Live Nude Poems

After the Argument Forget the words. They’ll be rocks by morning. The place (the bed in this instance) prefers the body to the tongue. Submerge yourself in space and time and tomorrow will welcome you with dog-bark and foliage. No lost ponies. All trails sure underfoot. The fire thawing the cold or the cool turning back the heat. Sediment will look like crystal. Tears, mere side-paths on the way to knowing him. John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Red Weather. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Rathalla Review and Open Ceilings.

Marrakesh Espresso All the men left when she reached the rooftop leaving behind quickly cleared cups. She watched her city, inhaling spices rising off thick, black liquid. Her wandering thoughts roll forth and back. Slow tides. Hot coffee matched her warm skin. His lost warmth, still lingering like ginger and pepper in her huge cup. Other roofs stay empty. Two palms touch in afternoon breeze. She’ll sit till evening proclaims prayer. One more cup before she stops— just teasing her mouth, like his kiss. It’s her much to ask. Let slow steam rise like singing. Mark J. Mitchell  was born in Chicago and grew up in southern California. His latest poetry collections are  Roshi San Francisco ( Norfolk Publishing) and  Starting from Tu Fu ( Encircle Publications).  He is very fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Miles Davis, Kafka and Dante. H e  lives in San Francisco with his wife, the activist and documentarian, Joan Juster where he made his marginal living pointing out pretty th

Not Quick Enough (Retort to Neruda’s You Start Dying Slowly) Sorry Neruda. My demise is a fastball. Improvement of self-esteem has dwindled to muffled applause for leaving the bedroom. Habits cling to defeated prosperity, as I stare out a window—eying nothing but lost children, looking for their parents. My paths are impounded. My colors have always been dark & banal. Self-deprecation or an existence in torment. My eyes are dead. Soul has kept sadness intact. Dreams, just false, internal slop—feeding off my fears & inadequacies. No Pablo, My death is almost here. A gift from the demons who laughed just outside my touch. Kicking. Ridiculing. Found on every journey I failed to complete. Dan Provost’s poetry has been published both online and in print since 1993.  He is the author of 15 books/chapbooks, including the upcoming Wolf Whistles Behind the Dumpster, which will be available in late 2022, courtesy of Roadside Press.  He has been

Our Ghosts Do Not Say Boo ! They are screaming In attics Rattling the chains Which keep them tethered to the floor I lie awake Listening Out of courtesy Though secretly wishing for sleep And then sometimes Like children When taking a nap They will suddenly go silent And I will wonder, and worry, if they are all right Thomas O'Connnell is a librarian living on the banks of the Connecticut River in Springfield, MA. His poetry and short fiction has appeared in The Los Angeles Review, Hobart (online), and Blink-Ink, as well as other print and online journals.

The Doe and the Buck The doe dreams of jumping into that leaf laden forest to nibble and nibble The buck dreams of jumping the doe The lioness dreams they both jump into her mouth and the lion dreams the lioness will bring him her kills and he will jump her after they’re full John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

Dylan & Baez, You & Me I’ve heard old broadcasts of Joan introducing Bobby, her silky soaring voice blending with his crackling croak, seen a photograph of him smoking a cigarette, strumming a guitar, leaning into the microphone, her standing, a few steps behind with her head bowed, hand stroking the back of the voice of my generation and I think of your phone call, the night after Christmas, asking to walk in the falling snow, walking all the way to my couch, my bed, returning two nights a week for nearly two years, how you filled mixed tapes with music new to my ears, Neko Case, Josh Ritter, Ryan Adams, artists I still buy tickets to see, memorized my poems, all the sad and sexy ones, brought me a black and white thick shake the afternoon of the night your boyfriend proposed, eventually moved to Austin, gave birth to three daughters and as far as I know, never played Diamonds and Rust on your cello for me while I sit, try to