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Showing posts from September, 2023

John Dorsey

Poem for the Original Pink Lady somewhere you are frozen in time forever thirty years old & resting your head above a cincinnati pizza shop even then you seem tired or maybe bored cutting your wrists on the couch with a dull disposable razor blade as if you were knitting a sweater for nick cave out of empty mountain dew bottles & cigarette butts proclaiming your love in an angry song on the docks of billy childish’s broken heart you dance like a little girl hiding inside a burning tire. John Dorsey lived for several years in Toledo, Ohio. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Teaching the Dead to Sing: The Outlaw's Prayer (Rose of Sharon Press, 2006), Sodomy is a City in New Jersey (American Mettle Books, 2010), Tombstone Factory, (Epic Rites Press, 2013), Appalachian Frankenstein (GTK Press, 2015) Being the Fire (Tangerine Press, 2016) and Shoot the Messenger (Red Flag Poetry, 2017),Your Daughter's Country (Blue Horse Press

DS Maolalai

America – what a flight of strong beers on this patio brewpub in Boston a stroll from the hostel where we drank until late- night last night. America – what unbelievable novelty! and drinking again now this morning to early afternoon! there's a dog and some girls and some guys around 40, all decked out with beer- guts like tires and sunglasses. the air smells of sawdust and no decoration; that sought after bare- walled industrial style. I love it; this August, this sun like a new polished quarter. and that is a novelty also – being able to say things like that. we have some time to spend – we order for some sandwiches, eat them quite slowly. the bus leaves for Salem at 3. we are going; we intend to see all America – needing to see nothing else. DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as "a cosmopolitan poet" and another as "prolific, bordering on incontinent". His work has nominated eleven times for Best of the Net,

Anne Champion

Stigmata I never predicted my hair would be in the fist of a man who collected pieces of me as souvenirs, had a shrine with my underwear, my childhood videos; never thought I’d live in a sick man’s fantasy— so real that he felt he had to kill it; never imagined a stalker could be handsome, could flinch guiltily when I argued that parents did astonishing work fucking us up; never envisioned a stranger could kidnap an inner child so he becomes Father, Son, and Holy Ghost; never prophesied my wrists up, post-resurrection, bleeding my shames, watching strangers recoil as if before a witch. Corpse Bride In some places, girls are made to marry their rapists. This used to strike me as barbaric, until a man broke into my apartment and raped me. I imagine our marriage bed the same way a rash of suicidal thoughts migrate across my flesh like a flock of crows. What difference would it make? My bed is my coffin now; a corpse bride. If another man were to ever

Robert Beveridge

Eight of Swords (reversed) You know things have gotten bad when the local prophets have taken off their sandwich boards, stepped down from their soapboxes, and removed themselves to your armpits. Hasn’t stopped them from their attempts to spread the good word, though, no sir. In the diner when you stop to avail yourself of the ham and egg special, they proclaim the horrors of parallel parking; when you pause on the path in the middle of your jog, out they come to harangue the passersby about the dangers of burglars who break into homes, steal nothing, but leave Legos in your hallways for you to tread on as you head to the bathroom at three in the morning. You’ve consulted the authorities, but of course, they say there’s nothing they can do. None of this, you’ve found, is a huge deal until they speechify in your ear. The laundry can wait one more day. There’s just one more cookie, you can’t leave a whole box with just one cookie in it. You have a spare room, and the

Jim Dunn

The Wanting Mare Wanting more The wanting mare brings her furious desire to the water’s edge Waiting here She dips herself in Many moons of dusk A sad star frozen In the icy night Sheds tears One frozen moment Stopped in its tracks From the crescent Of the other pink moon Cassandra sings Prophecies of A watery wedding Of one mermaid To the endless sea She twists like the tide And rolls her soul Out upon the rocks In prayer An offering to the Crash of the collapsing surf Rumbling roaring in a Ballad of blue waves She sings Amongst the mists Of the day Soft sibilant and sweet Entwined like a bird to its Flight, a minstrel to his song. Jim Dunn  is the author of This Silence is a Junkyard(Spuyten Duyvil, 2022) Soft Launch (Bootstrap Press/Pressed Wafer, 2008), Convenient Hole (Pressed Wafer, 2004), and Insects In Sex (Fallen Angel Press, 1995).  His work has appeared in Castle Grayskull, Blazing Stadium, Can We Have Our Ball Back?, Bright Pink Mo