Live Nude Poems

Tami Every inch a mile & every clock eternity I miss you, I stay drunk I’m on my way.  Three Months Now The side of my neighbor’s house looks like a yellow brick skull with a green hedge beard & dirty window eyes  it watches past the driveway watches me drink backyard beer watches while I kiss  the silver pipe watches like it knows something  I don’t but I do gone three months now she’s not coming back.  Purple Hair & Podcasts                        (for Ne’Cole) Pain shapes our paths  in ways we’d rather not walk  yet we arrive voices breaking air still sexy. Bart Solarczyk lives in Pittsburgh

Ferlinghetti Spoke Twenty years old, sitting on the sidewalk in front of City Lights Bookstore after many days of Greyhound and train, an oldish-even-then man in that beard and cap said, "We don't open 'till ten," as he stepped past me and closed the door. And I waited a while but eventually left. What's a journey of two thousand miles when hunger is everywhere? Matt Dennison is the author of Kind Surgery , from Urtica Press (Fr.) His work has appeared in Rattle, Bayou Magazine, Redivider, Natural Bridge, The Spoon River Poetry Review and Cider Press Review, among others. He has also made short films with Michael Dickes , Swoon , Marie Craven and Jutta Pryor .

Ted Berrigan’s Sonnet I, Erased       sleeping hands                                     which play         for warmth still       among             sleeping                                   fragments Ted Berrigan’s Sonnet II, Erased                   hello      books      the day is bright  feminine          the sun      up                           late to work                                         I should know better Mike James makes his home outside Nashville, Tennessee and has published widely. His many poetry collections include: Red Dirt Souvenir Shop (Analog Submissions), Journeyman’s Suitcase ( Luchador), Parades (Alien Buddha), Jumping Drawbridges in Technicolor (Blue Horse), First-Hand Accounts from Made-Up Places (Stubborn Mule), Crows in the Jukebox (Bottom Dog), My Favorite Houseguest (FutureCycle) , and Peddler’s Blues (Main Street Rag.) He served as an associate editor of The Kentuck

Discovered I'm carving my initials on a tree with a pocketknife my father gave me yesterday. My first tool. My first weapon. I'm leaving a hint of who I am here by force. I'm not killing the tree but what was that cry I just heard? Probably just a bird but it's a new one on me. Crow? Pigeon? No and no.  GA --that's me, or part. I know who I am but if someone comes through these woods and doesn't know me then he won't know I cut these clues. But he'll know why, I suspect, and that's enough: as if I've put my mark on Nature--my copy -right. Yes (mean my initials), I own all you survey. Not just this one tree but all its brothers and, by extension, the earth and sky, bushes and briars and flowers, birds and squirrels and stray cats and dogs and whatever other creatures wander through, including the character who pauses here and finds the owner of this forest. Not that he would know where to look. Chance

The Antichrist's Mad Skills      on The Omen Don’t lie to your wife, Gregory Peck. That unholy son is a doozey. Hormones are scheming delivery mechanisms of the Devil and yet Lee Remick is delivered. To England! Remind me, has the cake been served? Nanny ties her noose for you! Damien appears morally ambiguous. Honors the child-mother bond of comfort and hate, tricycling Mom to hospital. Photos. Mystery mark of death. You got it, you goner. Nanny murders. Peck battles. There is no happy ending unless you favor fear, as I do. That red-eyed coot keeps me company most nights. Sarah Sarai ’ s poems are in  DMQ Review ,  Mom Egg , Zocalo Public Square ,  The Southampton Review  and many other journals. Her second full-length collection,  That Strap less Bra in Heaven, was published by  Kelsay Books. She doesn ’ t think clouds are lonely.