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  • 02/12/13--07:00: Richard Schnap - One Poem
  • Ghost City 

    The bus grumbles past
    A tired old man
    Coughing dim memories

    As the passengers look out
    Photos of the missing
    Waiting to be found

    In a rusty landscape
    Of vacant lots and weeds
    A chain-linked Eden

    Where earthbound angels
    Stitch second-hand wings
    For daydreams of flight

    Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.

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  • 02/13/13--07:00: Sy Roth - One Poem
  • Content to Circle

    Incarceration in a watery globe,
    her world circumscribed by interminable circles
    starting where there is no end and
    ending where there are no beginnings.
    Navigator of endless glass walls, uncovering nothing
    Discoverer of a stretch of perpetual waters,
    her reef-white rocks, and algae-capturing mesh.
    A world gyres from without.
    Mideast fades into another Arab spring,
    they rattle their nuclear sabers, and face other fiscal cliffs.
    A million tentative turns as she grows old
    on her merry-go-round of tepid water.
    No ah-has for this spindly, wire-legged tawpie
    as she circumnavigates her convex world
    where Brobdingnagians approach curiously to spy on her.
    No time to brabble when she seems content to follow her circles.

    Sy Roth has published in many online publications such as Bitchin’ Kitsch, Scapegoat Review, The Artistic Muse, Napalm and Novocain, Euphemism, Ascent Aspirations, Fowl Feathered Review,Wilderness House Journal, Aberration Labyrinth, Mindless(Muse),  Avalon Literary Review and Kerouac’s Dog. Sy was selected as Poet of the Month in Poetry Super Highway, September 2012.  

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  • 02/13/13--12:20: Ben Newell - One Poem

  • Kills Roaches Dead

    when I was a young writer I used to read my work to friends and family with favorable response
    now I realize they were just being nice
    as even thinking about those pieces is so humiliating and degrading
    I have to get wasted to forget I ever penned such imbecilic garbage
    isn’t the word
    for the swill I churned out back then . . .  
    these days, I read to nobody
    unless you count the apt. walls
    the dead cockroach on my kitchen floor
    whose demise had absolutely nothing
    to do
    with my last reading
    I swear

    Ben Newell is a native of Jackson, Mississippi where he works as a clerk at the Wilson Library/Millsaps College.  A fiction writer for most of his adult life, he recently diverted his efforts to poetry. Ben likes cold gin and hot weather.  

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    Grief Revisited

    Funny how the car smelled of exhaust,
    how your eyes fluttered into a dream.

    Funny how those fumes filled up
    the chambers of your heart,

    and how your last breath stuck
    to the glass when I found you.

    Funny how I’ve been stumbling
    around in a smoke-induced haze,

    and how it’s been years (years)
    of me breathing without you.

    Kristina England resides in Worcester, MA.  Her poetry is forthcoming or published at Gargoyle, Haggard and Halloo, Strong Verse, and other magazines.  For more on her poetry, visit

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  • 02/16/13--14:20: J.J. Campbell - One Poem
  • A Downtown Revival

    the crunch of guitars
    fill the air as the sun
    cracks through some
    thinning clouds

    the rain held off and
    made for two glorious
    days in a downtown
    long since forgotten

    i would find myself
    under a tree

    eyes closed and the
    music from the stage
    pumping through my

    i used to do this
    years ago without
    the music

    under the same tree

    but when you stop
    doing drugs sometimes
    you need a little help
    climbing on those old

    a sick bass line from
    deep in the pocket of
    the 70's usually does
    the trick

    J.J. Campbell lives, writes but mostly dies a little each day on a farm in Brookville, Ohio. He's been widely published over the years, most notably at Chiron Review, Thunder Sandwich, Zygote in My Coffee, and Nerve Cowboy. 

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    the clay pushed its way out
    through the cracks
    between his trembling

    fingers locked in frustration at his lack
    of skill of patience of new
    ideas holed up in his little room

    creating and destroying
    a miniature world the size of his
    eyeball rolled back and forth

    in the press of his palms
    waiting for the spirit
    to descend to transform to animate

    staring into nothing walls
    receding expanding receding
    pulsing entrancing

    dreaming not dreaming
    seeing not seeing
    nothing appeared to him nothing

    but the wall breathing something
    told him to look down there
    in his hands his fingers

    throbbing formed a heart
    shaped fist inside gripped clay
    heaved up in volcanic ridges

    peeking like islands above
    waves clenched grinding
    the teeth of a hidden key


    when you stumble across my remains
    do you stitch them together

    weave them into your monologue 
    swaddle them in your senses

    cradle the fleshy me-you
    in your eye-mind

    breast-lips mouthing I
    do I tongue kiss you

    with the sweetly rotten
    breath of your lover-self

    I the perfect you
    in my newborn simplicity

    singular arms crossed embracing
    a crumpled heart long split

    bones marking the spot in a plane
    drawn in unspoken


    Brian Robert Kenney is a writer and musician living in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

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    the hero clamors against the mob, 
    square peg defying round holes

    discord out of one and many,
    concord from many and one

    a child noisily rebels and
    the adults play along

    one rejoices to lead the dance and
    others, with delight, duly cavort

    help me, and they succor
    fight me, and they strive

    join me, and they blend
    admire me, and they do

    temples, mansions, bridges 
    are thrown up, bar by bar

    showing off, out of stillness 
    a complicated cadenza, soaring 

    in the middle, pensive meditation, 
    the solitary borne solemnly aloft  

    the journey like a romance, a war, 
    a life, tick-tock, strife to diapason 

    fugato to cadence and resolution,
    helter-skelter presto until

    all are spent, unanimous in
    silence; only then. . . applause.

    Robert Wexelblatt is professor of humanities at Boston University’s College of General Studies.  He has published essays, stories, and poems in a wide variety of journals, two story collections, Life in the Temperate Zone and The Decline of OurNeighborhood, a book of essays, Professors at Play; his recent novel, Zublinka Among Women, won the Indie Book Awards First Prize for Fiction.

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  • 02/21/13--11:40: Ross Vassilev - One Poem
  • Loveless

    nothing to do and nowhere to go
    while the white clouds
    dance circles in the sky
    and maybe the sunlight falling on the red bricks
    is trying to tell me something
    about the passage of time
    or maybe the people walking by ignore me
    cuz they know I'm insane
    or maybe I'm the invisible loser
    with nothing to show
    but the sad ghost of my mediocrity
    at any rate
    I've got a three-day beard
    2 bucks in my pocket
    and a mind full of laughing clowns
    so either my luck gets better real soon
    or else it's already up.

    Ross Vassilev was born in Bulgaria and now lives in Ohio.

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    Amber Premonitions

    Bloody pieces of yesterday
    pick me up,
    shaking off shards
    of demons draped in

    amber premonitions.
    Jumbles of colors wrap
    around each other
    to create rubber band

    balls that
    I pray,

    not knowing for what.
    I adhere to invisible shapes.
    Pieces of tomorrow
    will triumph.

    What Lies Ahead

    The crevices around my eyes
    take me to places
    I might only see
    in the kinds of dreams
    that render my body limp
    when I awake.
    The valleys form a maze on my face,
    invisible to everyone but me.
    It continues down to my throat,
    where it constricts my breathing
    while teaching me
    and warning me
    about what lies ahead.

    Lisa Pellegrini is a graduate of Beaver College (now Arcadia University) with a Bachelor's degree in English. In 2005, she wrote and self-published a romantic mystery novel, Kiss the Devil Goodbye, through Borders' Personal Publishing program. She has written and published over 160 poems and short stories on, a collaborative writers' website.

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  • 02/23/13--08:30: H.E. Mantel - Two Poems
  • Octaobtaneous
    (ex oficio ex pede Herculean)

    Sabado the day
    of wrest… boulevards of the
    road sparkspangle like
    a dim victory parade
    voicers upped like the balloons

    & hoods like hungry
    jaws of debt hawkbarkering’ers
    as a friend faster
    than lunch slicker than unct for
    whats you want whats they need…lots

    of lots vacant grins
    in shined tins pander machines
    quo ex animo
    lower than flags readied
    for glutt & waxy car max

    g’day there like that
    one? a new arrival clean
    an’ sweet an’ ready

    t’ go this one’s a
    quicksign an’ drive’r exec-
    yutive got a budg’t?

    she’s a foreclo…heh
    trade-off hop-on…th’ keyless
    model get the clue?

    your house on wheels tires
    just for fun kicked from under
    gourmet petrol of design
    no price is left out right but

    sabado the day
    of wrest…boulevards of the
    road wax wing lots of
    idlings’ time bomb tic-tic ‘til
    the soup’s pee for tea an’ toast.

    Rapid Transit? 

    A faster car, a
    faster computer, faster-
    acting antacid

    faster service, an
    Xpress check-out, a faster
    return, a faster

    delivery, faster
    acting, living in Faster-
    Land, for a faster

    result, a Disney-
    Whirl on the outerskirts of
    Criminalsburg (past

    Hurrysburg, PA)
    bulletrades on the E-train
    speedialed, speediern'

    AlkaSeltzer burst
    bubbles, bigger rude, hotter
    nudes, faster foods

    faster route, bigger
    snout on the speedway, faster
    than speeding bullets

    fastern' the fast laned
    SuperCurl, SupeSuperGlue!
    & litmus turn blue?

    Faster turnaround
    time to backwards cheat, dancin’
    as fast as ya can?

    S L O W...
    take the ES-CarGo &
    drive with lobster hands

    miss the plane/train/game,
    & a faster break, divorce
    Disney, no return

    there not "Late-Late for
    a very important dates,
    goodbye... I'll stay &

    let my fingers do
    the walking", hurry-up &
    wait computeless, eat

    right, leftovers, fast
    food not, slowfoodist moodist
    fastidious, the

    fastway hungray, Road-
    runner/Speedy Gonzalez -

    Not so swift, Johnny
    ya cain't match quippin' fastern'
    Jack Robinson, eh?

    And buttons fasten
    better without the snappin',
    Snappin'!? Xpress check-

    out, scan the scanner -
    Queues Brevis-Vida Longa!
    A fa$ter Eddie,

    Fa$tCa$hFa$t on the
    outerskirts of Crim'nilsburg
    fastrack Fastow on

    an end ron, 'cept all
    for a fastdrying, faster
    dissolve, Bubhub!, but

    ready-set...on your
    throttled Planete of the Ants
    limit speed scurries

    Nature don't hurry,
    yet everything's accomplished
    Lao Tze, yowtsayu?

    But, the time for a
    tasty hasty; aft, a crave

    of HastyTasty?

    Where ya goin' to
    Ms. Hurry, Mr. Rabbit
    Transit, down the hole?

    Y'all know the score, don't
    care to dare break It if'n
    It ain't fixed, Hornk-Hornk!

    H.E. Mantel-O’HaroHalola, of Hallandale Beach, Florida; published extensively in print and Internet e-zines/journals/anthologies, awaiting the publication of poetry collections, Bananas' On The Moon...A Collection Of Revisionist Haiku, & Sophistigates: A New Book Of New Poetry.

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  • 02/24/13--08:00: Sy Roth - Four Poems
  • No Words

    we walked
    stretched miles
    without words.
    when I tired
    he dragged.
    when I sat mulelike
    he glowered.
    he did not tell me where
    we were going in
    those endless miles,
    interminable minutes.
    his face read
    and I reluctantly followed as
    those dragging minutes and seconds.
    in the cold
    my furry collar bundled up against my face
    and the warm air of my breath
    quickening as time shuffled like a palsied man.
    I mewled,
    I whined
    to no avail,
    he determined to get where we were going
    we passed darkened buildings
    as the sun’s light waned
    and my anxieties waxed--
    darkened alleyways,
    dark drunks lying prone,
    dark peeing men,
    and in the light of a streetlamp
    he saw
    what he desired --
    his egg-shell Studebaker
    nestled between a black Ford
    and a red Chevrolet.
    not sure which was the front or the back,
    I was only pleased to be in it
    after he opened the doors.
    no words
    only the smell of stale cigarettes
    and the delight of having arrived. 

    Empty Room

    Two brains in two large glass jars
    One brain slightly smaller than the other
    Each a crenellated mass of rivers
    Some flowing south and others north.
    Each capable of thought
    One heartful and moist
    The other frigid and cold.

    One brain is filled with multifarious tiny boxes
    Overlapping one another
    Spilling ideas like a waterfall
    Into the others  
    a morass of dizzying perplexities
    splashing, noisy goblets of water
    traipsing the glassy surface like a ballerina.

    The other brain has far fewer boxes
    That all fear bumping into the others
    There’s little if any spillage
    And one large box is reserved
    As the empty room where quiet prevails
    The box lumbers in its silence
    like a bear searching the forest floor.

    Talks of the Unknowable

    They mischievously play footsie with little men,
    tease them answerless.

    Before Adam’s apocalypse
    the earth, lingered with bated breath  in the vast expanse.

    Apples fell with silent thunks to the ground.
    A train blew a plaintive whistle,

    Gnostic challenge that pinged from one star to the next.
    Shadows dressed walls interrogatively with cosmological demiurges of light.

    They created it, hidden under the streetlamp of ego
    where the other confounded finds deeper shadows.

    Was there use for the other in an ephemeral world?

    Human heart begs it.
    The end, the beginning, of the phenomenology of life.

    Adam inquires, telegraphs the question across the stars--
    searches forever for the pearl,

    the answers to the destruction of the Temple,
    talks of the unknowable.

    Her Dust Clings

    I stole her paper smells and crackling turns.
    Yes, and I’m proud of it; her memories are mine.
    Another guiltless excursion into
    promises made--I will love you forever.
    Broke her cover; sat down with her for hours.
    Hands lazed over her spine,
    grasped her soul in my hands and became one.
    Wrapped her every word in canyons of synapses,
    sojourned through her verdant valleys, caressing each blade of grass,
    breathed in her deliciously dusty realities.
    Like a cocaine addict or a bee lusting nectar,
    could not put her down, dreamed her dreams, hoarded every morsel.
    Her dust clung to me,
    the under-the-bed tumbleweed balls that gather unannounced.
    Last page turned in sweaty withdrawal.
    Back cover slapped closed, a thunderclap.
    Rapid sighs fill the room with moments of her, leave little time for remorse.
    I’m through, she’s read, on to the next.

    Sy Roth has published in many online publications such as Bitchin’ Kitsch, Scapegoat Review, The Artistic Muse, Napalm and Novocain, Euphemism, Ascent Aspirations, Fowl Feathered Review,Wilderness House Journal, Aberration Labyrinth, Mindless(Muse),  Avalon Literary Review andKerouac’s Dog. Sy was selected as Poet of the Month in Poetry Super Highway, September 2012.

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    Gone Blind

    Gone blind down
    the road that leads to
    serenity. Cannot find
    the open casket of my
    awakening or the joy of exile.
    Damned and committing to
    the poorest of temples –
    ruby like a miscarriage,
    like a red flag at half mast
    the spasm of a studied darkness
    emerges in my mouth like a thrill
    worth all its pleasure.
    Everything but the torment is unclear
    and that is my stigmatism, my success
    and my heroic danger,
    that is the sunny day I never find.
    But the foliage of my terrain is too familiar
    to be trouble, though my eyes remain as shells
    where once a glorious creature flourished.

    First and Only

    The first time I found you
    at the doughnut shop with the perfect beauty of youth and torment
    absorbed in every feature and in every movement
    of your astounding eyes, I knew I found an eternal friend, a lover for every stage.
    The first time you sang I felt a journey,
    a hope for fulfillment, a fiery and unexpected happiness.
    The first hug we shared on the church steps
    as the music played below was like a wave, strong and soothing
    rippling along my back and arms.
    Our first kiss outside the café, when the rain was about to fall, told me there would be
    no number on our days, no greater gift but to feel this – our lips once a part
    but now vibrant, like a new being – whole.
    Our first laugh together as we drank our coffee told us
    the depths we shared could be lightened by one another,
    gave us more than important conversation, gave us
    a rope to sometimes swing on and to always hold.
    Our two children born was more than a bluejay on our shoulders,
    more than any joy gone before, bringing us and still bringing us
    further into one another’s arms.
    We are the blessed ones, the ones blessed by a moving indelible love.
    And here I am, overwhelmed by grace,
    counting on nothing but on what we have,
    strangely at peace like the peace I found
    the time I first found you.

    Lost Shadow

    When the song started
    and the dream was torn from its socket then
    placed on the sidewalk,
    the light from the window broke
    and in came the lost shadow.
    I saw that shadow but stared it down
    thinking it would only last a short season –
    The shadow stayed, made its way behind
    bookshelves and old picture frames.
    Since then I can’t say what is a reflection and what is truly bright.
    The favorite plan has burned in the meadow,
    the secondary one has too.
    If we are right, we cannot touch it.
    If we are wrong, the sum of all our efforts
    and discoveries is naught.
    I enter the shadow then I too am left without definition.
    I found at times there is nowhere else to go but further in,
    further obliterating my clarity. That is a grey day for the dream.
    Other days God whispers in my ear to hold my head up
    and count my gifts. That is the day of perfect weather
    when the shadow stays under the bathtub
    and tomorrow is fine.

    Over the past twenty years Allison Grayhurst’s poems have been published in over 120 journals throughout the United States, Canada, Australia, and in the United Kingdom. Her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme Publishers, a Porcepic Book, in Vancouver in 1995. Since then she has published nine other books of poetry and two collections with Edge Unlimited Publishing. Her poetry chapbook The River is Blind was recently published by above/ground press December 2012. She lives in Toronto with her husband, two children, two cats, and a dog. She also sculpts, working with clay.

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    The Song of the Siren

    When miles blew his wretched horn
    Little did he know
    His trumpet’s wail
    Would be the call of
    The siren
    Trees would break out
    With your poetry
    Rivers would change their
    Course, so that their flow
    Would follow the
    Curves of your back
    And your name
    Would be synominous
    With voodoo

    Erren Geraud Kelley is a poet based in Chicago. His work appeared in over three dozen publications including, Hiram Poetry Review, Mudfish, Poetry Magazine (online) and other publications. He is the author of the chapbook " Disturbing The Peace," on Night Ballet Press.

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  • 03/01/13--07:00: Tito Kohout - Three Poems
  • Icarus

    Icarus flutters and falls to the waves
    which embrace him and rock him to sleep in their hold
    but never will honor his dark unmarked grave.

    His children, unborn, would prepare him a cave
    in a mountain's dark heart where the shadows are cold.
    Instead now he flutters and falls to the waves.

    With wings on his arms, helpless Daedalus raves
    at the sun, which ignores him, and sinks into gold:
    to lie like his son in a dark unmarked grave.

    He rues his hands' work, unable to save
    his one shining son, so young and so bold,
    who's fluttering, faltering into the waves,

    and imagines those children the son never gave
    to his father, who flies on alone to grow old,
    and always will honor the dark unmarked grave,

    not knowing the dive of the foolish and brave
    will plummet through time, generations untold,
    as Icarus flutters and falls to the waves,
    which never will honor his dark unmarked grave.

    The Moon

    I'm low and gold in a thick sky
    that now diminishes my luster. I
    can't see you through polluted air,
    a barrier too firm for hope or prayer
    to breach. Remember when you said
    that I'm the rind of some round fruit that's dead,
    the promise of its circular
    perfection, of its bloom deferred?
    It could be that I'll never wax
    again. It could be that these changing tacks
    will bear me off into the night
    on unknown winds controlled by darkness' might.
    Then I'll wane, concave, until I've gone
    away to where discarded gods, now wan
    and feeble, lie in fitful dreams,
    'til like the kraken, they arise in screams
    to smash the earth, to make the noon
    so black and starless that there's only moon.


    When the sky's cerulean uniformity
    pales only where it kisses
    a grayly permeable horizon,

    when the crispness of skin freshly scrubbed
    in limpid rivulets trickling down over limestone beds
    from the frigid mountains' shoulders is
    the only smell in predatory nostrils,

    when even the breeze rattling
    the nervous leaves of the crepe myrtles
    and junipers on ridges
    or in creekbeds below waits
    with bated breath and the silence grows so absolute
    that the ears fill themselves
    with tinnitus to know
    they're not yet deaf,

    does this mean you love me?

    Tito Kohout is an Austin native and University of Texas graduate. He works as a solar installer.

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  • 03/02/13--08:30: Mark Leci - Four Poems
  • Typo

    somewhere in this layered
    cubist collage of touch
    it is possible
    if one peers from the right angle
    to separate
    three bodies
    pry apart the tessellating edges -
    divide this flesh into separate forms
    but for a moment
    linked together
    a lifeline drawn in blood
    for a brief pulse
    a quartz vibration
    there is something akin to perfection
    in this movement
    then you collapse back
    into your mind
    the thoughts return
    of how his body is such
    styled and flowing
    copperplate in the square-nibbed pen
    and red ink so distinctive
    those complex German adjectives
    seem to ripple across him
    he is a living calligraphy
    and she so
    clear and radiant
    she bends light towards her
    like glass
    it follows the waveforms
    of the boundaries between
    her and not-her
    of what is sadness to touch
    and what is nothing
    your body is so
    covered with corrections
    rewrites and editing marks
    the edges all noise
    ink bleeds into the white fibres
    the shouting of the fights
    that made a simple skin
    into this memoir, battleground
    each skip dull version of
    scratches between the grooves of the record
    he holds it up to the light to test if it is warped
    tosses it away
    this is something too far from perfect

    Steam Baths

    An old man
    Levers himself into
    The hot bath
    With the slowness
    Of flowers blooming,
    Steam dreamily blurring the room childlike and careless,
    Coffee perfectly dripping into an empty pot.

    And the lowering of his body
    Contains the unspilled passion
    Of bursting muscle,
    Scalding liquid drifting over the wooden counter,
    Flowers exploding along winter’s edge,
    The old man screaming
    For the muscles to do his bidding,
    And a teenage boy
    Still as ancient ligament,
    His chest suddenly,
    Tellingly, flushed.

    Road Scholar

    with stratified hands
    circlets of dirt
    echo the blurred
    whorls of his fingertips
    he smudges the yellowing lining
    breathes as it oxidizes
    runs a crooked finger
    over justified columns
    thin color diagrams
    and broad pages
    he is blank and wide as
    prairie margins
    this lonely
    road scholar
    retells the parable of the scorpion
    shoes fading camouflage
    with the bitumen
    tree roots
    cracks in concrete face
    unsure which page to read
    he stares into blank
    like Picasso's blue family
    the moving finger
    smooths the creased pages
    with a hard black fingernail
    traces the scrawled notes
    with empty pen
    frail amalgam of feeling
    his books are out of date
    and the world turns
    faster than he can run


    The last time
    I sat and did nothing
    Or read a book
    Without time whining
    Through the hourglass
    Like a vacuum

    Snow was
    Deep over

    Franco was
    Toddling in
    His garden

    Old potatoes
    Were still new

    The dragonflies
    Were kick-starting
    Their wings on
    The back porch
    Running ink
    Into tiny grooves
    Like a record

    8-track was
    The wave of
    The future
    Clicks and

    Certain girls
    Would be
    Expected to have
    Both long gloves
    And cigarette holders

    You were
    A tiny neon
    And nobody
    Touched you

    Mark Leci’s writing is strongly influenced by such diverse fields as chemistry, music, physics and computer programming. He lives alone in Calgary.

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  • 03/11/13--12:01: Ron Riekki - Two Poems
  • Reap I

    Death is a little bit confused today.
    It’s a little bit early for confusion
    considering He knows the future,

    but He puts down his head to think.
    “Death,” I say, for if I could keep
    from being dug under the green,

    there’d be nothing I wouldn’t
    absolutely do. “Death, who wants
    more sorrow today? Let’s eat souls

    later. For now, whirligig. Go to a shoe
    shop. Get pizza. Anything.” But Death
    says, All my souls are old stars. His voice

    feels like the end. As if the how never was.
    I think many, Death says, I think many have
    gone to church for the first time today.

    And then, into the green, another. Beside
    Death is my dear mother. Dear. And green.
    The green before you were born.

    Much Better Pay Than Minimum Wage  
    (Beijing, February 4, 2012)

    Erin says, “China has more prostitutes per square inch

    than any other country in the world. The brilliant thing

    is that you could come here and—if you’re blind enough—
    think there aren’t any. It’s not like street hookers in the U.S.

    where it’s so painfully obvious the police are being paid off
    that you have to grab your children and tuck their eyes

    under your arms.” He takes a sip of coffee and goes
    into the meeting with the cigarette company.

    Ron Riekki's next book is The Way North: Collected Upper Peninsula New WorksWayne State University Press, May, 2013.

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  • 03/19/13--21:37: Donal Mahoney - One Poem

  • Caseworker: Yams and Plantain

    The Housing Project
        Summer in Chicago

    Bienvenido’s comin’ over,
    says his wife,
    to ‘splain me

    why the kids
    have got no rice,
    no beans,

    how the landlord’s
    shovin’ notes beneath
    the door again.

    In Puerto Rico Bienvenido
    dug up yams,
    was paid in plantain,

    came over here,
    brought his wife,
    then his kids.

    First New York,
    then Chicago,
    gave up yams,

    gave up plantain,
    just to drum
    and make a living.

    Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in the Americas, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his work can be found here:

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    By Grace

    The breath by grace
    drawn down
    through the wind,
    continuous the movement.

    A baby born new
    held swaddled in a loving
    mothers gentle embrace.

    Or perhaps it was harder
    than that
    and you were the one
    dropped down
    on the ragged ground.
    To reach out,
    to take hold,
    to suck on life’s bitter tit.

    Continuous the movement,
    the breath by grace
    drawn down
    through the wind.

    Poet and storyteller Edward Alexander lives in a small town close to Austin, Texas where he writes and makes furniture of his own designs. His short stories have been published recently by Black Lantern Publishing, Lady Ink Magazine, 34th Parallel and poetry by The Mas Tequila Review, The Chaffey Review and Poets River Jounral.

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    Circus Flaminius

    Not even Moses wrote the sin of Eve;
    anonymous product
    a 5th century wag of unjust finger, and
    the brethren shout hallelujah at
    Sodom and Gomorrah virgin sacrifice.

    Now new charlatans circle for the kill;
    televised Circus Flaminius
    public stoning of woman's womb―
    Kirk Cameron trips over his tongue.

    Penis People

    Until accused that time
    right to my face of being a tease
    ―before I knew how and when to work it―
    work the stuff I had, such as it was,
    I hadn't given tease credence;

    and until the waitress tips, sacred tokens for wearing
    Sacajawea braids that one customer liked awfully much
    and said so to my red cheeks;

    and later still the lame one-liners
    so diabolically lame;

    it hadn't occurred that
    I wasn't the tease, but skillfully teased into
    a plaything for the penis people.

    Author Wanda Morrow Clevenger has placed over 185 pieces of work in 67 markets.

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  • 03/24/13--22:24: Clyde L. Borg - One Poem
  • The Good Old Young

    They hold on to life
    Like some leaves tend to do
    On winter deadened trees
    That once were
    Splendidly green.
    They resist the iciness
    Of the gray winter
    By feigning warmth
    In gloved hands,
    And layer upon layer
    Of clothing.
    They seek inclusion,
    But often reject it
    For fear of impeding
    The activity of others.
    They listen, observe,
    And look again,
    Inwardly judging,
    But then only sighing
    With abject resignation.
    They are the aged,
    The old that were young,
    The good old young
    That cling to life.

    Clyde L. Borg is a retired high school teacher and administrator. Some of his work has appeared in History Magazine, Fate Magazine, The Rambler and Capper's Magazine.  He resides in Fords, New Jersey.

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