Tuesday, November 30th, 2010

The Undying Trust of One So Young
Jenn Gutierrez

Death clings to our home
these days.

Involuntary bug-animal slaughters
by innocent hands.

She yearns to learn them.
Crushes them to her understanding.
Our two black Labs her faithful minions.

First there was the garter,
slithering its need
for compassion into our hearts--
teeth marks clearly visible.

The squirrel we're unsure of,
but she found it first,
crouching low.

My mother's fear calling
down to her from the patio above--
Don't touch it!

"Its eyes are open."

The etymologist sacrifices ten
to comprehend the one.
Wings partially torn,
the June Bugs putting up
civil resistance--hunger strikes
in a cage too full of food.

Yesterday a full grown rabbit
lay motionless in the front lawn.
It somehow knew, here was the place
to covet its final rest.

I envy her sense of ease,
the way she has circumvented
her parents' would-be instinct
to shield her
from life's passings.

The way she has chosen to listen
to a different calling--

And look directly upon life's offerings,
to study Los Ojos . . .
the Eyes.

*****

Approaching Autonomy
Gavin Gale                                                                        

Delusions Divine those which lead to a centre false and never free
This home, your sanctuary bent on servitude..a house of a thousand rising lunacies crumbles faster still
Complexities complicate but rarely will these components amount to much beneath the Sun’s lashing raze..

Minerva, once a purported pinnacle of prosperities…illusions that never quite illuminate…
Masks, make up, never approaching magnificence..for yours is built upon manipulatory maneuvers
And, as each footprint wears down the one to follow, autonomy approaches…

I feel your tremble, I hear you quiver..
Too long have you peddled nihilism upon this, the Nile’s sister..

These walls constructed so hastily, the prisons created, the shackles placed upon the Light…now crumbled, all removed and gone..

Ra’s ruinous ruminations encroaching..
Setian settlement? Not even a chance…

The veil wears thin Brother..

For all those you hold so tightly, eminent emancipation..

*****

Prince of Light
Gavin Gale                                                                                          

Vindication observed… blinded pupils 
Vindication loses wars, seemingly conquering fields of rage and sorrow..
Vindication born of confusion, Lust, illusory self-assurances…
Wars decreed with shrieks of a deafening roar, can you hear the Lions become weak?
Strategies based upon self…
Rarely hold well under the shadow of cognition, razor sharp 
I know you hear and feel the cuts..wounded pride..simply this.. 
Run your circular Marathons..run the perimeters of your darkened, miserly mind 
Run well, Run hard 
Shatter the cyclical existence.. 
Withhold what you can.. 
Play long, play-enjoy your time… 
As you run, WE see your weakness 
Hidden but always seen... 
These grains-they pile high, ohh and just as these final grains tumble and fall a thousand flights, they shatter..
As does your reign of chill, campaign of Cold.
The stones We pass so many times, the back alleys You once strangled...they now sing..fat and full..mountainous melodies..

*****

 

Lizard Boy
Mike Riley

 

*****

Life In Frames /Pixeled Dreams
Justin Fenech


(Fright)
(Frightening)
(Promising)
(Loving)
(Sensual)(Org - )

The bed sweats
On your eye-lids
Nothing exists
And you can't wait
To find existence
as your eye-lashes
Pause for breath
Like stuffed bats.

Wishing the weightless waves
Return you to the right-hand side
Of sleep.

Nothing. It isn't fair.
The sheets are cobwebs.
Licence, licence,
The only poetic licence
Is for more dreams.

You can't even remember
The vast scene
Merde Mierda Merda.

You turn your eyes
Away from their drunken siesta
And you see, like a patron,
That other poetry
Framed atop your wall.

Its space on the wall
Is that of
Michelangelo's David
In orbit.

Its not true that the dream is over
The four corners within the frame
An arena of colours
Breaths of the river you loved
And the songs you hummed
With a liberty never before known
In ivory fields of sunlight.

What of the girl you saw
Across the bridge - that childhood crush
That engulfed you in adolosence?

Francesca, Giovanna,
Mari, Mari,
Filipa, Pipa,
O the names 
You gave her!

To picture her is to picture dreams.

You walk downstairs
Still half asleep with the rivers
Within the frame within your veins
A cup of coffee? Ma certo.

Sit on any chair you like
Either will be infinite
As the bronze kisses in the golden fields
That could have been
Now come to life
In the cup you bring to your lips.

(Fright)
(Frightening)
(Promising)
(Loving)
(Sensual)(Orgasmic)

*****

Photograph's Radiation
Justin Fenech


"I don't want to cover his face with handkerchiefs 
that he may get used to the death he carries."

(Federico Garcia Lorca - Lament For Ignacio Sanchez Mejias)


Now that I've walked past the photo
  (Matador)
  I have been knighted.
New trees take root in my sides - friends,
And here's what leaves blossom from their myths:

Flair lighting up the square in gestures,
The clothes of youth atop Parnassus, 
  Ralph Lauren silence,
  Pride of the ole;
I go for lunch, creamy and somehow Italian,
Permanently dazed
By the crowd's faith in my splendour
  Ready to feast
  Upon my fresh conquest.

I love what I don't see
In love's name
  (Moorish tiles).

The afternoon sunlight is a postman
That delivers the Archangel's erection
From the spine right past the ribs
  (Arena).

I promise the bright breeze
That intersects the dry heat
To learn all I can about 
My new heritage
And to live it out with grace
  (Ignacio)

*****

Turkey Buzzard
by W.M Mason

I watch
from my sacred Box Elder
sister angel tree’s roots
into the earth
my sinking spine
connects in Mystery’s embrace
wormwood and yarrow dance
at my finger tips
Monarch caterpillars devour
bronze fennel
soaring red cedar caught
wings raised mid leap
straw strewn my bed
evening primrose 
by early morning breezes tickled
Newt the Nigerian pygmy goat
crops grass
as she grows her color
and patterns coming in
such blue
so clear
so clarified
the hidden thermals from my valley
attracts turkey buzzards
their circuitous ramblings
their effortless rising
& dropping so low
until the call of gravity
the up rushing earth
calls to them to move
to flap their outstretched wings
against the invisible they resist
believing because they have risen
they will rise again
and as each stroke of wing
etches their moment
as they are lifted
I watch in awe, in envy
that such a black and white creature
should have so much faith
living upon that which few others
will ever desire
content to meet
when meeting happens
content to roost
on what is near
never have I seen
a turkey buzzard alone for long
or heard one complain
their joy seems to come
from seeing that which
so few ever have time
or place to explore
their soaring realm
the raptors seem impatient
the song birds afraid
of such heights
and when they come close
to my meditation perch
flying close enough
that I can count their feathers
or see what they might clutch
within their taloned grip
offering my greeting
hello beauty
hello grace
as they pass on their way
to appointed rounds
so my morning begins
and as I rise lingering
the rooted sweetness
seems to follow
sending me off
from ancient memories
toward mystery still unfolding
my path so illuminated
rises up
meeting my feet…..

*****

Somewhere the Sun
David Mac

Somewhere along the way
The gods ended and
The madmen took over everything

Somewhere along the way
The poets leapt like tigers
Or wanted to

And the clock faces smiled
The darkness was unexplainable
And the blues crept in
When your back was turned

But it’s no problem

Only the sun knows
What’s on the other side

The trick is to hammer it out
True
To let it all fall away

The trick is to never know
To feel it raw
Opening out around you
Like there’s nothing left to lose

The trick is to get it down
On the line
Just right

And not to worry

In time you’ll make it through
And it will be good

In time you’ll turn everything
Into words

*****

Plastic Cup Blues
David Mac

An empty plastic cup rattles down the street,
It’s looking for somewhere.
Me and old town eye it,
We are somewhere.

And people drip and flop out of taxis,
They are nowhere.
But they too are looking
For somewhere.

The sad sun falls down again.
It’s all over everywhere.
It’s all over.
Just get used to it.

But what do we care when night comes?
We know it’ll be gone
By morning.
Everything’s too fast or too slow,

It’s how you look at it that
Really makes the difference.
But one day we’ll learn
To look at it right.

One day we’ll
Make up our minds.

*****

Tuesday, September 14th, 2010

Nature Boy
David Mcmullan

I stare at a photo of you
Stood in a kitchen,
Your long jeans draped on the floor,
Little bare toes twinkling
Out of each leg.
I sigh.
Those toes were enough
To remind me
To fall in love
Each time I saw you.
Those toes were all I needed.
But now I look on just as
Sad ivory keys end and
Track number 8 kicks in:
Nat singing
Smile,
The 1961 version.
His voice is a ghost.
Smile, he sings,
But it’s harder than
He’ll ever realise.

*****

Morning Glory
David Mcmullan

That moment when the dream stops
And reality punches at your skin
That last lingering confusion
That lost madness fading
Everything waiting on you

So you pour coffee and
Have a smoke
And you go to your desk
Your notebook
Your typewriter
Your keyboard

And your fingers
Well
They know what to do

*****

Waiting for the Past
Dominic Rouse

I open my sewered mind unguardedly
And rats the size of childhood fears
Rummage through empty cupboards
Lined with the past's unhappy news.
Truth, that bastard of eternity,
Drips from a rusty hanger; mothballed,
Outmoded, death-trapped and creased,
Do-goodingly given to the needy.

Through the airless grill I can clearly see
The narrow path that leads to the summit,
Mist-hidden from the fading sun,
And lined with the crucified fools
Who have tempted me with rack and ruin
Wrapped prettily as fame and fortune.

Beware-signs seen too late, they hang
Pointing where I should not have gone.
Estate-agents still misleading me
With half-truths about the views
Though it pains them to speak.
Financial lizards, innumerate now
But for the hum of lap-top mendacity,
Omniscient softwares that promise
Evergreen lawns and perennial cruises
To half-employed, unwaged, losers
Fearing wheel-chaired hospice futures.

And I wonder if they too have
Planned for these chill autumnal years
Nailed now between their outstretched hands
With policies beyond redemption
Maturity dates long past and still
A guaranteed amount of inflation-proof hell.

But see in their fears they have not,
Hear in their screams the arrears
They have gorged from others' profits.
Unable to bear their failures
Which are by default my own
I turn my back on the mountain
That I must one day surely climb
And face the one-room hovel
That is my bitter past.

*****

When The Liver Beats Like A Heart
Matt Sven Calvert

it was only six days ago i felt you smile
heard your fingers spell the words.
    saw you say,

you forced me to stay in love with your memory
like the soda machine at the fire station
"if you walk upside down on a cloud," she said.
"you could look right over the edge and talk to god."
    saw you say,

move your heart to stay up there with those clouds
floating high above our sleeping bodies
our cotton candy corpses, close to him

"Your MELD score is still low. You're doing well."

outside of your house there's a floating brass frame
holding everything you claimed to be true
holding everything you built yourself
    and you said,

look across from the death bed.
turn your head away
my hands are cracking open
you don't want to see, do you?

the truth is the only thing that's ever scared me was a song
     your voice
inside a church
midnight choirs

"let me feel your hearts," she asked.
dual beating system incomplete
beeping, chirping like a bird

lepers in florida have aqua tinted lungs

but
   in California

there's a white sun out there

i'm desperate to hold it
                 feel it
                 know it

       be defeated by it.

turn me into the ashtray of a million cigarettes
smother me with poison and smoke
burn me alive for this

"You have time.”

dry and crack my blood
wait for the organs to harden
and rip them from beneath my fried flesh
snap my bones like twigs and inspect the blackened marrow

my hardened liver
covered with lacerations and scars

      crush it.

but my heart.
freeze it. feed off it. break it into little pieces.

plant it.

let it replicate, regrow into red blood plants and trees

twist and curl for a million years and it will
overtake the highways
         the skyscrapers
         the crops
         the earth

it was my death day.
    so i saw you say, "it's the 27th. welcome to the club."

happy birthday, love.

*****

The Hair Cut
Stephen Mead

Some music is visible,
Growing slowly from roots.
So, a movement, your hair grew to you.
Was going around like that
near to towing an orchestra?
Or was it more an extra limb,
Breathing legacy's braids?
It's not that I see you as Samson.
For one thing, the sex is wrong.
For another, even if bald you'd be
melodious.

Call me nostalgic.  I still love how
the tied beads, as if by training,
swung round from your pig tail
to strike me like a meteor.
I know it was accidental but, going back,
did you find it hard to be
recognized always by long locks?

When the trademark went
what were you shucking?
Beauty as weight?  Blonde as a noose?
Was it ritualistic, a passage-rite, liberation,
a kicked-habit?
Whatever, whatever.
Enough questions.  Enough.

So, a first visit, feeling like misfits,
we went to the hair dressers,
that salon Of the mod. 

Blow dryers?  Mousse?
How could one admit to not having
the tools, being new to the tongue?
Poor Hans, man of the shears,
nearly did a wig flip.

My sister, you're iconic.
I knew this while watching, inwardly
feeling the snipping, & you, & you,
facing the prophet mirror, witnessing
the act, what a Mozart conductor

what a lost piece by Stravinsky
finally revealed.

Of course, going home to wash out
The gel, the starch spray, (put out
that cig), the aerosol nets, 'til
you were you were your own hair again

is what proved the myth real.

*****

In Orbit
Stephen Mead

Turn, turn, I know this lamp,
how it made waves move,
a lighthouse blink & ships
come in on my parent’s dresser
at the bottom of my childhood
W
where the dark sprang to life.

Sitting on shoes, on clothes piles,
model planes, the radio
gave a theme & those days
became a space ship
hurling through worlds
by closing the door.

Matchbook miniatures,
cat eye marbles, their gleaming,
all the little things gleaming, each
flash-lit instant dreaming life,
life dreamt on
beyond what was unspeakable,
                             & cut deep.

Experience/innocence,
the imagination juggles   turns
turns   a lamp   scenes
on the shade   my radio   listen
revolutions revealed   & leaving
we do not   cast the light
elsewhere   closing

come reflections from the distance.

*****

I Have No Doubt
WM Mason


thru the shimmering heat
Summer insinuates herself
leaving the frozen fastness
of winter unimaginable
as tiger swallowtails 
follow trails invisible to irresistible nectar
the first monarch has joined the dance
as the last hollyhock has opened
the drunken throng
enamored of such bounty
regal fritillary form clouds of 
winged ecstasy
slippery curves of buddleia 
whose periwinkle 
holds tiny eyes
of brilliant oranges, reds, yellows
a carolina wren cracks open
the morning 
penetrating the sky
I have no doubt
even the Gods must pause
that a creature so small
could contain and spill 
such effortless radiant joy 
whose exultations
transport the mundane
unexpected songs of summer’s longing
my spine connected 
with the meandering feet
of my sacred sister angel tree
rooting me to this land
this knowing 
of rightness of place of timing
a pilgrim to the shrine
of red clay and flinty rock
veins of quartz 
shot through with the same iron
that patinates our blood
lowly lichen slowly dissolving boulders
ancient rounded volcano bones
remains of the naked struggles
of which our solid earth is formed
the nesting frenzy
of life itself
to become
to be formed
how far from feeling
our caged souls still run
leaving the spatters
of our wounds
a trail
for those who follow
and as twilight
silently devours 
the last whispers of day
hummingbird moths appear
inviting
all who will
come
worship
surrender
dance……

*****

Pathway Exploration
Carl Scharwath

I explore this path
Meandering barefoot in childhood
With innocence
New confidence
Anticipating what lies
Beyond maturing hills
In the soil opulent
Emancipated hearts
Of deep canyons
Embracing errant dreams
Every new born breeze
From everywhere

This path is intimate
Its turns and crevices
Beckons towards
Humble oaks and rocky cliffs
The dormant meadows
Provoked in summers sun
Cooled in twilight
Weaving a protective coat
Of fine silk fabric
Stars impregnate the darkness
To enlighten my way
Of middle life

Do I know this path?
Should I speak to people?
As they wander past
Some acknowledge
Most do not see
With the great loads carried
They can not hear me
We share our burdens
Our lives burned in sunsets
The path aged in wear
We’ll not need very much
When we reach the end

*****

Tuesday, July 6th, 2010

From "The List of Loss: Feb to March"
Gregory James Wyrick

One to invisible foes
And one to an early tomb
One to her poisonous rose
And one to her sullen groom
And my one true love, to her silent repose
Behind May's new moon

We all wait to break
But some leave far too soon

*****

Mi Sombra
JM.Persánch

Mi sombra, fiel compañera,
allá donde me dirijo, tú no tienes sitio.
Has sido la mitad de mi vida, también testigo
de mis penas y glorias, de mis enredos divertidos,
de mis miserias y de mis éxitos furtivos, puro sin sentido,
y también del amanecer de mis días, día tras día.
Tic tac, tic tac, tic tac.
Hemos envejecido juntos, conocido
y acariciado las palabras más bellas,
hemos sido un cuerpo en dos partes,
yo, pecador, tú, espiritual,
contigo viví experiencias fascinantes,
te quise tanto que compartí hasta mis amantes,
Tic tac, tic tac, tic tac.
Ya me voy, y no te puedo traer conmigo,
que dolor tan grande ¿Me echarás de menos?
Cuida de mis hermanos y padres…
Tic tac, tic tac,
a las cinco de la tarde.

…

(Silencio.
Ya debo estar muerto. No veo a mi sombra,
quizás sea porque aquí todo esta un poco oscuro,
o porque no tengo los ojos abiertos.
Más silencio.
No siento nada.
Ni escucho el tic tac del reloj viejo.
Antes molesto, ahora añorado.
Ya debo estar muerto. Ya soy un hombre sin su sombra.)

*****

La libertad del silencio
JM.Persánch

Yo,
Camino, camino, camino…
y por más que doy pasos al frente,
tu sombra me sigue junto a mi destino,
y por más que quiero perderte,
siempre estás ahí presente;

Y yo,
Me alejo, me alejo, me alejo…
o eso creía, yo, un libre ignorante.

Estoy enfermo.
Estamos enfermos.
Tú, también:
porque ambos cargamos
con la miseria de nuestros amos,
porque ambos llevamos
el peso del hambre en las manos,
y porque a la espalda llevamos
el corazón a cuestas y nunca descansamos

(y nos han hecho creer que es normal)

...

La libertad del silencio,
lo sé y así lo sentencio:
son pasos a la deriva,
¿para abajo, para arriba?
ya harto del desprecio
ni siquiera diferencio,
pues no le encuentro alternativa.

Tumbos al este y al oeste,
y un cielo que airea la peste,
de vicios libres de ser perdonados
por otros libres ignorantes declarados,

(como tú y como yo)

de vicios pobres maleducados,
de desterrados y arrogantes

(como nosotros y como ellos,
como el pueblo y sus tunantes)

…

El silencio es un fiel mensajero,
a la vez visitante y prisionero,
que hace caso a su dueño

(ni tú ni yo)

mientras ensueño en mi empeño,
que pronuncio mis últimas palabras
para cumplir mi última promesa
a mi linda princesa,
que mi alma pesa
cuando ella besa
los vacíos labios
de un muerto por agravios.

Somos almas silenciosas
y almas angustiosas

(vagando por la tierra
como almas en pena)

Somos nadie.

(menos aún, somos nada)

Somos tímidos suspiros rebeldes,
más que frágil, endebles.

Somos lo que nos dicen que somos.

(Somos algo que no somos)

Somos la boca abierta,
los ojos cerrados.
y las manos sangrientas.
Somos la pena de ser libres,
y somos su lágrima seca,
somos la ventana abierta,
y la manzana hueca.

Somos y no somos,
Como
buenos
fieles
libres
ignorantes.

*****

Borehead
Matt Sven Calvert

green/pink veils were lifted and swung away as I peered and was led astray
you always have such wonderful ideas!

You say we'll build a fort with that pillow, and some couch cushions
                                               a couple of blankets and we'll need that toy keyboard

and outside the message is spread to all the villagers a hundred miles away from Kenya
visitors have come in a large white moving tank they say it's money and food

everyone runs from the bush / they're going to show a moving picture but the chief turns them away
who knows of such things? Long hair and too many coverings
they brought a message of the american god but now they go away
and tomorrow i'll go to work breaking rocks to build a road and the government gives us rice for pay

but you're slamming glasses of orange juice and laughing and laughing and smiling and
hitler just needs someone to tell him he matters
and
     “I've killed hundreds of Nazis before,” the near silent demon said.

She doesn't move but infinite teeth bear a path through bloody mountain valleys
        the infinite teeth have ever living faces on each surface with little eyes and noses
        they all wink and know the same secret but you want that fucking cupcake

but still he rambles and says, “I'm here, but the rest of the universe is over there.”

i'm running through the yard the grass is greener than the inside of a womb
don't worry, everything is ok. The sky isn't brown and those aren't explosions
you look worried! But I have snacks and we can make out when we get back
jump in this ditch, look, they're going to surround us.. I might have to leave you here!
But you're a fucking puppet.. no really. I just realized this so i'm pulling my hand out of your ass
you'll stay in the ditch, all you'll see is grass and this dirty water for a while
maybe someone will come by and pick you up
but I have to get the hell out of here

cookies and needles and thin blue fabric suits can't keep Parker Brooks down
a billion eyes stare from your left pinkie nail up at you and you wonder why it stings
when you breathe like barb wire in your lungs / not a cigarette in years and organic food every day
oven has dinged, the baked potato is done i should get the butter out but I seem to be drooling on the wall

*****

Rotten Avocados Covered With Toothpaste
Matt Sven Calvert

i don't live.
i don't die.

i don't march through blood soaked
fields
i don't run while the mortars
rip
the ground apart

    all around me.

i snort.
i drink.
i smoke.
i laugh.
i vomit.

i bleed from the mouth
like an
infant

begging, swirling whirlpools of pavement
         stained crimson on
                   the white lines

driving to your house with thoughts of
enjoying a smoke and maybe
playing a little grab ass

but instead

i am parked on the side of the road
i am 24 and
going to die

i'm not a
soldier
i'm a
drunk
addict

puking his life away
fueling the highway
     with
         blood.

the soul floats like smoke out
from the heart
   
    all around me.

no guts for a
bullet

only a
bottle.

*****

weezy lead head
evan lee ward

Has been digging
Failed in business
Low deep weezing
All day sleeping
Tongue done tasted
copper teeth jaded
Life falsified
declared unsatisfied
Clinches teeth
Closes eyes
Squeezes out
a messy goodbye
When he goes
he will sing out
through his holes
what he knows
Thats his head
full of lead
No more said
Tenets call for help
Medics sell their response
Decried as his head
falls apart
So they leave him
on his knees then
wave bye out the door

*****

The head is closer to the sun than the foot
evan lee ward

Survive to die
Die to survive
Beings of all collaspse and grow anew.
Seasonal changes bear the burden of witness
within the curfew, junctioned to be.
Now knows not knew.
The mountains stand,
the rivers flow,
bellies are empty,
bowls are full.
This is our inheritance;
to stand as the bull with his horns of power,
confined in the pen of his master.
Reflections present the infinite loop,
uncovering the fruit we so desire to place back upon the tree.
Deliver us from knowledge oh tormentous memory!
We have suffered so much to strive for so little!

*****

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