vintage poetry

A.J. Huffman Poetry

2012-02-17T20:33:00.000-08:00

High Noon

comfort is an attitude

and everyone is trying the same thing

the ice queen does it gently

triple zero

independence makes her less desirable

about face

personality injection

a great way to begin

you’ve chosen the evil

a body at ease

cover your face

a-pluses are guaranteed

Exotic Evenings

how far will you go

runway choices celebrate the dawn

those who can’t speak chill a martini glass

true confessions

no streaks no smudges

the postman always rings twice

True Illusions

do i look like public enemy number one

change your eye color

now shape it wet

keep it touchable

what gives you the power

acid face peels

too many politicians

your score

designer loyalty

only nature could inspire so perfect a gift

A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published three collections of poetry: The Difference Between Shadows and Stars, Carrying Yesterday, and Cognitive Distortion. She has also published her work in national and international literary journals such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review. Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 andhttps://twitter.com/#!/poetess222.

3 poems by Ross Vassilev: another vintage poetry favorite)

2012-01-10T20:42:00.000-08:00

3 poems by Ross Vassilev:

trinity

the veterans
are coming home
again
as I put a quarter
in the soda machine
and remember a poster
I once saw of a
gorgeous redhead
in a black dress
the veterans
are always coming home
from the latest war
and God must spend
a lot of time
jerking off
while people are busy
killing each other
and giving each
other medals
and somewhere
out in the New Mexico
desert
lies the hollow skull
of a yesterday cow
dull and oblivious
and dessicated
as the bull-brained
mob parading
down the street
behind me
a Georgia O’Keefe
cow skull
a sacred-cow skull
with a yellow rose
in one hollow
eye
calling out to me
across the desert stars.

we’ll be on our way home when the smoke whispers in the sky

these red brick walls
these grey streets that I’ve walked up and down
for so many years
with the sparrows at sunrise
under the afternoon drizzle
with sunshine on the snow like all
the Christmas bullshit suddenly come to life
and I remember the last 20 years
like an old great river that never stops
like a short walk to the end of the street
and I remember that old hobo
who asked me what time it was
and I told him and he said
Is that all?
and then like Bob Dylan
walked away and disappeared
among the streetlights and dusk.

propaganda of the deed

I see the ghosts of dead anarchists
who took their outrage
and fired guns and threw bombs

I see the ghosts of 60s radicals
marching and fighting in the streets
of Chicago ‘68

these were people who got out
and took action
so everyone knew they really meant it
instead of just writing it down
like me and Langston Hughes

the fire and rage of revolutions
that lit up the nights of bygone days

that set the rich trembling
so they called out the riot police
and if that didn’t work
they called the troops and their boots

and if those revolutions failed
well they came damn close
and the intent and the effort were noble

all those wild dead radicals
and revolutionaries

I’m just a pale reflection of their
sainted shadows.

poems by linda m. crate

2011-12-16T18:01:00.000-08:00

murder

she laid buried there 
underneath the point where
the truths started and the
lies began; you all ignored
that as you tittered your
adulations in birdsong as 
if ignoring her dead body
would make it go away 

imbibed leaves burn her
throat, her body would thrash
if she weren't already dead;
her lips the blue of azure skies
dipped in loving white clouds -
still you hold hands and laugh
as if she never existed there;
the lilting songs of disaster 

clinging to her lips in an unsung

hymn that you all feign to have
forgotten; she lays there in a sprawl
of gold and scarlet, her hair the
petals of the sun birthed upon
grey rocks that cover her more
prettily than her fine clothes
torn to tatters by wolves,
you have no silver tears left for her.

unearthed  by shaking hands
some years later, a strip of pink
is the only thing that separates
her skull from that of a wild
animal; his fingers trip over her
syllables like a laughing girl, he
discovers the truth hidden in her
marrow and he is rendered mute. 
- linda m. crate 

cyanide lullabies

cyanide lullabies cling to her lips
in rivers of red lipstick, she knows
no other color of passion but scarlet -
she chokes on cardinal feathers simply
so she can feel the vibrancy of being 
alive; she does not know that love isn't
a heart attack walking on egg shells or
a victory march, but something a little
less grand yet in it's simplicity even more
beautiful than her lovely dulcet hued lips.

- linda m. crate

the clock was dead

 
the hands of the clock were fixed -
they could only tell the right time
twice a day; every other hour they

lilted in dulcet tones the exact hour
of impropriety, a weirder shade of
midnight sung on pomegranate seeds;

the eyes of one and two ever staring
in their stained maroon, a garish hue
loud enough to make babies lament.
- linda m. crate

wounded

 
they made their pilgrimage
through the town dotted with
churches, their hearts twisted
in an odd shade of pomegranate 

the memory of love brought back
only bitterness, it left it's stain in
garish maroon hues they could
never wash from their souls, they

recalled the impropriety of the
priests that called themselves men
of God, remembered their sins went
unpunished by men, it brought the

tang of anger darting to their tongues -
silver rain fell upon stained glass
windows, as alms of their anger poured
forth in rivulets of angry words; the

men were happy when they returned
home to a place where only bars had
sprung their wooden hands, drowning
out their disdain with a bit of needed ale.
- linda m. crate  

healing

 
drowned in the ale of silver
rain, she made a promise to
let it wash away the stains of
every garish yesterday that 
had painted her in it's ugly
obsidian hymns sometimes
streaking her with pomegranate
other times with royal blue; 

she took her life back in a
breath of fog, let the white
mist swallow what was left
of her pain; let the rain mingle
with the salt of her eyes, it
made a good fertilizer for
the flowers that grew beneath
her feet in dulcet pastel hues.

she knew that God would one
day heal her broken heart, 
until the doves came she 
would sit here in the field as
she sipped on the liquor of 
the clouds; letting the pain
blossom forth so it could be
washed away by wet fingers.

- linda m. crate

poems by Donal Mahoney

2011-12-16T17:57:00.001-08:00

The Next One Like You

I’ve found no new woman,

as you’d like to surmise.

But the next one

who braids

my mind with my heart

won’t get away,

not even if she’s a nun.

The next one like you

I’ll lock in a room

near the sky and there

will I kiss her until

she is certain

a thousand butterflies

one by one

are lighting

all over her body.

Donal Mahoney

On Taking Secretaries To Lunch

If you live in the valley

know the lava above

has the tact of Comanche

demeanor of dove

Hoe furrow

don’t sprinkle

your seed

then enwire

Post sentry

tall criers

Go home

to your love

Donal Mahoney

When The Words Begin

It always begins

like indigestion,

slowly at first,

then full bore.

Either way,

I need relief,

no question.

But no antacid

can abort a poem

so I have to stop

and take dictation.

I’m no Matthew, Mark

Luke or John.

They wrote the Gospels

by Divine Inspiration.

I’m on my own;

I have to listen.

So when the words begin

I grab my quill.

I have no choice.

I have to stop

and take dictation.

Donal Mahoney

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

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri, U.S. A. His poetry and fiction have appeared in a variety of publications, including Public Republic (Bulgaria), Revival (Ireland), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), The Osprey Journal (Scotland), The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review and other publications.

http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

Poems by A.J. Kaufmann

2011-12-11T06:09:00.001-08:00

JAZZ ME BLUES (EXILE DEUTSCHLAND!)

The seraph, the tempest, in cobbled sky
avert in milky mourning

thumbs up, 23
still wedded under
hope signs

Strands and days of marriage
jazz your blues
out of the moon
cheering wrecks
in harvest

Starlight reclaims
mind's burden
suicide hipsters
drown
where nightfalls
blow

Soul's fire showers
stigmata whirled in sands
scythes
in the whirlwind
driven to flame

Fountains pitched in the lightning
screaming
exile Deutschland!
while mercy reigns
on Saturday heaven
Body be our pride
black sex
chalk stain
lions in lettering light
hunting
penthouse pain

Palms crash
your madrigal flesh
granite soul
a quarter of earth
you’re ink sketch Christ
unshapeable

Exile Deutschland!
for the years we spent
on bitter surf

THE SHADOW BOYS

Wake up to the burden
feel pain in everything wild
Polaroid electric smile

Round formless river eating herself
drinking with sadly late some
enduring in parade of poker

True fat age
shows through winter covers
tight family suits

Stormy days of heavy past
gather round
mouth meat
hearing fellow sounds
of a rat reel

Money, air, eccentric ink
with little sun painted squeals
brown bowdlerized
dinners rose
to prove
you’re eating noise

Night knell for the clowns
hard-earned peace
diminished
in clattering thoughts

We suddenly stop stealing
savage states
hitching strange
rags of times
tuned with low
sailor days’ cravat

One frightful April
policeman laughing at
a nameless death
climbed, in face anguish
to the silence jury doodling:
talk of the pigs

Cold everything, muffled sick
shelved to watch
worried women
insects, booze
blue, burnt blankets
The frantic wait
of sharp cruel dogs
dead city thirst
war sick divers
playing the old
patriotic drum

On far German deserts
of circus love
in begging eyes, serving
the glare wheel
you soberly walk
round twirling of words
memorizing
the shadow boys’
heaven

YOU DON’T EXIST

Murmur of leaden wings
dead edge
of a coffin

Thru whispers mad
we know you

Little pitiful
body death
a warm strange hand
in the night

Between incense
and the dark
blood is the flame
you burn

In waking moments
carefully watching
the blade

Rarify ecstasy now
then you don’t exist

BOMBAY

Ashes she describes
her white and smallest you
light unwraps your head
every ornament
of intellect
childlike, translated
larvae

Guiding lady hybrids
thru satisfactory ages
burning sand in your eyes
days to their palm
anxious, demoralized
nights

Simple cracks, like us
subtle to destiny
practice monotony
against the shades
of reply
this black, nauseous
leather

Parting with the quiet life
long, indigenous months
make me feel resigned
but I hold my true Bombay
in words timidly
carved

YIDDISH GHETTO FLOWER

Yiddish ghetto flower
old twilight bird
searching eyes
in irony of vision

Cities forgotten
in velvety gleaming night
are slow side
phosphorus flesh psalm

Ridiculous, gone
gleaming without a world
as ancient darkness saddles
our thought

Empty sunken stones
parade red words
creeping up our fine cold skulls
blocking books and harmonies

Garbage goblets, mirrors
dull, ephemeral beauty
shocks the stars, screaming grapes
on vermilion black surface

A.J. Kaufmann is a young poet and songwriter hailing from Poznan, Poland, whose debut poetry chapbook, "Siva in Rags", was published on June 28, 2008 with a small American publisher, Kendra Steiner Editions. Since then he has published lots of poetry chapbooks in the USA, UK and Poland, including “Saint of Kreuzberg”, “Cut-up 2010” and “I’m Already Not Here”. His debut studio album, "Second Hand Man", appeared on the Polish music market on October 2, 2011.

poems by Michael Estabrook

2011-12-03T09:35:00.001-08:00

frogs and the Boston Strangler

I’m at work, at my desk, finishing up a poem

about frogs (Everything in my life ends up

in a poem it’s sad yes I know it is a very

sad thing, but what can you do?)

when one of my fellow-workers sticks

his bald, shiny head into my office and says,

“Hey I heard this great joke

on TV last night about a frog . . .”

Of course I’m stunned by the coincidence

but can’t say anything about it because

nobody at work knows I’m a poet

when I’m not at work,

like the Boston Strangler was

a strangler when he wasn’t driving a cab.

Alpha-Male on the Beach

Yesterday the water was cold
and the waves choppy, but I went in anyway,
I went all the way in anyway,
the only one in.

I swam along the shoreline,
half a mile or so, my wife and granddaughter
following along on the beach.

"Wow," her eyes sparkled, "You were like
a triathlete out there." She took
my hand, so proud of me.

So today, the same situation, only with
the water even colder, the waves choppier.
When things calmed down, everyone finished
with their snacks and flying their kites,
I stood from my beach chair,
stretched like a waking bear,
swung my arms around and around
over my head so everyone could see me,
flapped them like Michael Phelps does
before he dives in.
Then I popped in my ear plugs,
strode out solemnly, so bravely, so manly
(the alpha-male on the beach)
through the rocks and seaweed,
cracked shells and snails,
finally diving into the churning frigid sea,
swam out and fought my way
along the craggy shoreline just like yesterday,
only this time nobody even noticed.

Pink Ribbon

I brought her her birthday present,
flew all the way across the country
to give her a belated birthday present.

I'm waiting out on her deck to surprise her.
She finally comes home from work
up the side steps to the deck,
smiling and giggling and chattering
with two of her girlfriends
just like the 13-year old beauty I knew so well.

Her hair is dark and long with a ribbon
holding it back, a pink ribbon.
She's wearing a white sweater.

I'm waiting for her on the deck at the top of the steps.
I thought she would be surprised to see me,
surprised and happy to see me,
waiting there with her present out on her deck.

Suddenly she's quiet,
stops talking with her girlfriends.
She doesn't seem to notice me,
(but I know she does),
doesn't even look at me
as I'm standing there all excited to give her
her present, to see her again after 47 years.

It's as if I don't exist, and in reality, I don't.
She rejected me a long, long time ago
and that's how it still is.
Some things simply do not change with time.

Risk

Truth of this matter was
I was far too frightened
that I'd lose her for good, forever,
if I stayed away, testing to see if she'd miss me.
What if she didn't miss me, what then?
What if after she sent me away
so she could date that other guy,
I stayed away until she missed me enough
to want me back, and she didn't?
What if I didn't come around
for a couple weeks, didn't call her
or write to her and she liked it!
What if she liked her freedom (from me),
like a songbird released from her cage, finally free,
free from me, free to flap her wings
and fly wherever she pleased, away from me,
unimpeded by me, free, forever free?
Where would I be then?
Certainly not here, lying in bed next to her
listening contentedly to her soft sweet snoring
and marveling once again that she married me,
agreed to spend her life with me,
agreed to being my girl till the end.
No, I couldn't risk it. I couldn't risk losing her,
that's why I didn't stay away,
why I returned almost the very next day,
coward that I am.

Baptism

In church for our grandchildren's baptism,
an hour, a long, long hour of the Benediction,
the New Testament Lesson, Pastoral Prayer, Offertory,
and the One Voice Choir singing ancient tunes.

I'm reminded of why I don't go
to church anymore -
anachronistic, old-fashioned, out-of-touch
with reality, feeling like I'm back in time to 1860.

But some people love it, feel fulfilled,
so I am happy for them,
wish I could be more simplistic and feel
the same way too, but I can't.

Brief bio:

Michael Estabrook is a baby boomer who began getting his poetry published in the late 1980s. Over the years he has published 15 poetry chapbooks, his most recent entitled “When the Muse Speaks.” Other interests include art, music, theatre, opera, and his wife who just happens to be the most beautiful woman he has ever known.

poems by Kevin Heaton

2011-12-02T19:21:00.001-08:00

Ageless Issues

from natural springs

The first placenta pardoned sweet

water through mother’s earth canal

onto thirsty feral parchment.

A natural spring preened velvet green

clusters tickling sweet gum toes,

and spit-shined flint-flaked remnants

etched into sojourner missteps whisked

away on the current. Errant time

traveller tracks not yet held to account

were foot-washed unto salvation.

I stood hushed inside the terminus seeking

truth, and ponderd mysteries entrusted

to ageless artesian Samaritans summoned

by holy men. There, I wet the nib

of my hopes in quenching second chances,

and absolved solace of mortal restraint.

The Fountain of Youth

The ghost of Juan Ponce de Leon

possessed the serpentine tongue

of a python. It told the Moorish

tale of an everafter fountain

along the River Euphrates

in The Garden of Eden beside

the tree of good and evil, formed

by strange tides and divers tidings,

where scarlet parrots cleanse

their plumes in the refilled Cup

of Christ and splash Templar

wine on red flamingos panning

for watercress at Alexander’s

well. There, forbidden fruits dine

on carnal flesh without conviction,

and fabled springs extend the life—

of each inquisitor.

Westward Ho!

Sodbusters burrowed in Mississippi

mud and found comfort on the backs

of True People. The brittle dead fingers

of Custer’s Elm branch splintered

wanderdust into dream seeker eyes.

Peyote pricks from a cactus rose thorn

grafted trances onto sage seer visions:

hinting moonlight glints through

a bullsnake’s reflection; sidewinding

snips at the nib of an owl. Deer antler

tips neath a rolling flint hill flaked

the frontier edge of an oak grove cusp.

Lies and tall tales agreed to split hairs

on the gist of a small Kansas town.

Roman Nose

Nephilim fell to Mount Olympus

and sired her a warrior son.

Through halcyon days on phoenix

wings swaddled warm in fox fur.

Principle god of prairie wars

sent to stir the great Cheyenne

and let the squatter vein. His talisman:

a Spencer carb, breech-clout lashed

to four six guns. A compound bow

drawn near to splinters; sentried

at the left hand. Where legends legion

he lingered long beside Platte water

counting coup. His blood-tipped nose:

a Roman lance; to preen the blue

in yellow eyes, and snipe the aim

from soldier awe.

The Godfather’s Soul

James Brown died with his cape

on. God cast him in bronze, booked

into a night gig on Broad Street;

where re-glazed burnt sugars sweet

roll johns’ dough in crack-alley pink

cadillacs, and homies sift dust

on the hood. They tend ‘The Father’s’

soul for a blessing and spit shine

his brass with crepe myrtle dew,

then deal salvation to pimps

and pisspot prophets with gold

lamé teeth, while baby mamas

suffer their little children to rap

a few beats wit ‘Da Man.’

Pushcart Prize nominee Kevin Heaton was born in Kansas, and now lives and writes in South Carolina. His fascination with history and love for the outdoors have led him on a journey to better understand life beyond the city limits. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in 150 publications, including: Raleigh Review, Foundling Review, The Honey Land Review, and elimae. His fourth chapbook, Chronicles, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press in early 2012. He is a Best of the Net 2011 nominee.

http://kevinspoetrysite.com/

poems by Joseph Farley

2011-11-13T15:52:00.001-08:00

Joseph Farley

Heretic (3)

in andorra among the cathars

a soul waits to be collected

by the agents of the inquisition.

thumbscrews, hot pokers and the rack

wait in dungeons to redeem

this wayward heretic

so confession and redemption

can be stamped with a thumb print

on a canon's long parchment

before purification in cleansing flames

turns man into the purest ash.

Satori 12

wind and sky

blue oblivion

easy to get lost

like a bird

flying aimlessly

land and sky

and water and sun

river and mountain

all this to feed upon

and yet be

empty

hunger always

for the horizon

or just over

After The Conquest

We did not know

about the invasion

until after it

was over

and the new ruling

beings

had acquired

their mantles

of power

and taken up

residence

in the choicest

quarters.

As coups go

this was global.

Our new leaders

are inhuman,

but so far the change

has not been that bad.

They have sought

to clean up

the environment,

and end local feuds.

Sure, they do seize

and eat the occasional

citizen.

Neighbors

have disappeared,

but similar injustices

happened before

the alien's arrival..

Violence and

violation

have long been

the lot of the poor

and the chosen

who have fallen

out of favor.

I feel it is best

to give our masters

a chance,

the benefit

of the doubt.

Besides, what else

can we do?

Hold on.

I'll be right back.

There is someone

or some thing

knocking at my door.

2011-10-29T19:23:00.001-07:00

guide line for submissions:

please send no more then 5 poems

your name in headline and your poems in the body of your Emil.

included a short bio. of yourself and publication history isn't as important

And thank you

Michael H. Brownstein (latest poems)

2011-10-29T19:00:00.001-07:00

Michael H. Brownstein

A BET

Night a line of light going nowhere,

a patio of smoke, somewhere a sprig of water,

charcoal colored maize. Early spring

the sky, the moon, the Milky Way.

Early winter frost bitten, a leak of shadow,

laughter in drifting snow.

Even fire

on the nearby hillside through an opening,

a flashlight, the person nearby with a lit helmet--

I cannot see my hand in front of my face--

imagines heat and daylight, a nurturing sun,

the winning of a bet we could stay warm

this midnight without the use of flames.

Later we will fish for fish in sand,

pan for gold in air, build a bridge on hard ground,

eat the fruit of the bird and the meat of the seed.

They will laugh at us and that will be OK.

We will win the first bet--remember always

how the judge ruled against the man selling smells.

OUR ARMY, OUR WEATHER

--Napoleon at Waterloo and the Russian interior, for example, Hitler trying to take Moscow and General Howe at Manhattan.

Weather our army in time of need,

clouds rolled wire, barbed and content,

until the swamp matches sky, moss and wood.

A wind from the south, December,

snow melting, snow drifting, and still

an edge in the cloud field gives way

to something grayer, unsteady and drunk,

and we know how weather changes, how it

will save us, how wind reverts to its nature,

how rain mist freezes, how fog disguises truth,

weather our savior in time of saving.

THE PICNIC

When they sat down, they took everything out of their life--

rocks, moons, great white swans, whooping cranes,

the name of every flightless bird from Guatemala,

space debris and every tome on evolutionary design.

Soon they had erased the nobody and the somebody.

Even the hard body with thick shoulders vanished in the rain.

Days later—or was it weeks—seconds into minutes perhaps?—

they moved to the thick grass by the swamp’s edge

and fed the alligators raw hamburger meat. This too

came from inside of them, their skin raw and dappled,

a filibuster of tarnish, turpentine and fragrance.

Did you ever eat a worm? No? Then put the pork chop down.

A POLITICAL POEM

The old men of the electrical utilities

share the hat, eat the pie, run over the pedestrian

and eat money until there is nothing left of the rest of us.

THIS POEM NEEDS A REFRAIN

This poem needs a refrain,

a homeland, a hat, a hand job.

This poem needs a vagina

muscled with teeth,

venus fly trap lotion,

battery acid lubricant,

someone to set a tongue on fire.

This poem needs a water bed,

perfect teeth and perfect hair.

This poem is not a bottom feeder,

a handhold, a hand to hold.

This poem needs to refrain.

poetry by Ross Vassilev

2011-10-12T14:09:00.000-07:00

rosaries

by Ross Vassilev

afterschool
we watched the
Irish girls
walking
home in pairs
from
St. Mary’s.
they were all
blondes
or redheads
thin and pretty
stone-faced
mean-looking
not saying a word
not even to
each other.
pale white legs
coming out of
green plaid
skirts
they drove us nuts
but we didn’t
have the balls
to go over
and talk to them
so they remained
a green-clad
mystery
in the grey streets
of Manhattan.

Poetry by Lauren Tivey

2011-10-02T06:52:00.000-07:00

Harvesting

There is a way to open your body

to the land, like a lover.

There is a way to read the mood

of the soil, like a prophet.

Out here, crows are omens, and clouds

ambassadors of the August sky.

There is a way to synchronize

your pulse, to learn the cadence.

This is the only way

to fill your basket.

Isla Mujeres

Skinny as a stray

she roams the alleys

in a white communion dress

brown legs blooming

out of lace socks

and scuffed shoes

three pesos for gum

from her straw basket—

she likes my earring

jingles it with a sticky finger

and her black satin hair

sways as she skips away

all the girls work here

bringing back fistfuls

of greasy money to Mama

who is washing the clothes

in the yard, among the chickens

and broken glass.

Woman on a Blue Balcony

See her from the street

the chipped blue paint

white stucco wall

you think the sky

should be gray

a storm blowing in

that she needs a shawl

imagine a simmering

in the eyes, a bad lover

entire telenovas in your head

chest-thumping and weeping

because she is standing

on a blue balcony

and her hair is long

and her eyes are black

but an afternoon sun is stretching

its long fingers into this clutter

of alleys near the Plaza de Armas—

you see she is only surveying

her comfortable universe

the warmth of her satisfied

brown face, simple blessing

of her flowers drowsing in their pots.

Now turn, and leave her alone.

Bio:

Lauren Tivey has been busy traveling for the past two years, and is currently living in China, where she works as an English Literature teacher in the American Program at a Chinese high school. She received a MFA in poetry from Vermont College of Fine Arts, and her work has appeared in Negative Suck, The Literary Burlesque, Blue Lake Review, The Legendary, Gutter Eloquence, andSnakeskin, among many other publications. Her chapbook, The Breakdown Atlas & Other Poems, was released in July of 2011 from Big Table Publishing Co. She lives for poetry, photography, travel, and adventure.

poetry by Ray Succre

2011-09-21T14:31:00.000-07:00

Where the Air was Lithe as Teleost Fish

Where the air was lithe as teleost fish,

I was mercy, pity, peace, crushing on her, immediate,

a sessile flower rooted in the shoulder of a satellite,

and with hygienic disrepair, teeth the outside of an old mill.

I looked to laugh,

I called up words

and on them was carried up into gelid rooms;

I was bruised by lights as from wrongness there

(and niftiest inward where I’d cocked the springs,

while under-swimming to pull down the sexies from hobs).

When her sweetheart worked, my neck split atop the pole,

head displumed and pegged, example to set off a cached wealth.

I looked to laugh,

I called up words,

and heard simply soft chuckles on every passing voice.

Ray Succre

Ignited Fruit

His mouth speaks tirade but

the kaleidophone has split

all of his speech into slush.

“Are we starry sorry?”

I listen. “No, no. But I understand.”

This is the moment when I

get rid of him, though still

mention my urge to

sock his face back and look

for the candy

for forgetting to lift me

from a bar-den meet full of

meat still clinging to spun-out baboons.

His charm: “Voila- apology.”

My statement: “I spent time with

one of the subtlest, then he

showed me his van.”

The earpiece fractures, then blooms.

Adam’s shrapnel enters my ear:

“Eve, you putrid stew of puke.”

I listen. “Yes, yes. And I understand.”

Ray Succre

Ovation

To live in a bottle of bay leaves, I lead a woman with morning hunger like yours

into sunrise. On the leaves, drought to veins suffocated,

broken offshoots tortured for soup.

You say it is in a bowl, and raise your spoon to employ breakfast,

but it was at first a mule-bray flavor riding the water in a pot,

and it was first in measuring tins and spoons,

and it was first in bottles, a refrigerator, and behind the curtain in a skull.

She woke and was a swish of wet curtain for the shower.

Behind the hill the light eye lifted, dilating the library on 4^th street,

lilting the fluent shapes of bus-stops, alighting on apes and stairwells and elbows.

“You’re still awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“You’re making me soup?”

“The Sun is coming up. This one’s yours.”

The air is porous and catches against the mood of moon and October.

I serve with a bowl, bread. Activity.

I have seen you, the public, after ladles, your eyes ironed and nostrils looming

for the thing of it; she is the same.

She is a woman of yours like a reel of film rolled out to expose every frame

of the scene. She is very public once the Sun has risen.

Then, the Sun explodes with ovation, from the highest, sparse-treed line.

Her clean spoon, as though nothing is beyond it,

dips through the steam

of the coliseum.

Ray Succre

Dinner Party and the Candor

Not inhuman shim-fed pose upright and the candor: What a meal.

All truncated to a test the nocturnal violence.

All moments wait out respiration

The peck of hungry homages growth of peat the peek of your birth

Quick utterance hello saber, spin gestate

hand in hand, doll in doll, matryoshka

The 8^th lady lady Clairol dumb lady eight

Mental bisque of cognition stop yelling pared body into hairy legs—

fiery omen cyst in dementia— Picasso forest

Squander revoke your lot in Hell the nocturnal tenors saran toupees

harpies and gorgons spitfight and the get-out.

Epitaph: You sat in a centaur’s hard dentures,

gnashed white shrinking from nothing incapacitating fucks

but orderly posed not inhuman.

Ray Succre

Bio: Ray Succre is an undergraduate currently living on the southernOregon coast with his wife and son. He has had poems published inAesthetica, Poets and Artists, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. His novels Tatterdemalion (2008)and Amphisbaena (2009), both through Cauliay, are widely available in print, and Other Cruel Things (2009), an online collection of poetry, is available through Differentia Press.

For inquiry, publication history, and information, visit me online:http://raysuccre.blogspot.com

Poems by April avalon

2011-09-09T06:53:00.000-07:00

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.

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

Evening

I'm breathing the smoke of fruit cigarettes,
One's already burnt; I am craving for more.
I'm lighting the last one with no regrets -
If you were beside me, it well could be four.

I'm slowly turning the key in my lock;
It usually takes me two minutes or three,
But I have been blind to the obstinate clock -
Alas, there is no one waiting for me.

My room has no present but treasures the past;
Its walls will recall every breath that we share...
I'm feeling so cold. I break down at last:
My papers will choke on the ink of despair.

My heart's like a violin's sound, unclear;
It's out of tune for a permanent matter.
I'll sign all these verses with only one tear
And seal with a sigh just to send with a letter.

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.

poems by Michael H. Brownstein

2011-09-06T17:46:00.000-07:00

THE GARDEN

It's quite clear what I have done--

I took the bones and planted them

in the grass filled yard of leaf and wind

Well, it's very simple:

she knocked the earth out of me,

tore the wind through my skin.

What choice did I have?

You kiss someone for years

and then you don't kiss them anymore.

When did the moment pass,

the half hour before midnight's full moon?

The half hour afterwards?

There you have it. Nothing more to say.

She shredded the lettuce my spirit

so I made a garden out of hers.

THE COLLECTION CART

Dead friends, I have come for your skin, your story stones,

your fire for making glass. There is snow

in the distant cavities and large bonfires full of secrets

and other troublesome scrap. I may need those, too,

tomorrow or yesterday, but not now. How have you been

holed in darkness and dirt? I hope you have learned

to value root, groundwater, vole and rock,

blood worms moist with wet soil. Dead friends,

I am prepared to carry everything you have prepared

to give me to carry. Come. Follow me as you can.

I understand how light can hurt. Come anyway.

You are already blind. Wind can do no more damage.

INSTRUCTIONS FOR WAR

Don't badger the enemy when he walks onto the Reign of Terror.

Step back to observe.

Watch his hands, his eyes, his knees. Especially his knees.

They are the most confusing part of a human

cracking, breaking, sometimes falling to the wayside.

Check the field for potholes and traps, locust burns and devil's claw--

all things that thirst for fractures, blood or light.

Make sure you don't attach yourself to things that cling to flesh.

Only then should you enter the Brickyard of Sapphires.

Glitter is everything.

Don't let its sun get in your head.

NOISE

The graveyard voices gray and overcast blue,

an edge to the Ethiopian dessert,

the grand vultures waiting, and further south,

the grander elephants stepping off track

to caress the bones of a fallen sister.

In 2001 we rat bombed islands near Panama

and in 2010 people bombed villages in Afghanistan

with enough poison to cover their dead.

The voices in the graveyard have been known

to scream and if you settle where the crab grass grows,

you can hear them skipping over

locust burns and dandelion bones.

Water, too, needs a sorting place

away from confusion but the voices flow

into it, the voices flow with it

even as we death bomb and death bomb

bone, powder, flesh, fog, burning hair--

stone and scorpion, marker and--

rain into dust, dust scours the air,
the hem of earth begins to tear

THE KATY TRAIL, MID-MISSOURI, 100F OUTSIDE

The sun sprays its light into the sweat strewned day,
the blue sky slang, curse words and cloud fall.
Spit falls over the valley like the stench of skunk hit by a car
and steam empties itself into the air until every breath we take holds water.
“I am giving you your life back” I say, and you accept,
your left hand closing, the shape of your lips a different pattern.I pick up my book bag and head out into the broiling heat of the land.

Michael H. Brownstein has been widely published throughout the small and literary presses. His work has appeared in The Café Review, American Letters and Commentary, Skidrow Penthouse, Xavier Review, Hotel Amerika, After Hours, Free Lunch, MeridianAnthology of Contemporary Poetry, The Pacific Review and others. In addition, he has eight poetry chapbooks including The Shooting Gallery (Samidat Press, 1987), Poems from the Body Bag (Ommation Press, 1988), A Period of Trees (Snark Press, 2004) and What Stone Is (Fractal Edge Press, 2005).

Brownstein taught elementary school in Chicago’s inner city, studies authentic African instruments, conducts grant-writing workshops for educators, and records performance and music pieces with grants from the City of Chicago’s Department of Cultural Affairs, the Oppenheimer Foundation, BP Leadership Grants, and others.

poetry Garth von Buchholz

2011-09-06T16:06:00.001-07:00

Garth von Buchholz

The Wedding

The wedding guests
tanned and tepid
ringed by falling children
will die as their grandparents died
(grey fingers curling under sullied sheets)
but tonight they dance
a crooked wooden two-step
slip the sweating floor-tiles
break balloons that must be broken
spill scotch that must be spilt
while I (childless child)
who may never feel daughter
stroke my deathbed brow
dance in drunken dervish delirium
wild-eyed and whirling, bestial, pale,
hemorrhaging, bloodshot,
rhythmically rapt
(dangerously sinful
talc powder pure )
as gestating eyes grow round at me
afraid their unborn
will be born
without legs.

Garth von Buchholz is a Canadian poet living on Vancouver Island in British Columbia. He is also a book reviewer who is a member of the National Book Critics' Circle. Garth's last book of poetry, Mad Shadows, was published in 2010.

poetry by S.P. Flannery

2011-09-05T07:09:00.000-07:00

Duct-tape Cure

Vinegar in a glass cup
is poured down my esophagus
to cleanse the stomach and intestines
of build-up, dross-like crud
coating smooth tissues, permeability
decreased until this acid
scours encrusted hamburger, fries,
doughnuts, junk food indigestible,
stripped of nutrients my
cells need to mine chemicals
used to construct proteins and energy,
fatigue I endure, a heaviness
that accompanies a diet unhealthy,
unconcerned with substance
rather filler, a place-holder
for when I shall awaken in
elder years to find a body
ransacked and infested with disease.

S.P. Flannery was born in La Crosse, Wisconsin, and now resides in
Madison. His poetry has appeared in Random Acts of Writing, Revival,
Bolts of Silk, Poetry Salzburg Review and The Blotter. More of his
work may be viewed at: http://spflannery.wordpress.com .