixation?
Maybe my spirit knows the truth,just the thought brings elation.
I do not believe that love just happens, I believe its really planned,
Just like the birds and the bees, and the pebbles in the sand.
I await my destiny, this man I see in my dream.
I await this moment in which my heart will surely scream.
One day I'll know, oh yes, in the future I will see.
For I know our spirits know ... that together we will be...

Segregagtion of the Mind

So they say we got work to do but we are still standing strong.
We have, teenage pregnancy, domestic violence,Hurricane Katrina,
And we have single parent homes,
We are constantly put on a pedestal by America and our own"people"
We are branded as "niggas"
this is the name in which our own people give us.
Too many times, I've found out the opnion's to be facts
And the facts to be opnion's
We've gotten caught up in the hollywood life
Black Female's considering themselve's as barbie's
Black Male's branding themselves as rapper's
Fake Minister's, Fake Pastor's
White movie producer's teaching us to be more "urban" for movie script's about us and for us
Labeling us as fake actor's. .
While our own "people" label us as backstabber's. .
Standing at the nearest right corner,
in front of the liquor store, around the way. .
Gossiping about why he or she or we or they. .
couldn't be more "blacker"
Witnessing the dream of a young black male shatter
Seeing the life of a young black mother's son get taken in outside of a brooklyn project apartment complex
Watching a young black girl prostituting on a south central corner
Regarding the fact that God warned her, and lectured her that there's nothing in these streets for her
But death, tragedy and sorrow, following in rotation for tommorrow
And the other days that follow
Just because i'm black doesn't mean i'm blind..
And just because you're hopeless now,
doesn't mean you ran out of time.
And just because he black, she black, we black don't mean we committed the crime.
And just because he was proven innocent doesn't mean he won't serve time.
And just because their complaining, doesn't mean it'll stop raining,
Because when it rain's it pour's,
And Complaining won't stop our broke community from being poor,
What we need to do is make a change,
Time to stop little girls from being whores,
America from starting War's
The government from taking money from the poor,
and compliment ourselve's for wanting more. .
Remembering that change first comes from the heart
Try opening up that bible. .
Regaining your connection with God. .
is the perfect start.
Don't let the American race preferences segregate your mind.
Don't let the negativity of society consume your time,
No matter how much they lie.
Constantly trying to keep us categorized,
No matter how hard they try,
They can't segrate our minds, never will I. .
be. .labeled as "black, dumb and blind".

Deadly High

Intoxicated with green leafs
the original green tree's

New grow from pot smoke

puff. .blow, my minds gone.

running around the block, with no shoes on my feet

up all night, smokin tht weed

one pound for the hood, 2 pounds off that wood.

walkin to the nearest corner, tryin sell my last dubb. .

gun shot's, and bullet wounds attack my flesh,

My body falls to the ground on 32nd street. .

i continue to hold my chest. .

trying to save my own life, holding in my last breath. .

I'm screaming for help, but nobody hears me,

My life flashes in front of my eyes. .

Suddenly i'm in a deadly high. .


This L O V E
Love aint what it seem. .

All we have left Is this dream.

And I don't want to wake up

Because with out you, there would be no scene.

Your love filters my brain like a tumor

Your image spread around my cerebrum like a rumor. .

I can't help but not want to wake up from you. .

I mean what else do I have to hold on to ?

Ever since you've been gone.

The melody of my heart beat has been put on repeat. .

Same song. .

Different tone. .

Why try to fight alone?

If beauty could kill

Our Love would be dead. .

Waterfalls of tears running out of my eyes. .

When I think about you my only alternate solution is to cry.

Why can't I be the girl you love

Instead of the one, that wasn't worth fighting for.

If I could I would give my all to you.

It's Funny I figured out that this was all a lie.

Our Love was FAKE

And so were your emotions.

Caught up in the hype

That almost famous shit

Never turned out, the way u wanted it.

Late nights in the studio

Working on some wack shit

Going days without sleep

On some crack shit

Tryna live in the moment

But you never adapted

All this time u were playing me

U should of studied acting

Our Love, just wasn't logical.

But our souls connected

Like triplets,

Biological.

I wish we would of turned out different

Psychological.

Everything went so fast

Just know that when u decide to relapse

from being unattached from that spiritual connection,

our sexual stimulation, the intensity of our inner most connection.

I will be here.

Not waiting for you.

But I will still be here.

Because true Love rotates.

And when you're on your way back around.

You just might run into me.

And it won't be a coincidence.

If we fall back in LOVE.

and the next time we run into each other.

Everything we've ever shared.

Will still be FRESH

FRESH Like custom made J's

On Karmaloop

FRESH like LB's first free throw shoot

Everything that's LOVE re connects

Just like wifi internet.

You'll fall for me

And. .

I'll fall for you.

And the label of our old LOVE

Will be,

Brand NEW.

-Chasity Stewart

The Morning After....

The morning after.....

We lie here.
Wondering whether or not we found the truth.
Hoping that the touch of each other wasn't as right as it felt.
Or as wrong as it was.
No names
Just whispered words
Barely heard between rushed breaths.
As we wonder aloud. What's next.
Do we play guilty in a crime that lacks suspects.
Or act as if.
Tonight never happened.
It was something we imagined
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
The words that need to be said get stuck in our chest.
So we don't speak.
But our eyes do.
Begging to find a answer when neither of us know the question.
Unsure of what we want to forget.
Or remember.
Remember.
How you felt in my hands.
or your taste on my tongue
or how the night knows it ours
While we both chase the sun.
Thoughts that play in my mind
On repeat.
and I can't find the stop button.
or my pants for that matter.
Unsure of the next move.
But then.
neither of us want too.
Surprised to find comfort in this moment.
Where we move closer.
I normally don't do this.
Stay long enough for your eyes to see into mine.
And catch me torn between making another mistake
and apologizing for this one.
Even though.
we're not sorry.
We're just young. Crazy.
and your beautiful.
Enough to make me want to stay
The morning after....
-JDP

Dear Editors,

I’m enclosing a selection of poetry as a submission to Record Mag.

I’ve been published recently in the Talking River, South Carolina Review and

Karamu with work upcoming in Prism International, Poem and the Evansville Review.



Sincerely,

John Grey


GUYS DO MAKE PASSES

Such thick glasses,

when pretty she can’t see,

when homely, the world shows up

though it’s more like the lens is in it,

not her face.

At her best, it’s all a blur.

Worst case scenario, everything comes into focus.

Still, her man can’t get enough of her,

removes those spectacles,

kisses the ignorant lids.

He knows something she doesn’t apparently.

It’s all to do with what he sees,

how he explains it to her.

It may come second hand

but it’s still lovely, lovely, lovely.

He’s an instrument

that would make an optometrist proud.

If he weren’t inside her,

he’d fit neatly on her nose.

A man is like a pair of glasses,

the thicker the better.



PASSIONS

If this weren’t sex

it would be anger.

If you weren’t urging me on

with soft, doughy eyes,

you’d be holding me back

with a war-like tongue.



When passion arises,

first it must choose sides.

The blood has to know

which way the battle is going.

Do we whisper? Do we shout?

Do we hug inside each other?

Do we simmer at arm’s length?



If we weren’t touching

with fingers,

we’d be touching with looks.

If not the accelerating rhythm

of together,

then the disparate percussion

of that harder kind of closeness.



We’re each in the way

of where our lives are moving.

So do we celebrate or blame?



HUNTER TYPES

The same guys

who used to hang out

at the back of the barn

boasting off all the chicks

they’d laid,

now sit around drinking in bars,

bragging about their hunting exploits.

No huge leap

from hand on knee

to lining up a big buck

in the sights,

from going for the crotch

to pulling the trigger.

One’s eyes light up when he says,

“bad the head stuffed,

hung it on the wall,”

like it was something he wished

he’d thought of years before.

Life as a Volt

I dreamed last night of darkness.

It was sweet like wine on a table

next to a vase of love notes.



I wake up in this eccentric,

ecstatic light bulb

wishing I could feel the cold.



I live in a blacklight.

It's so bright in here,

but out there it is pitch black

except for tennis shoes and ballgowns,

glowing like angels.



I ask my mother if I can go out in it

and play.

She tells me if I do I'll destroy everything

with my eyes.

Best leave the shimmering darkness to those

who know it.



I want to dance too,

and know what it means to be a real wallflower-

a beautiful thing that grows against the wall-

not inside of it,

being born anew constantly

like a drop of blood returning to the heart.



I want to feel excitement,

live on the edge of death.

She tells me my life is better.

I am excitement,

and I never die.


Self Sufficiency

I could dance if I really wanted to,

but I don't.

I like planting rose bushes all around me instead.

They are aesthetically stunning,

marvelous for security,

and shocking for how high and thick they grow.



I used to flourish in the loud and the dense,

but now I grow slowly in the dark and the wet,

and wonder if I should wish for deserts.



I always order desert on dates.

Everyone wants to find an oasis,

but no one wants to be one.



The truth is,

any oasis will tell you,

that lovesick travelers will take everything

they need from you,

decimate everything you had that made you a paradise,

and then leave.



The truth is that humans being human beings,

they want the desert.

It proves something to them.

They are sufficient.

They need nothing.



No one else believes them or cares.

Sand and wind blast everyone's wrapping off,

and the heat will eat them,

but each devoured human being in the empty, dark, caverns

of alone and dying will know that they alone

were enough to be consumed.


Tepid Compromise


I'm dying in this dream of mauve

that is covering crazy.

Soon I won't be able to see new

rising over the world each day.



Everyone is yelling mauve! Mauve!

They all stink like forests without trees.

I detest them the way a butterfly loathes a locust.



Mauve! Mauve!

Maybe periwinkle!

This was shouted from those

who are less bold in their demands

for two toned indecisiveness,

unable to decide not to decide.



If an egregious compromise

must be made between Should and the people,

I hope Should gives them periwinkle.

It would serve them right to destroy themselves

a little more by request.

And periwinkle is light enough that I could at least

barely see new and beyond it to always.


The Process of Revision


Revising voices is an arduous process.

I have to dub in kisses

where they used to say you.



I love to revise my professor's voice.

He has no idea he is talking about

smiling wishes in the language of God.



I tell him I can't see him again because

each time I do I know it should be the last time

and that this instinct is lightening in my throat.



Revision.



I told him to slide his hand higher,

and slip his fingers in.

I only speak magic when one person is listening with

their tongue.



I am revising my own voice and



I am revising the voice at the end of this tunnel

between me and the light.

It stands over the dark and graves,

stradling them and singing of candles

and two battles of will.

I've never been lured by the voice of a new house.



It is only when I listen to the ocean

that I never revise it.

Its voice rolls to shore from distance

in the dark,

telling me moonlight

and no matter how much loss I bleed,

it will always be there for me to talk to.

Lisa Minner

I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 100 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past year and a half. I am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 406 poems, 231 short stories, and 59 pieces of art in over 107 periodicals, books and anthologies. I have been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. Also I recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. I have been accepted in England, Australia, Canada and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association. I hope you enjoy my work. (My art is viewable at face book, will806095@bellsouth.net)
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com

Ron Koppelberger


Ranks of Shadow

A sequence of dares and solitary accent,

Exact in exile and constraint, in aisles and

Beguiling judgments of what twilight whispers,

Shelter in the remains and turn of revolutionary

Trapping and wrapped wear, a touch of virgin

Despair in the substance of love, laying views of distant

Tide and aching common ranks of shadow.



By the Birth of Roosters

Emerging in hesitant expectation of sunshine and dawn’s

Cool mist, guided by the birth of Roosters’ and babies

In real realms of consciousness and loving embrace,

By destiny and amber tuft, by the allowance of cries in nascent

Brilliance, the shape of betrothal unto the day, unto the will

Of laughter and barnyard bassinets.


In the Midst of Chaos

Billowing fires in Babylon and the affection of beasts

Disarrayed in armies of vaunted confession, allayed

By the loyal last and the pillars of staid quarrel,

A secret sect in vestured distinctions,

By the angels’ of honor and what stays alive

In the midst of chaos and

Sorrow.


Dreams of Ash

Luscious ages of heat and wandering

Ceremony, a breach in the seams of clean

Wash and the sterile darkness’s borne of

Amber hued desire, of cold syrup, of larks

In decay and eyes birthed scarlet, tempered

By the wishes of another, the palace of grins

And ghouls, of distress and dreams of ash.



Roses and Thorns

Crying in wretched woes of miserable contention,

For the last of distant horizons

In reward, for the sylvan express in shadow and

Wonting bells of iron gild, by towers of desire, tall, told

In stories of pretty instinct and rhy whiskey

Love, discreetly allayed by

Pilgrimages through the realms of roses and thorns.


Ron Koppelberger

SJ Fowler (1983) has had poetry published in over 70 journals & magazines, and is the author of two collections, Fights (Veer books 2011) and Red Museum (Knives Forks & Spoons press 2011). He is a member of the Writers forum poetry group, and an employee of the British Museum. He edits the Maintenant interview series for 3am magazine introducing contemporary European poets. www.sjfowlerpoetry.com www.maintenant.co.uk

{the letter I equal 1, N equals 50 and 50 again, O is 70, C a 100…Innocentius Papa, we are somehow not too surprised to learn, adds up to 666}

The Museume should frighten!

beyond comprehension & exalted as such!

return to the first!

the drowning of Rib!

neolojist monumunt bound!

yoke!

awwed!

dumb!

clean limits!

return to the Church of breeding

fasten the straps of their hour inside & capture it

Ould brack

denial of visitation permitt

the selected audience of unane who proliferate in luncheons & chatrooms

the rumour the Museum is ludden with objects

dinn spreads

& all the bell-eyed skin-peelers want to visit

holidays sparm

our gates are stunned

we are kneeled in gratitude

what a success for Rosenzweig!

there is no spate

plastiscene, polystyrene, made by the troll, yesterday evening, painted with spackle

they would only discover it in the developing room,

back in Cologne

when the elbo is not in complaind but flashing noyse?

they know I know

the most recent cohort is truly subtle

what better punishment than pretending they believe I am ded

they know as I know

let me live it eath day!

the dhin of amity



The Museum is the possible shift

spoken niiht at midnight

shakes the shoulders

cries narration

scale without comparison

utmost proper redukion!

wisdom!

the only site of recoverie

speak only with getherness intact

aglow!

deaf!

so vast to be unmissible, & yet missed

the sight of the turn

volume!

motter they torture me

‘Isn’t that horse pretty!

the monkey is playing a game!’

final!

geniA!

eep! close to ear

afflict!

me with quiet!

have me do their labour

touch the bones

teeming hive

‘t cannot be!

fowl! who are not silent violating!

napp!

watch the mapvendor!

selling schematics to a Museum

chemically unstable

hard to know position money

too resort to bartering

exploited both sides

is not a covered market

not a place for bargaining

it is, or it is not

only when something truly dead does it enter the Museum


{Chant of the Visitation rights, Song of the Visiting Wife}

oos aa leva leva

abe bah leva leva



oos aa leva leva

abe bah leva leva



repeats the word

so repeats the word

peels from dirty, bitten mouths

a hen. a hen. an admission from an animal



from the north, from Finland. from Lapland.

close our eyes tight, protrude our tongue slowly.

to the heartbeat of Liver.



make a huff. share our food.

remains, looking vehemently toward a carcasse.

reminded of a rat cornered



frothing teeth,

chipped and snapping & bent upon the lathe of shape.

trapped in a cardboard box - no scissors or natural gas



jump on the box with both feet to be picked by the black neck

& it asked a one word question in Depletion

Koosa Ta Specs Nokka ra Tow



do not admire survival per se!

the layered double dragon carved in lime.

a Cathoga bomb, the loose rivets of blood into wine.



exchange single form for eight limbs

tear again, most likely.

Juhakka



achievement in the stalk beating the snake if so.

- probably a soldier.

the smell of hay. ceased listening.



nose folds flat on lips like a limp beak,

the broken echidna seeks a restroom?

finally, the nerves are toiletry.


{the nafs al-hull or the aql al-kull? Neither pleases the perfidious Badr Al-Jamali}

but, Donald, dressed (not just dress’d) as Hassan-i-sabbah?

the women forced to hide in light, fasting??

the turned eye to the training, of baby coils. Drugs too xxx

the sacred kufic script, eastern kufic incantations to be neater.

square kufic which hides the proper name of “he” in corners.

they exploit the decorative potential of Spill to no End.

it is decoration, though musty, the Thuluth, the Nasta’liy wraps

around children’s necks. I am all for calligraphy, but we have a gallery for Nizaris

Kwarmazids. Zangids. Seljuqs. Mameluks. & my credit card devotee, Baybars

Thankyou Baybars, Saladin & Sinan. Thank you for killing Conrad.

all because they are nearly expired, but for once it wasn’t your fault

you lead the dawa to its dai

all sexual congress Filthy & punishable by eternal…

held fast to their end. Khurshah shouldn’t have trusted his Mongol bodyguards

as I do not trust the Curators here. How Museum’s scramble to service the dying.

what about us is left of those who believe? The gallery is centred by a square

with a cross. It is the Templars emblem. It is here I stand, honest.

SJ Fowler

Elevating Buddha

Levitating Buddha with 99 red balloons is the general principal-
I said to the union of theological executives.
They all looked at me strangely,
Some-
with such obviously vacant notions of the principal,
still nodded slowly,
As if to say, “hmmm, very interesting…”
One meticulously manicured,
grey goatee faced fellow,
raised his off-yellow pencil at a 90 degree angle-
making the pink stub of the eraser line up to precisely the same altitude
as his head- Or,
As if he had a crossing guards stop sign,
Or he was signaling a right turn on his and his wife’s tandem bike that he bought them early in their marriage-
(when he still loved her)
Or,
Like the way the smart kid in middle school raised his hand shyly-
Because it’s not very cool to be smart,
(at this age)
The smart kid is smart enough to know this,
but not bold enough-
to tell them all to
fuck themselves.
It’s ok though kid, later in life, it’ll be a great way to
Get yourself laid.
But mostly,
It looked like a meek intellectualized inquiry,
from a journalist on his first day of the job.

“Yes sir, you in the front-
in the ugly plaid cardigan that your wives sister- who has aged
so much better-
bought you for Christmas so many
years back.
Damn, you coulda had her back in the day too-
You coulda plowed her till next July!
What was your question?”

He cleared his throat before speaking-
In tongues I could only identify
As acadamianistic-

“Well, when you use the term levitate, I cant help but associate some form of whichcraft to the process- is it even possible to harness this spiritual figures powers, while using purely catholic methods of extraction?”

“that’s an excellent question sir- yes,
after the extraction process, we carefully
mix the primary derivitives in a ratio of 2 part
fear, two part guilt, and 4 part hot air- does that
answer your question?”

He thoughtfully fondled the grey goatee on his chin several times before replying,
Bringing his thumb and pointer finger from the edges
Of the stiff grey field-
To the very center of his chin.
After he did this one time-
Each person immediately responded unanimously with
the same gesture and timing.
It looked like those stock footage films of hitlers army-
the careful Synchronization in their marching
inspired fear and implied power-
Even the very few females in the crowd mimicked the gesture,
and only 2 of the 5 of them,
actually had goatees.
He cleared his throat before speaking again-
(but only cause he knew it makes you seem smarter)

“Yes- mostly, but how do you plan to contain the mixture
in a plausible yet efficient manner? Concrete blocks, or caskets- perhaps discarded condoms from planned parenthood?”

I could somehow see through this mans bald
Polished head-
He had a soft spot on top like a newborn baby,
Where the skull never quite met
in the middle-
(an obscure metaphor for his existence in fact)
I could see the rusty mechanical gears and levers-
Weaving and catching and crushing and grinding and slowly turning
Around and into themselves and back out and around
And repeat and repeat
And repeat.
Many workers have lost fingers in those merciless gears- slowly
crunching down in slow motion- like a
chicken bone in the mouth
of a mad dog-
and you can bet your ass there was no
workmans comp for this,
Or even unemployment-
(field trip money just aint in the budget kid, sorry)

“ Well- as I was going to address furtherly in my
presentation- we must find a way to appeal to a
contemporary market, and a new target audience.
In answer to your question, we will be containing
the mixture within 99 red balloons. Our research
suggests this will be most effective in attracting the
sub-demographic categories of alternative belief,
unsures, zen-hipsters, undecided youth, naturalists,
and the dying baby boomers who fear hell near death,
and go from brand A (agnostic) to brand B (pray like hell).”


But Where Does It Go From Here?

“But where does it go from here?”
is a question that either offers an infinite buffet of vague scholarly speculation upon the subject being objectified; OR
an objectified response of limited academic caliber, subject to
scholarly dissection, critical analyzation, arbitrary digestion,
Inevitable regurgitation, half-assed contemplation,
AND FINALLY,
Un-budging authoritative interpretation.

It is exactly that dissatisfied question,
That puts me pondering on the hillside,
As I look upon the city that I love.

I sit still,
Enamored with the view.
A bee hovers nearby,
Over a patch in which to pollinate.
I do not startle,
For I too, am that bee.

Long hair wavering in warm breeze
Like a bird in the ever flowing currents of the pale blue sky.
My face seeks this sensation head on.
No different than a wind sock do I repeatedly excite and retire from
This jovial torrent,
With moments in between to sigh away a currently resolved tension.

Temporary fulfillment knows true bliss.
The warm wind upon my skin and whitman’s leaves of grass
Excite my exterior self
and linger within the subconsciously sublime state in which I seek.

“So where does it go from here?”
I hear my high school teachers asking,
“And where does it go from here?”
I hear my puzzled peers inquiring,
“But where does it go from here?”
professors echo still while smiling.
And I wonder,
“Should I know?”

“I sure hope not,” is my fallback response,
BUT,
in persuit of something grand,
AND,
In consideration of my recent plans to travel-
Should I not invest a portion of my artistic explorations
in the somehow cicular
yet ever changing enigma
that is posed and re-posed
in any infinite number of combinations of phrases
of questions of challenges
of promts of clouds of
unknowing OF COURSE YOU SHOULD!
And you should do so without
Expectations
Alterations or
Reservations.

Sitting, still- as I look onward upon,
UP ON
My spot in the grass on the hill in the city-
I see a moth flutter by,
With as clumsy,
As labored,
As urgent of grace- as the warm
Summer wind will permit.
I watch with awe,
As this wheat colored creature weaves an intricate vibration,
Harmoniously resonating on the lower chords of the wind
And the higher tones of the field.
I AM that nonchalant
Winged creature,
Flowing somewhere between destination and direction,
Stopping perhaps when ceases the wind.

The bee still hovers nearby,
Closest to my bare foot as I watch,
Openly vulnerable,
Fascinated with rigid amazement.
I curl my toes in the warm summer sun,
The bee moves on to a new patch,
And as I pull my focus outward
And pan the luscious milwaukeee horizon,
I see hundreds of buzzing black dots,
Lifting and landing,
All along the stretching hillside,
No different than nearest my foot.

A similar such creature circles at the base of my hill
Slowly, rhythmically, sucking at the air
With hands upon hips
Softly panting,
profusely perspiring, and
modestly plotting his next trek up the hill,
continually conquering the seemingly fruitless voyage with a
singular goal in mind upon each trip.
Make it to the top, and than get back down to the bottom.
Make it to the top,
Get back to the bottom.

All while the bee nearest my foot,
The moth fluttering wind,
And my face seeking that brisk onward splash
As blows through blonde,
As bows through branch
As posed, re-posed,
And infinitely intertwined.

Joseph R. Reeves

SPELLBOUND

This nation went this route before,
Little logic after 9/11,
Bonded against someone, needing to prevail,
Sending thousand of soldiers, and counting, marching to heaven.

Nine years plus and an economic crisis later,
The fearmongering has roared back into the discourse,
Over extending tax cuts and unemployment benefits,
This time it's Democrats who are the source!

We've traded one enemy for another,
Partisans insanely searching for a way to "win" a round,
"Tremendous!" is this any way to run a country?
Emotion driven "wars" driving it into the ground.

Tantamount to those days of yore and lore,
When it was thought the earth wasn't round,
When Chicken Little said the sky was falling,
And all but one believed...and died SPELLBOUND.


A National Gift Card For One and All

The banks got a bailout,
Wall Street did as well,
GM and Chrysler got infusions of cash,
For them, that's really swell.

First timers wanting to buy housing, subsidized,
If you work, there's less withholding,
Cash for Clunkers moved Lots of Cars,
Government money just seems to keep on coming!

But not if your not in a "favored" group,
Retired, jobless, broke, or paying rent,
For all the taxes paid over all the years,
What exactly do you get?

Nothing much that I can see,
A "Bailout Orphan" in free fall,
The holidays are coming, the next giveaway should be,
A national gift card FOR ONE AND ALL!

To buy basics or to splurge,
Put one under everyone's Christmas Tree, please!
Makes as much stimulus "cents" as extending tax cuts and unemployment benefits,
And then the contra-seasonal "spirited" debate can cease.


Karen Ann DeLuca

Attached are three poems for your consideration: "Red Velvet Familiarity," "Retrospect," and "Home is Where the Heart is." I am a graduate of the writing program at Illinois Wesleyan University, a resident of Chicago, and write freelance in my spare time. Thank you for your consideration.


Kimberly Stabosz


Red Velvet Familiarity


Lay your head upon the soft
down feathers of my pillow,

and dream of red velvet ribbons with me.

Like the kind I wore in my hair
the night the rain fell
but never quite reached us.

We were untouchable,
hovering in the stillness of the silent moment.

I should have know then
that reacting with such honesty
would only escort us to the scene
we could not return from as one.

Where the hollowed trees hum the mourner’s song
and the path bends at a sharp angle to the left,

your left, not mine.

Nevertheless, of all the pleasures in my life,

nothing was so simple
as you
laying beside me,

in the coolness of the evening,

until the gentle rays of sun
shone on our makeshift bed.

But makeshift was never meant to withstand,

and most dreams
are only a few seconds span.


Retrospect

He melted the snow that year,

with a vigor heart.

Like an eclectic dream

I tore myself away from.



I lost the truth in the discontinuation of time,

somewhere between the suffering trees

and the stained sidewalk.

On that long walk through

the kite runner’s park.



I carry the depth of a lost home around in my

hidden guilt.

While the scenes of my

failed affiliations

continue to repeat:



Like watching that

cinematic catastrophe-

fingers entwined.

One late afternoon

just before dark.



Or the party of depravity,

our single dance

in an airless basement.

True feelings exposed

in the rhythm of that moment.



The acceptance of realization

together, in a room alone.

That night the dreamer stopped time

to give us that last flicker

of tenderness devotion.



He then,

took my alabaster bones-

The ones encasing

my

affection,

and fractured each piece.



His eyes reside in memory,

revealing themselves just as mine close.

The harmony of his laugh and mine,

the composition of our limbs.



Ultimately, in the company of destiny,

I will fail to remember

these imaginings,

and he will no longer reside

in the darkness.

Tempting me

at every ill-fated turn.


Home is where the heart is



This moment extends into the cycle where her family is all that remains

inside the prison of concrete mortar love.



I’m alright, she says. I’m fine, don’t worry,

this isn’t your place anymore.



The heat from the day rises in circles around her head

taking away her dreams.



She’ll never see them again.



Be strong, hold on, he says.

But this isn’t his place anymore.



The sunlight melts away behind the closed drapes.

She doesn’t like to open them lately.

She never liked the glow of natural light anyway.

Harsh brightness hurts the eyes.



I didn’t expect to see you here, she says.



The walls of her room breathe memories and scents of

the world she once thought familiar.



You’re lucky, he says. To have a home you can run to.



But this is not a home,

it’s a prison where the memories rip through

the lining of her skull

and penetrate deep into the darkened core of her essence.



When will you simply leave me alone? She says.



I’m sorry, he says. I didn’t mean for it to be like this.

But this isn’t his place to apologize anymore.



The sunlight remains hidden for hours, but then starts to taunt her again

from that world he disappeared into



where the reality of false dreams lie, and desired hopes

might one day possibly come true.



I hope you understand, he says.



I don’t think you even know me at all, she says.



He chose the beautified life of a successful man

over the smooth sensation of love.



He’s not coming back, she says.



This really isn’t his place anymore.

Pasted into the body of this email are six poems for your consideration for Record: "Complete," "Front," "Formation," "Drama," "Under" and "Sprung."

Thank you for the opportunity to submit my work. Your attention is appreciated and I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,
Gregory Liffick


COMPLETE

Have
written things
to fill in
the blanks.
There are
some
puzzles
whose
missing
pieces
are poems.
You match
the colored
edges
of the
words
to those
of other
parts of
the
larger
picture.


FRONT

The mood
is too
dark
to let
the eyes
see the
light.
A wind
of un-
fortunate
events
pushes
dark clouds
in front
of the
sun.
A rain
of tears
will fall,
further
blurring
illumin-
ation.


FORMATION

Only some
of the
coal
is crushed
into
diamonds.
Poets
put heavy
pressure
on the
muse,
not having
the
benefit
of the
geological
forces of
nature.


DRAMA

Reading
lines
from a
play
written
by the
ugliness
of the
scene.
Method
acting
the moti-
vation
to hurt
each
other,
which flows
easily
from sense
memory.


UNDER

His own
waters
carried him
away with
himself.
Didn't learn
to swim,
only to
sink.
Couldn't go
with a
flow
so clearly
over his
head.


SPRUNG

The muscles
want to
release.
Tension
is a
physical
feeling
dressed up
with
no where
to go.
The mind
runs in
circles,
but will
meet a
brick wall
if not
rocked
to sleep.

Attention Deficit Society...Click, Click

We're an Attention Deficit Society,
Not giving anything or anyone much of a chance,
Was two years enough of Obama?
Lickety split, on to the next partner at the dance.

Republicans think they've just "won,"
Their "reward," an unfinished Bush mess galore,
Chris Christie called it, time to "put up or shut up,"
Or else in 2012, they'll be headed for the door.

Nobody wants to "stay the course,"
Long enough to see if a program or policy will work,
Perhaps a legacy from #43, backlash from the wars,
Now it's take your best shot and be done with it quick.

Maybe as the 2010 commercial said,
It takes a Clinton to clean up after a Bush,
Only one third of the Tea Party candidates won,
Another shellacking, not a pat on the tush!

As the GOP decides in which direction to go,
Realizing they're just "renting" for twenty four months,
Will Obama, chin down, go out on a "listening tour,"
Will youth, raised on tech, become focused?

Perception aside, the reality is,
The President's still the captain of the ship,
The future boils down to that oft maligned word "choice,"
Loyalties no longer linger, except to self, click, click.


Karen Ann DeLuca