tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66210931636947801092024-03-18T03:50:47.268-04:00Live Nude PoemsLike the title says.Rustyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209150671200557517noreply@blogger.comBlogger478125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-26136604969398188862024-03-01T08:19:00.002-05:002024-03-01T08:19:34.754-05:00Charles Rammelkamp<p> <b style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">Doped
with Religion, Sex and TV</span></b></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">“<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Working
class hero, my foot,” Darleen spat.</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">“Pampered
British rock star’s more like it.</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">He
don’t know nothin’ about no working class,”</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">she
sneered, “and that Jap witch he married.</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">She’s
probly the one who put them ideas in his head.”</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span></span><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">Darleen
and I worked on the assembly line</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">at
the Capitol Records plant, putting fresh-pressed LPs</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">into
sleeves, the packaged albums into cardboard boxes,</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">the
boxes onto pallets for the forklift guy</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">to
take them away to the loading dock.</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">“I
used to like some of them early songs.</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">‘I
Want to Hold Your Hand,’ ‘A Hard Day’s Night,’</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">but
you can have this stuff. Working class hero!</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">Who
does he think he’s kidding?”</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">I
stuffed my impulse to defend Lennon,</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">point
out his poverty in postwar Liverpool,</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">the
broken family, the absent sailor father;</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">mainly
offended by Doreen’s naked racism,</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">pitying
her for the misogyny she’d absorbed</span></span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">from
generations of farmers on the prairie.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">I
was a college student, working part time </span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">while
carrying a full course load.</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">She
was a farmer’s wife, supplementing </span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">the
household finances;</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"> </span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">in
the same boat, really;</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">only
difference was I read books and she didn’t.</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">What
do they say? </span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">Never
argue about religion, politics, or music.</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">“We
got many more </span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><i><span style="background: #ffffff;">Plastic
Ono Band</span></i></span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">s
left to package?”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">I
asked, ignoring her diatribe.<br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">I’d
like to take a cigarette break.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p><a name="OLE_LINK1"></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;"><b></b></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPIOm8Pme7N9WaSPJbn8q7X_JtHjQqEhQaZLPpl9xODufR_6quMw8bg__nV-G_mHHA8oVd-TvFFseJ8JtNZC4yFe9iOsKrsDXnf85qHrPS8VedmXNGoxC7A97ukvduyxp__yFgo9ASvPLtpTik1VR-r7MKYcvKW46LxkxGUPqlxKLQuAvofHgjWh8wFik/s640/Author%20photo%20lee%20ho%20fook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="481" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPIOm8Pme7N9WaSPJbn8q7X_JtHjQqEhQaZLPpl9xODufR_6quMw8bg__nV-G_mHHA8oVd-TvFFseJ8JtNZC4yFe9iOsKrsDXnf85qHrPS8VedmXNGoxC7A97ukvduyxp__yFgo9ASvPLtpTik1VR-r7MKYcvKW46LxkxGUPqlxKLQuAvofHgjWh8wFik/s320/Author%20photo%20lee%20ho%20fook.jpg" width="241" /></a></b></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><b>Charles
Rammelkamp</b> is Prose Editor for BrickHouse Books in Baltimore. His
poetry collection</span><span style="color: #222222;"><i><span style="background: #ffffff;">,
A Magician Among the Spirits,</span></i></span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;"> poems
about Harry Houdini, is a 2022 Blue Light Press Poetry
winner. Another poetry collection entitled </span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><i><span style="background: #ffffff;">Transcendence </span></i></span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">has
also recently been published by BlazeVOX Books and a collection of
flash fiction, </span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><i><span style="background: #ffffff;">Presto</span></i></span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">,
has just been published by Bamboo Dart Press. A collection of poems
and flash called </span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><i><span style="background: #ffffff;">See
What I Mean? </span></i></span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">will
be published later this year by Kelsay Books.</span></span></span><p></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>Rustyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209150671200557517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-13822587584415878102024-02-09T03:32:00.000-05:002024-02-09T03:32:10.755-05:00Daniel Edward MooreJohn 1:1<br /><br />
In the beginning was the word and the word was tired,<br />
but even half-conscious I was seduced by<br />
the slurred speech of the holy.<br /><br />
Oh, Christ the carbohydrate<br />
chased by twelve shots of whiskey,<br />
take me to thy church.<br /><br />
Be gone from my lips, oh, demon expresso,<br />
oh, CPAP hose making love with my airway<br />
to keep my oxygen happy.<br /><br />
If the word becomes flesh, something I can kiss,<br />
with a glassblower’s flaming tongue,<br />
summon me quick, so the dead in me<br /><br />
may rise from the heart’s silent ruins.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjFNosKFZq4_WY_6mxbSw40to1N-HsPS8s5V61sD0P2dKeGJ6vbT9YQV8Ka3o1V80qSy9cD_nJhHUgksg4D-NVFY_lRSO8ncNCJaRx4VEtsrs5ypxcGI4DM5ae8XO_Yx25NboqDErwQ11H-XkUSjIMUlPcnCbgD2jXMAYlA-2TLFNIrftkOCnw_Ui_RHQ/s3082/do_%2021%5B5263%5D.jpg" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><br /><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="2118" data-original-width="3082" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjFNosKFZq4_WY_6mxbSw40to1N-HsPS8s5V61sD0P2dKeGJ6vbT9YQV8Ka3o1V80qSy9cD_nJhHUgksg4D-NVFY_lRSO8ncNCJaRx4VEtsrs5ypxcGI4DM5ae8XO_Yx25NboqDErwQ11H-XkUSjIMUlPcnCbgD2jXMAYlA-2TLFNIrftkOCnw_Ui_RHQ/s320/do_%2021%5B5263%5D.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="font-style: italic;"><i><br /></i></div><b>Daniel Edward Moore</b> lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His poems have appeared in Phoebe, Southern Humanities Review and others. His work is forthcoming in Action Spectacle Magazine, The Meadow Journal, The Chiron Review and Delta Poetry Review. His book, “Waxing the Dents,” from Brick Road Poetry Press.
Rustyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209150671200557517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-91132538663973371542024-01-19T08:00:00.001-05:002024-01-19T08:00:00.243-05:00Paul Ilechko<div style="margin: 0in;"> Inheritance</div><div style="margin: 0in;"><br />A lack of paperwork<br />an emptiness of filing cabinets <br />a distinct lack of manila envelopes</div><div style="margin: 0in;"> <br />he was born unwanted </div><div style="margin: 0in;">learning at a pre-verbal age <br />to tolerate the hot-potato shuffle <br /><br /></div><div style="margin: 0in;">his budget plywood crib<br />cheaply painted with angry rabbits<br />following him from house to house <br /><br /></div><div style="margin: 0in;">the aunt with oversized teeth <br />would peer for a time <br />from above a severe absence of chin <br /><br /></div><div style="margin: 0in;">and the very next day <br />the hairless uncle who lacked even eyebrows <br />would fail to appear surprised <br /><br /></div><div style="margin: 0in;">he didn’t care much where he went<br />as long as he was fed <br />his taste in adults supremely inclusive <br /><br /></div><div style="margin: 0in;">but at some point in time <br />the ball had to finally stop rolling <br />and life then settled into an equilibrium<br /><br /></div><div style="margin: 0in;">but everything now is upside down again<br />all interested parties reappearing <br />as lawsuits drag anxiously on<br /><br /></div><div style="margin: 0in;">an inheritance contested <br />the entire clan eagerly awaits<br />to see how poor or rich he might be<br /><br /></div><div style="margin: 0in;">and every last one of them<br />is prouder than they ever were before<br />to be recognized as his kith and kin.<br /><span class="gmail-s1"><span style="color: #141414; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span class="gmail-s1"><span style="color: #141414; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDGtnPQpwrZA1M3PzgrbGyg3Ymvw1_dVaycMvn7xZIjQxQozjfwDshfREoIVw0K2bh3XAzsbAexv1b0a88xFXI4bz0tIONPGujbh7P4fVr2I1ogLMYg6quDKHe4lxg805EQlR62KLTn8YSE4Mb_VwBn0eZYpNszlbDHAYWX6DaoNIHJnte4StjuKR_NEw/s2458/ilechko.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2394" data-original-width="2458" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDGtnPQpwrZA1M3PzgrbGyg3Ymvw1_dVaycMvn7xZIjQxQozjfwDshfREoIVw0K2bh3XAzsbAexv1b0a88xFXI4bz0tIONPGujbh7P4fVr2I1ogLMYg6quDKHe4lxg805EQlR62KLTn8YSE4Mb_VwBn0eZYpNszlbDHAYWX6DaoNIHJnte4StjuKR_NEw/s320/ilechko.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Paul Ilechko</b> is a British American poet and occasional
songwriter who lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ. His work has
appeared in many journals, including The Bennington Review, The Night Heron
Barks, deLuge, Stirring, and The Inflectionist Review. He has also published
several chapbooks. </span></span></div><p><br /></p>Rustyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209150671200557517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-31108245335357831772023-11-30T22:50:00.001-05:002023-11-30T22:50:35.673-05:00Mike James<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The River’s Architecture</span></p>
<p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">for Louis McKee, d. 11/21/11</span></p>
<p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />
</span></p>
<p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />
</span></p>
<p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The
river has a shape you follow with your</span></p>
<p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">whole
body: shoulder, footstep,
</span></p>
<p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">and
ear-</span></p>
<p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">those
who know how to listen hear how
</span></p>
<p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">river
wind is like breath, alive in lung and line.
</span></p>
<p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />
</span></p>
<p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="background: #ffffff;"><b></b></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #333333;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm9UTvB3Ehbm9QErGYJGN58VCcV7X_CtG0Xd3-No4cdHegBS7iVuj1tRgkeA5AvpPxVQzIoHQ4IV0p4VFrj0FtFvU4dOxuex6fzAu1aB4jfm39QL3PCCvc9NRtiScqrd_iW1F6JayObCjttbnfa-h94C8N_7y3gxTjCMqhuEOpV04YTOV7XEqjJ1Ctvv8/s4032/IMG_3593.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm9UTvB3Ehbm9QErGYJGN58VCcV7X_CtG0Xd3-No4cdHegBS7iVuj1tRgkeA5AvpPxVQzIoHQ4IV0p4VFrj0FtFvU4dOxuex6fzAu1aB4jfm39QL3PCCvc9NRtiScqrd_iW1F6JayObCjttbnfa-h94C8N_7y3gxTjCMqhuEOpV04YTOV7XEqjJ1Ctvv8/s320/IMG_3593.jpg" width="240" /></a></b></span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #333333;"><b>Mike
James</b> makes his home in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. He has published in
hundreds of magazines, large and small, and has performed his poetry
at universities and other venues throughout the country. He has
published over 20 collections and has served as visiting writer at
the University of Maine, Fort Kent. His recent new and selected
poems, </span><span style="color: #333333;"><i><span style="background: #ffffff;">Portable
Light: Poems 1991-2021,</span></i></span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">
was nominated for the National Book Critics Circle Award. His last
collection, </span></span><span style="color: #333333;"><i><span style="background: #ffffff;">Back
Alley Saints at the Tiki Bar,</span></i></span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">
was published in April by Redhawk. He currently serves as the Poet
Laureate of Murfreesboro, TN. </span></span></span>
<p></p>Rustyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209150671200557517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-45423153440194260082023-11-17T08:00:00.001-05:002023-11-17T08:00:00.447-05:00Agnes Vojta<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Tattoo</span></b><br /><br />
She stands like a statue, arm raised, her wrist<br />
rests on top of her head as the artist draws<br />
with black marker on her naked body.<br /><br />
The tree with the dragon will cover her side<br />
from breast to hip. A friendly dragon,<br />
she had insisted when they looked through the sketches.<br /><br />
The needles of the tattoo gun etch<br />
art into her flank. She bites her lip. Closes<br />
her eyes, thinks it will be beautiful.</span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><b><span style="font-size: large;">
Heart felt</span></b><br /><br />
I put the laundry in the dryer<br />
and remember the day we strolled<br />
through the town after lunch,<br />
not ready to say goodbye.<br /><br />
The years of absence<br />
had fallen away like dust<br />
in a breeze. Confidences<br />
came easy. We wandered<br /><br />
into a store that sold soaps<br />
and wooden brushes. A glass jar<br />
with felted dryer balls<br />
stood on the windowsill. I told you<br /><br />
how the dogs had claimed<br />
my old one as a toy. You picked<br />
a ball with a rainbow heart<br />
and bought it for me.<br /><br />
I watched your car disappear<br />
down the road. We forgot<br />
to take a picture. But I smile<br />
and think of you when I open my dryer.</span><br />
</div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf5RfSHTYMSkRlLKJYGOcLQuex2BQy0PCjGToScDoAgRuw4TB6SAHgsd1wRqAWv4gDobDMnBumopjcXYIk4MbkKSvkD-Ug4kZdfZDkhFc4Mb6ZZERu8nzswx76EaBsk9oHn2VQlcfGcuDnpbj66FgakPl342DkHqdrW-9p5jR0xPwn7cRWhJAbof-31FjE/s1359/Agnes%20pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1359" data-original-width="1182" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf5RfSHTYMSkRlLKJYGOcLQuex2BQy0PCjGToScDoAgRuw4TB6SAHgsd1wRqAWv4gDobDMnBumopjcXYIk4MbkKSvkD-Ug4kZdfZDkhFc4Mb6ZZERu8nzswx76EaBsk9oHn2VQlcfGcuDnpbj66FgakPl342DkHqdrW-9p5jR0xPwn7cRWhJAbof-31FjE/w174-h200/Agnes%20pic.jpg" width="174" /></a></div></div><div><b style="font-family: inherit;">Agnes Vojta</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> grew up in Germany and now lives in Rolla, Missouri where
she teaches physics at Missouri S&T and hikes the Ozarks. She is
the author of </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Porous Land</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">, </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">The Eden of Perhaps, </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">and </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">A
Coracle for Dreams </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">(Spartan Press). Most recently, she
collaborated with eight other poets on the book </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Wild Muse: Ozarks
Nature Poetry</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> (Cornerpost Press, 2022.) Agnes hosts the Poetry at
the Pub reading series in Rolla and is associate editor of Thimble
Literary Magazine. Her poems have appeared in a variety of magazines;
you can read some of them on her website agnesvojta.com.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-28070688249559745892023-11-10T08:00:00.021-05:002023-11-10T08:00:00.383-05:00John Tustin<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Peppermint</span></b><br /><br />
I was walking the frozen food aisle and I saw her in front of me,<br />
Loading up her cart with frozen dinners.<br />
She was just the right height and not a tattoo in sight.<br />
Dressed in a thin jacket, blue jeans and sneakers,<br />
She turned and looked at me as I stood there<br />
And she gave me a smile before going back to her business.<br />
Her eyes were something else, as grandma used to say.<br /><br />
I imagined she was forty years old, probably had two kids in high school or college<br />
And she divorced her husband because he was unfaithful.<br />
I imagined she was alone most nights and she painted them away while drinking wine.<br />
I began imagining a lot of things standing there<br />
While she read the ingredients on a box of Stouffer’s Lasagna.<br /><br />
I finally turned my face away, put my head down<br />
And walked right past her.<br />
She wore size seven sneakers.<br />
She smelled like peppermint.<br />
I went to the next aisle and then the next<br />
And then I paid the cashier.<br />
I didn’t see her again.<br /><br />
When I got to my car I started to think about it<br />
As I loaded the groceries into the back seat –<br />
If she smelled like spearmint instead of peppermint<br />
She just might’ve had me.</span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS0XEk1LRBsf8ncX9z2URLeJLpUyve5e1_7XPaH-D8oL-zKybZFcfh6kpaqieDc9DGj-C_Vtn5HfLROx0YeMCTlh7wuKrgPxJTkMGwT6QRPqhOSCjy11UfmCGDE6d1AfWOhBkF3iThYTPhUmagUwd2MdwdXpiwTRVAsDHQq5XgvQ1A-8hAlZIuSliLtFAx/s2048/John%20T.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS0XEk1LRBsf8ncX9z2URLeJLpUyve5e1_7XPaH-D8oL-zKybZFcfh6kpaqieDc9DGj-C_Vtn5HfLROx0YeMCTlh7wuKrgPxJTkMGwT6QRPqhOSCjy11UfmCGDE6d1AfWOhBkF3iThYTPhUmagUwd2MdwdXpiwTRVAsDHQq5XgvQ1A-8hAlZIuSliLtFAx/w150-h200/John%20T.jpg" width="150" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><b>John Tustin</b>’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. His first poetry collection from Cajun Mutt Press is now available at </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0C6W2YZDP"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0C6W2YZDP</span></a><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> . fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.</span></span></div></div>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-49004963948493643512023-11-03T08:00:00.001-04:002023-11-03T08:00:00.396-04:00Chad Parenteau<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Morning Talk</span></b><br /><br />
I dreamed of<br />
a conversation<br /><br />
boring like<br />
this one where<br /><br />
you failed<br />
to convince<br /><br />
that I’m not<br />
repeating mistakes.<br /><br />
Nothing learned.<br />
No one changes.<br /><br />
Thank me<br />
for listening.</span><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA6izWYDDGU-dIeBEk7C7I8FNMiQ-AHMJs0pPpKabbdPCo6PpxwOp-gTY_kEAoYl-TYIVLdmyY7bt7h3181LdhMhy96IVDb-Z4HqJ-6j9HVsD_ZhghzHfPUB4o5O2oUNl8xywbHwd09mdO2KU6QAOdTXL0qwtgSOoyitT9SIh4P9zo7LTka3itDbPGMw51/s320/chad.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="246" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA6izWYDDGU-dIeBEk7C7I8FNMiQ-AHMJs0pPpKabbdPCo6PpxwOp-gTY_kEAoYl-TYIVLdmyY7bt7h3181LdhMhy96IVDb-Z4HqJ-6j9HVsD_ZhghzHfPUB4o5O2oUNl8xywbHwd09mdO2KU6QAOdTXL0qwtgSOoyitT9SIh4P9zo7LTka3itDbPGMw51/w154-h200/chad.jpeg" width="154" /></a></div><div><span style="color: #26282a; font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Chad
Parenteau</b> hosts Boston's long-running Stone Soup Poetry series. His latest
collection is </span><i style="color: #26282a; font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;">The Collapsed Bookshelf.</i><span style="color: #26282a; font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;"> His poetry has appeared in
journals such as </span><i style="color: #26282a; font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;">Résonancee, Molecule, Ibbetson Street, Pocket Lint, Cape
Cod Poetry Review, Tell-Tale Inklings, Off The Coast, The Skinny Poetry
Journal, The New Verse News, The Rye Whiskey Review, Nixes Mate Review</i><span style="color: #26282a; font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;"> and
anthologies such as </span><i style="color: #26282a; font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;">French Connections</i><span style="color: #26282a; font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;"> and </span><i style="color: #26282a; font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;">Reimagine America.</i><span style="color: #26282a; font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;"> He
serves as Associate Editor of the online journal </span><i style="color: #26282a; font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;">Oddball Magazine.</i></div><div><br /><br /></div></div>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-58807013469072481882023-10-27T08:00:00.023-04:002023-10-27T08:00:00.395-04:00Ken Gosse<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Happily Never After</span></b><br /><br />
His vow until death;<br />
hers, until her final breath—<br />
her mind not consigned<br />
once something inside had died.<br />
No, she hadn’t lied<br />
but stopped trying to fake it,<br />
which, for her, meant quit.<br />
Not denying that’s a death,<br />
both had bated breath.<br />
Before either died they’d find,<br />
since she had resigned,<br />
they were no longer aligned.<br />
She’d fulfilled her vow,<br />
avowing the time was now<br />
to make an ending<br />
longed for long before sending<br />
that shot through his head.<br />
Though he ignored what she said,<br />
the one became two<br />
and though neither departed,<br />
both broken-hearted,<br />
their domicile now askew,<br />
she ended their nights,<br />
terminating all his rights.<br />
His days in a daze;<br />
hers, stuck with but not by him,<br />
they lost to her whim.<br />
Each now pondered, worse to worst,<br />
whose death should be first?</span><br /><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_WON29_oebHausWWHn7WjK_Dwh_F1PLtJcIllyDa0YfgWAbr72_sORqBJ-ahV2oxeYkIJW-NQvYh5_FPag45cm3ts5aO0Nu44evC9WE8v84QEPitgHL3fs2W-c33qbq4QFcV-Cui5WzfRGUjHrLKMR1DFNrHY1djaxBgue9V2RE2SThnx9OZtZLXlEOIS/s920/gosse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="920" data-original-width="920" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_WON29_oebHausWWHn7WjK_Dwh_F1PLtJcIllyDa0YfgWAbr72_sORqBJ-ahV2oxeYkIJW-NQvYh5_FPag45cm3ts5aO0Nu44evC9WE8v84QEPitgHL3fs2W-c33qbq4QFcV-Cui5WzfRGUjHrLKMR1DFNrHY1djaxBgue9V2RE2SThnx9OZtZLXlEOIS/w200-h200/gosse.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 16px;"><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Ken Gosse</b> usually writes humorous, rhymed verse with traditional form and meter. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, he is also in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Academy of the Heart and Mind, The Writers Club, Pure Slush, and others. He and his wife were raised in the Chicago suburbs. Since then, they’ve lived in Indiana, Texas, Oklahoma, Germany, and Virginia. Now retired, they’ve lived in Mesa, AZ, over 25 years, with rescue dogs and cats underfoot.</span></div></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-411845755183152922023-10-20T08:00:00.022-04:002023-10-20T08:00:00.376-04:00R. Gerry Fabian<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Counterfeit Consequences</span></b><br /><br />
The voices always spew<br />
the appropriate verbiage.<br />
They encourage my participation<br />
I make my tongue slow,<br />
resistant and cautious.<br />
I travel in their numbing rhizoids.<br />
They shake my hand<br />
with reptilian cold scales.<br />
They grin with blinding white teeth<br />
soaking in clotted blood<br />
just below their gum line.<br />
I am covertly calculating.<br />
They instinctively<br />
erase their enemies.</span><br /><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBWDTwonbWajF09lVlOxDTF8o_EKPYTrfT2DY-p2PhrUYMxm9GSV8G1zTDACQwAerQxUdm_QdTsfFQouevzfZa4cVq1rH6TCal-pulsKahXaf6hatZFjI3tVm-W1LVXShO3DbeW5msGvx7xBYRa6qrSw4OivLQxBMr8VlmJrTzk3VSNIlXEbFPnO4Gbnc4/s253/gerry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="240" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBWDTwonbWajF09lVlOxDTF8o_EKPYTrfT2DY-p2PhrUYMxm9GSV8G1zTDACQwAerQxUdm_QdTsfFQouevzfZa4cVq1rH6TCal-pulsKahXaf6hatZFjI3tVm-W1LVXShO3DbeW5msGvx7xBYRa6qrSw4OivLQxBMr8VlmJrTzk3VSNIlXEbFPnO4Gbnc4/w190-h200/gerry.jpg" width="190" /></a></div><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>R.
Gerry Fabian</b> is a published poet and novelist. He has published </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">four books of his published
poems, Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Electronic Forecasts</span><b style="font-family: inherit;"> </b><span style="font-family: inherit;">and </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Wildflower Women</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> as
well as his poetry </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">baseball book, </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ball On The
Mound.</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-76613936357876462842023-10-13T08:00:00.029-04:002023-10-13T08:00:00.387-04:00Timothy Gager<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Into the Silent Sea</span></b><br /><br />
It’s so quiet down here, so quiet<br />
you can’t hear the rage on the seawall<br /><br />
feel the twisting turn of your stomach,<br />
the nervousness of nobody home.<br /><br />
The moon was not full today;<br />
it was shaped like a heart<br /><br />
seen from the bottom. light diffracted<br />
in a way that made you nauseous<br /><br />
spun down amongst lantern fish,<br />
cookie cutter sharks<br /><br />
bristle mouths, anglers,<br />
and viper fish, some sort of eelpout.<br /><br />
Nobody likes you, you say<br />
to them, but you are here too,<br /><br />
like an incredible ship<br />
sunken and abandoned.</span><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj1lPZxFWgqNAn_k94u-o_k_v7u0-XfXpIxzgdEfmB6GgMtpbdoMzdwR9Eiu5_nU17R9hK_lws4LmBhXMGeKYrrv0ZuQn2ew6gvqhLsoQJUU-_YyljZi1AEO1J7hXr1RxiiOYqLkVWmV17XEegWKCNRlqh15nNimGK2DF-rcKaR6ADg99d2JWNkLaGw2Er/s545/tim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="545" data-original-width="510" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj1lPZxFWgqNAn_k94u-o_k_v7u0-XfXpIxzgdEfmB6GgMtpbdoMzdwR9Eiu5_nU17R9hK_lws4LmBhXMGeKYrrv0ZuQn2ew6gvqhLsoQJUU-_YyljZi1AEO1J7hXr1RxiiOYqLkVWmV17XEegWKCNRlqh15nNimGK2DF-rcKaR6ADg99d2JWNkLaGw2Er/w187-h200/tim.jpg" width="187" /></a></div><p style="margin-bottom: 10.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: #373e3e; font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Timothy
Gager</b> has published 18 books of fiction and poetry, which includes his latest
novel, Joe the Salamander. He hosted the successful Dire Literary Series in
Cambridge, MA from 2001 to 2018, and started a weekly virtual series in 2020.
He has had over 1000 works of fiction and poetry published, 17 nominated for
the Pushcart Prize. His work also has been nominated for a Massachusetts Book
Award, The Best of the Web, The Best Small Fictions Anthology and has been read
on National Public Radio. In 2023, Big Table Publishing published an anthology
of twenty years of his selected work, with 150 pages of new material: The Best
of Timothy Gager. He</span></span><span style="color: #373e3e; font-family: inherit; font-size: 11.5pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> was the Fiction Editor of The Wilderness House Literary Review, and the founding co-editor of The Heat City Literary Review. A graduate of the University of Delaware, Timothy lives in Dedham, Massachusetts.</span></p><div><br /><br />
</div>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-23288156694950930002023-10-06T08:00:00.057-04:002023-10-06T08:00:00.394-04:00Alison Miller<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Going to the River with Quan</span></b><br /><br />
He leads me on his gold chain leash and yellow harness—butter<br />
—limited edition.<br /><br />
At the end of the three tiers of stairs where I’ve stuck half a<br />
dozen screaming stickers I nudge Quan to the right, away from<br />
the spot where I once posed as a beaver in a calendar cover<br />
photo shoot<br /><br />
which is on the way to the spot where I tried to watch the sun<br />
rise on the foggy morning I met you<br /><br />
and wrote a poem about it—leftover flowers and trains<br /><br />
Quan and I walk past families trampling pine tags, post-<br />
Christmas kids crying, that one slouched spot where I saw the<br />
sun set with a weak-kissed boy,<br /><br />
down and around my hiking trails, and past the abandoned pump<br />
house where my first boyfriend shaved between my legs with a<br />
disposable razor<br /><br />
I put Quan in my backpack, zip him half way in and we descend<br />
the corroded ladder to a pre-teen girl who says he’s cute.<br />
Anonymous flying insects swarm a wall we have to graze to get<br />
to where the rocks read FUCK TROY.</span><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjheSAkyiqo2G_-NAHEHqCq4FfIgSwJJG6-bIzJio7edn4YYgzB13nXU9xn1OQ1lKXQDrydduHJS-rYLl65f2tGtcve2VD1bhlDEY4hREd013az8i-pKceew9IjFb7EkOhqkOb0s9AtGpv5AsRNRO2OMMLdroaWAsJUJ6A27wlsxyPDkyGa50iS6XuSsg/s1016/miller.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1016" data-original-width="828" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjheSAkyiqo2G_-NAHEHqCq4FfIgSwJJG6-bIzJio7edn4YYgzB13nXU9xn1OQ1lKXQDrydduHJS-rYLl65f2tGtcve2VD1bhlDEY4hREd013az8i-pKceew9IjFb7EkOhqkOb0s9AtGpv5AsRNRO2OMMLdroaWAsJUJ6A27wlsxyPDkyGa50iS6XuSsg/w163-h200/miller.jpeg" width="163" /></a></div><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Alison Miller</b> is a writer and sex educator whose poetry has been
published in various literary magazines including Cultural Daily, Hobart Pulp,
and Bareback Magazine. The owner of sex positive adult boutiques in Richmond,
Virginia, she currently resides in San Diego. She is the editor-in-chief of
Throats to the Sky Magazine.<span class="gmail-apple-converted-space"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><div><br /><br />
</div></div>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-8454837199577809172023-09-29T08:00:00.009-04:002023-09-29T08:00:00.383-04:00John Dorsey<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Poem for the Original Pink Lady</span></b><br /><br />
somewhere you are frozen in time forever<br />
thirty years old & resting your head<br />
above a cincinnati pizza shop<br />
even then you seem tired<br />
or maybe bored<br />
cutting your wrists on the couch<br />
with a dull disposable razor blade<br />
as if you were knitting a sweater for nick cave<br />
out of empty mountain dew bottles & cigarette butts<br />
proclaiming your love in an angry song<br />
on the docks of billy childish’s broken heart<br /><br />
you dance like a little girl<br />
hiding inside<br />
a burning tire.</span><div><br />
<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLr6qh3WuOCkfvKOTMHTv0uO_3YY_mSJXbraTl5F3FfGqfoN_RVbVCHy-dHzyC1vkYtsNDziYLJxSlgyzO0hUBVLFoba4Zf-PwpRxqYAhTtNY0VBP0_xndeM7XRxz9PxNzZ4VvcH4xArgqoNHXEEUvEI6pNYl33Hdaig_D3k62-uRK8iJ2D52W5zKn3g/s2048/john.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLr6qh3WuOCkfvKOTMHTv0uO_3YY_mSJXbraTl5F3FfGqfoN_RVbVCHy-dHzyC1vkYtsNDziYLJxSlgyzO0hUBVLFoba4Zf-PwpRxqYAhTtNY0VBP0_xndeM7XRxz9PxNzZ4VvcH4xArgqoNHXEEUvEI6pNYl33Hdaig_D3k62-uRK8iJ2D52W5zKn3g/w150-h200/john.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>John
Dorsey</b> 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, 2019), Which Way to the River: Selected Poems 2016-2020 (OAC Books,
2020), Afterlife Karaoke (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2021) and Sundown at the
Redneck Carnival, (Spartan Press, 2022).. His work has been nominated for the
Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and the Stanley Hanks Memorial Poetry Prize.
He was the winner of the 2019 Terri Award given out at the Poetry Rendezvous.
He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.<br /><br /></span></div></div>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-74131403524101965652023-09-22T08:00:00.014-04:002023-09-22T08:00:00.363-04:00DS Maolalai <span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">America – what</span></b><br /><br />
a flight of strong beers<br />
on this patio brewpub in Boston<br />
a stroll from the hostel<br />
where we drank until late-<br />
night last night. America –<br /><br />
what unbelievable novelty!<br />
and drinking again now<br />
this morning to early afternoon!<br />
there's a dog and some girls<br />
and some guys around 40,<br />
all decked out with beer-<br />
guts like tires and sunglasses.<br />
the air smells of sawdust<br />
and no decoration;<br /><br />
that sought after bare-<br />
walled industrial style. I love it;<br />
this August, this sun<br />
like a new polished<br />
quarter. and that<br />
is a novelty also –<br /><br />
being able to say things<br />
like that. we have some<br />
time to spend – we order<br />
for some sandwiches,<br />
eat them quite slowly. the bus<br />
leaves for Salem at 3.<br />
we are going; we intend<br />
to see all America –<br />
needing to see nothing else.<br /></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiw9kAL4ugQE5wAmKvbK93tEymNyEmOU_E2HXnGbySJnW0yuOQ7fXT97FqlxyvDLH-ZpdFtK2W58sW6J8t3gIaBVL-97hR0GdeNpzIZo5IP88hXZBhuMGHUIRXteOzGvUH9l5EgA54kUsbIUEDwV1iNFw_98s4_PxT9V8RJWNU6whw_Z440BzkZel-1g/s1491/diarmuid.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1491" data-original-width="978" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiw9kAL4ugQE5wAmKvbK93tEymNyEmOU_E2HXnGbySJnW0yuOQ7fXT97FqlxyvDLH-ZpdFtK2W58sW6J8t3gIaBVL-97hR0GdeNpzIZo5IP88hXZBhuMGHUIRXteOzGvUH9l5EgA54kUsbIUEDwV1iNFw_98s4_PxT9V8RJWNU6whw_Z440BzkZel-1g/w131-h200/diarmuid.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>DS Maolalai</b> 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, eight for the Pushcart Prize and once for the Forward Prize, and has been released in three collections; "Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden" (Encircle Press, 2016), "Sad Havoc Among the Birds" (Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022)</span>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-83086548095465468552023-09-15T08:00:00.001-04:002023-09-15T08:00:00.385-04:00Anne Champion<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Stigmata</span></b><br /><br />
I never predicted my hair would be in the fist<br />
of a man who collected pieces of me as souvenirs,<br />
had a shrine with my underwear, my childhood videos;<br /><br />
never thought I’d live in a sick man’s fantasy—<br />
so real that he felt he had to kill it; never<br />
imagined a stalker could be handsome,<br /><br />
could flinch guiltily when I argued<br />
that parents did astonishing work fucking us up;<br />
never envisioned a stranger could kidnap<br /><br />
an inner child so he becomes Father,<br />
Son, and Holy Ghost; never prophesied<br />
my wrists up, post-resurrection, bleeding<br /><br />
my shames, watching strangers recoil<br />
as if before a witch.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">
Corpse Bride</span></b><br /><br />
In some places, girls are made to marry their rapists.<br />
This used to strike me as barbaric, until<br />
a man broke into my apartment and raped me.<br /><br />
I imagine our marriage bed the same way<br />
a rash of suicidal thoughts migrate across my flesh<br />
like a flock of crows. What difference would it make?<br /><br />
My bed is my coffin now; a corpse bride.<br />
If another man were to ever reach for me,<br />
my rapist will be there as maggots in my heart.<br /><br />
If I ever sleep next to a man again, my rapist<br />
will be there as my trust clenched into a fist,<br />
wondering if he’ll kill me in my sleep.<br /><br />
I’ve finally learned the secret to make a man happy:<br />
die for his desire, keep breathing, and die again.</span><div><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2hLsmSV0D_sINpUcDLdU9ZELNQbwKwISemzEyDX8AOrIDkPE9WJ1AndiChZDF4XM08FkKfbDl7wXk7m7PmLMjwY9Q9RfpnLDOwVG5sIUoAPehW07HUftW__RlktcksfUvDomDyY4rBBZY-X2yfPMQ8-QsHbOSsMinnJlaqBBcAt4Q9lgoIeIMMmyoA/s1038/champion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1038" data-original-width="783" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2hLsmSV0D_sINpUcDLdU9ZELNQbwKwISemzEyDX8AOrIDkPE9WJ1AndiChZDF4XM08FkKfbDl7wXk7m7PmLMjwY9Q9RfpnLDOwVG5sIUoAPehW07HUftW__RlktcksfUvDomDyY4rBBZY-X2yfPMQ8-QsHbOSsMinnJlaqBBcAt4Q9lgoIeIMMmyoA/w151-h200/champion.jpg" width="151" /></a></div><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Garamond, serif;"><b>Anne Champion</b> is the author of She Saints & Holy Profanities
(Quarterly West, 2019), The Good Girl is Always a Ghost (Black Lawrence Press,
2018), Book of Levitations (Trembling Pillow Press, 2019), Reluctant Mistress
(Gold Wake Press, 2013), and The Dark Length Home (Noctuary Press, 2017). Her
work appears in Verse Daily, diode, Tupelo Quarterly, Prairie Schooner, Crab
Orchard Review, Salamander, New South, Redivider, PANK Magazine, and elsewhere.<span class="gmail-apple-converted-space"> </span>She was a 2009 Academy of
American Poets Prize recipient, a 2016 Best of the Net winner, and a Barbara
Deming Memorial Grant recipient. <span class="gmail-apple-converted-space"> </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></div>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-21280020220108044742023-09-08T08:00:00.010-04:002023-09-08T08:00:00.377-04:00Robert Beveridge<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Eight of Swords (reversed)</span></b><br /><br />
You know things have gotten bad when the local<br />
prophets have taken off their sandwich boards,<br />
stepped down from their soapboxes, and removed<br />
themselves to your armpits. Hasn’t stopped them<br />
from their attempts to spread the good word, though,<br />
no sir. In the diner when you stop to avail yourself<br />
of the ham and egg special, they proclaim the horrors<br />
of parallel parking; when you pause on the path<br />
in the middle of your jog, out they come to harangue<br />
the passersby about the dangers of burglars who break<br />
into homes, steal nothing, but leave Legos in your<br />
hallways for you to tread on as you head to the bathroom<br />
at three in the morning. You’ve consulted the authorities,<br />
but of course, they say there’s nothing they can do.<br />
None of this, you’ve found, is a huge deal until they<br />
speechify in your ear. The laundry can wait one more day.<br />
There’s just one more cookie, you can’t leave a whole box<br />
with just one cookie in it. You have a spare room,<br />
and the demons do need a place to stay, now don’t they?<br />
You’ve always had compassion for the homeless.</span><div><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1lwlN8QgX5gjxes6RITYgknZUxdR55qre5BiKCBZ3vx9rsjevO2k-HoQoO_4FmWW_KyWT_RfvBEjEcyPeAcVjbzK5PkvgjSx7j6_iDoSC2cGErYK2Sp029hCYT1zl3Vs9Y0yyiwn83aLqvp8nLg4D9TZ0c6xEPlv9IhwPvQ6rDDVGRI6pYlY6L9CxSw/s4000/beveridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="2252" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1lwlN8QgX5gjxes6RITYgknZUxdR55qre5BiKCBZ3vx9rsjevO2k-HoQoO_4FmWW_KyWT_RfvBEjEcyPeAcVjbzK5PkvgjSx7j6_iDoSC2cGErYK2Sp029hCYT1zl3Vs9Y0yyiwn83aLqvp8nLg4D9TZ0c6xEPlv9IhwPvQ6rDDVGRI6pYlY6L9CxSw/w113-h200/beveridge.jpg" width="113" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Robert
Beveridge</b> (he/him) makes noise (<a href="http://xterminal.bandcamp.com">xterminal.bandcamp.com</a>)
and writes poetry on unceded Mingo land (Akron, OH). Recent/upcoming
appearances in Raven Cage, Revolver, and Impspired, among others.</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></div>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-10957308881071032312023-09-01T08:00:00.001-04:002023-09-01T08:00:00.435-04:00Jim Dunn<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">The Wanting Mare</span></b><br /><br />
Wanting more<br />
The wanting mare<br />
brings her furious desire<br />
to the water’s edge<br />
Waiting here<br />
She dips herself in<br />
Many moons of dusk<br />
A sad star frozen<br />
In the icy night<br />
Sheds tears<br /><br />
One frozen moment<br />
Stopped in its tracks<br />
From the crescent<br />
Of the other pink moon<br />
Cassandra sings<br />
Prophecies of<br />
A watery wedding<br />
Of one mermaid<br />
To the endless sea<br />
She twists like the tide<br />
And rolls her soul<br />
Out upon the rocks<br />
In prayer<br /><br />
An offering to the<br />
Crash of the collapsing surf<br />
Rumbling roaring in a<br />
Ballad of blue waves<br />
She sings<br />
Amongst the mists<br />
Of the day<br />
Soft sibilant and sweet<br />
Entwined like a bird to its<br />
Flight, a minstrel to his song.</span><div><br /><div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2shrP8OPswl2Pk1x4ymDXSO7jw1FIttA7Ak9jjtPPhhjLoR7Q-rss-2_jPVmHaPEHroICp1_U-en9X50pNVqJyHqEAEzZaVw2CaZIDnBK_2qudKKbQVnDb6hkYlJ1KEIkEnqupg_qPd4hROjwI434LMD5LpIHeA8jjqV2B4VI7Hdr2NtKoo5942Lqow/s3020/jim%20d..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3020" data-original-width="3020" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2shrP8OPswl2Pk1x4ymDXSO7jw1FIttA7Ak9jjtPPhhjLoR7Q-rss-2_jPVmHaPEHroICp1_U-en9X50pNVqJyHqEAEzZaVw2CaZIDnBK_2qudKKbQVnDb6hkYlJ1KEIkEnqupg_qPd4hROjwI434LMD5LpIHeA8jjqV2B4VI7Hdr2NtKoo5942Lqow/w200-h200/jim%20d..jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Jim Dunn</b> 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 Mosquito, The Process, eoagh, Gerry Mulligan,
Cafe Review, Meanie, and the anthology tribute to John Wieners, The Blind See
Only In This World. He edited the John Wieners Journal, A New Book From Rome
with Derek Fenner and Ryan Gallagher of Bootstrap Press.</span><o:p></o:p></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></div></div>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-32632701383262599742023-08-25T08:00:00.002-04:002023-08-25T08:00:00.371-04:00Jeffrey N. Johnson <span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Tramposo de Sevilla</span></b><br /><br />
Within white washed walls,<br />
weathered stone and blue sky<br />
the Gypsies arrived unseen.<br />
I was green and little traveled,<br />
planted on a bench with back turned,<br />
abiding my time with Hemingway.<br />
He approached with dirty bare feet<br />
on herringbone brick and an open<br />
linen blouse with little tears<br />
in place of lost buttons.<br />
His wedded his palms, held to heaven,<br />
reminding me of our mutual friend,<br />
and could I not share<br />
a little of my good fortune?<br />
He tightened and contorted his back<br />
which would not work,<br />
and gestured to his mate,<br />
to misfortune and fate.<br />
She sat nearby wailing,<br />
swaying on hot stone,<br />
her mosaic of rags flowing<br />
with the four limp legs of her children,<br />
starving, a boy and a girl,<br />
one arched over each arm,<br />
mouths open.<br />
With Jake paused and Brett in mid-sentence<br />
I shuttered and searched<br />
and dug into myself,<br />
putting pesetas into his palm,<br />
wanting to return to my Fiesta.<br />
He bowed in thanks<br />
and limped away to beg<br />
others of different tongues<br />
before returning to his family.<br />
With a bark of crisp dialect<br />
the little ones sprang to life.<br />
The boy wiped his nose<br />
and the girl tugged her dress.<br />
Mother gathered her rags and serenity,<br />
giving each child a kiss.<br />
Father hoisted the boy<br />
to his sturdy shoulders<br />
where he held on tight and starry eyed.<br />
The little girl, walking on tip-toes,<br />
pulled a flower from her pocket<br />
and held it to the sun<br />
as they disappeared<br />
into the narrow streets.<br />
A miracle to behold, I thought,<br />
fingering my change,<br />
or isn’t it pretty to think so?</span><div><br />
<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNShTzwTCLabLbji1u6gDFCNW6C1grTmRgiSJoSSRNTkY1fP719-_cvIpiGpuHiLifTLJ75IWqFhU6PubpF84CQ-fqHV2aECm17FRhMY3M5miQSghE9GuP31N9-1M9IrD-cOgJvAf9uUmQKXDe9UrqULsqTlfbRAPln33qv1h8eLFFXRJRS4gUc1qurw/s2142/Jeffrey%20N%20Johnson%20-%208x10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2142" data-original-width="1714" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNShTzwTCLabLbji1u6gDFCNW6C1grTmRgiSJoSSRNTkY1fP719-_cvIpiGpuHiLifTLJ75IWqFhU6PubpF84CQ-fqHV2aECm17FRhMY3M5miQSghE9GuP31N9-1M9IrD-cOgJvAf9uUmQKXDe9UrqULsqTlfbRAPln33qv1h8eLFFXRJRS4gUc1qurw/w160-h200/Jeffrey%20N%20Johnson%20-%208x10.jpg" width="160" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Jeffrey N. Johnson</b>’s poems have recently
appeared in the <i>Southern Poetry Anthology: Virginia</i>, <i>Birmingham
Poetry Review</i>, <i>The Carolina Quarterly</i>, <i>Gargoyle</i>, <i>Midwest
Quarterly</i>, and <i>Santa Clara Review</i>. His story collection “Other Fine
Gifts” won a regional Ippy Award, which included the Andrew Lytle Fiction Prize
winner from <i>The Sewanee Review</i>, and his novel “The Hunger Artist” was a
finalist for the Library of Virginia’s People’s Choice Award. His poetry film
“One Old, One Young” has been an official selection in ten film festivals.</span></div></div>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-29514312847791647892023-08-18T08:00:00.011-04:002023-08-18T08:00:00.367-04:00Jim Daniels<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Half Days</span></b><br /><br />
My daughter, thirteen, pale shred of herself,<br />
fought an unidentified infection in her spine<br />
as it softened her discs into disappearance.<br /><br />
I’d unread that story if she were young and still<br />
listened to lullabies. After she got discharged,<br />
I set an alarm for two a.m. each night to shoot<br /><br />
antibiotics into her port while she slept,<br />
her limp arm resting in my hand. Her return<br />
to school: half days—follow my dotted line<br /><br />
smearing across months of sleepless breadcrumbs—<br />
at noon I idled high, anxious in the school driveway<br />
rattling off the latest test results in the zero gravity<br /><br />
of fear. She startled me with the brittle thunk<br />
of the car door slam, then snapped at me for staring<br />
at her friends as they strolled across the street<br /><br />
to the cafeteria, creeping them out, she said,<br />
embarrassed by illness like hard acne<br />
or a blooming hickey, wrong music<br /><br />
or flakey hair, or the tacky middle-school<br />
jumper she no longer had to wear.<br />
I was there to drive her to therapy.<br /><br />
They were teaching her to walk upright<br />
again—forget stroll. My eyes clouded<br />
with the toxic erasures of her MRI.<br /><br />
Was I staring at each teenager popping<br />
the perfect gum of their bright young lives?<br />
I’d have circled her bony wrists<br /><br />
with my tremble if she’d let me.<br />
I shifted into drive. In the untranslatable<br />
silence we shared, our breath in sync,<br /><br />
I pulled away, neither of us waving<br />
to anyone.</span><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1cRXGHgwOqGHa3IF0OpCTwTpndQqpK8zkXA7tYnN9uvQDPTIailGtYHQLDGkKOhz67ZDsVXyAu_RkWNT3FvQ3kh6CLsmm_U4I_VNgClMf-izY_jeTvDgOQ8WxRK06XwOLphquKXcD2yltOZw2pyZhLXnorIHvkXI4Lx3mJVjv_PlHEWzRAH-u2vgRHg/s1800/daniels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1cRXGHgwOqGHa3IF0OpCTwTpndQqpK8zkXA7tYnN9uvQDPTIailGtYHQLDGkKOhz67ZDsVXyAu_RkWNT3FvQ3kh6CLsmm_U4I_VNgClMf-izY_jeTvDgOQ8WxRK06XwOLphquKXcD2yltOZw2pyZhLXnorIHvkXI4Lx3mJVjv_PlHEWzRAH-u2vgRHg/w133-h200/daniels.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Jim Daniels</b>’ latest poetry collection, The Human Engine at Dawn, was published in December by Wolfson Press. The cover photo features his grandfather working on an engine at Packard Motor Car Company in Detroit. Forthcoming collections include The Luck of the Fall, fiction, Michigan State University Press, to be published later this year, and Comment Card, a chapbook of poems, Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2024. A native of Detroit, he lives in Pittsburgh and teaches in the Alma College low-residency MFA program.</span></div></div></div>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-10102661601297113842023-08-11T08:00:00.019-04:002023-08-11T08:00:00.378-04:00Luke Johnson <span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">The Swell, I Did Not Know</span></b><br /><br />
When I hit the hog<br />it ran a mile<br /><br />through the thicket<br />and fell<br /><br />in a foot of water<br />
—drowned.<br /><br />You hit it in the head<br />
my daddy said,<br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">the zombie effect. <br />
How the body<br /><br />moves in death<br /><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span> </span>a dance<br /><br />and after<br />the dance<br /><br />a knife<br />that grooves<br /><br /><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>the bloated gut,<br /><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> <span> </span> </span></span><span> </span><span> </span>gropes<br /><br />like filthy men.<br />
Believe me,<br /><br />he continues:<br />even the innocent<br /><br />eat, son,<br />throw themselves<br /><br /> <span> </span><span> </span> <span> </span>in acts<br /> <span> </span><span> </span> <span> </span> of rage<br /><br />and reach<br />for what the world<br /><br />will offer them.<br />Later,<br /><br /> <span> </span><span> </span> the fire<br /> <span> </span><span> </span> leaps<br /><br />like magic<br />from his<br /><br />fingers and a full<br />bottle<br /><br /> <span> </span><span> </span> passed<br /> <span> </span><span> </span> like prayer.<br /><br />I pretend to sip.<br />Spit to ward<br /><br />the spirit, divination.<br />A warmth<br /><br />the body<br />turns<br /><br /> <span> </span><span> </span> to torment,<br />
<span> </span><span> </span> visions. My<br /><br />daddy in the dark<br />wood<br /><br />
asking where his<br />brother is<br /><br />
and why the lake<br />
won’t cough him<br /><br /> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> back.<br /> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> The babies?<br /><br />He cut<br />
them clean.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEe7vYwrX_OakNP0BVo0Fis42C7whKVSg7t7I5Wk63WbsmAeHpyubijRErvs-_EBp_falR_O1NJYJeK4OBqZjxvBFY4_PA97E8_JEONLTqXFAKFvY6eUT5mP1gid35hRVreq5TMjRYIV_5crsOjJ_m6aqC4bXvPOgxvL_SM4tINnA0Xs_10vb-bexICQ/s3088/johnson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEe7vYwrX_OakNP0BVo0Fis42C7whKVSg7t7I5Wk63WbsmAeHpyubijRErvs-_EBp_falR_O1NJYJeK4OBqZjxvBFY4_PA97E8_JEONLTqXFAKFvY6eUT5mP1gid35hRVreq5TMjRYIV_5crsOjJ_m6aqC4bXvPOgxvL_SM4tINnA0Xs_10vb-bexICQ/w150-h200/johnson.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #313131; font-size: 13pt;"><b>Luke Johnson</b>’s poems can be found at Kenyon Review, Prairie
Schooner, Narrative Magazine, Florida Review, Poetry Northwest, Frontier,
Cortland Review and elsewhere. His manuscript in progress was recently named a
finalist for the Jake Adam York Prize, The Levis through Four Way Press, The
Vassar Miller Award and is forthcoming fall 2023 from Texas Review Press. You
can connect on Twitter at @Lukesrant.</span> </span></div>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-90881575477101597042023-08-04T08:00:00.001-04:002023-08-04T08:00:00.380-04:00Ted Jackins<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">After David Berman</span></b><br /><br />
Your acerbic wit,<br />
Gift for tragic<br />
Wordplay,<br />
And lazy croon<br />
Belied a broken heart,<br />
One you shaped<br />
To fit the frame<br />
Of the country song,<br />
Until eventually<br />
It all became too much,<br />
Your words whittled down<br />
To razor sharp<br />
Turns of phrase,<br />
Your heart exposed<br />
Wounds and all,<br />
Suicide notes<br />
In miniature,<br />
And by the time<br />
People took notice<br />
You were gone</span><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhseoW_C7I0F66kNscV1AjutOCcFLZBkSm5Dc9qoIz_y8TVAOzu3JbL3b3L4kpR715aEa-Q4HazoRl8wnYRPwzwpk4IHJlKlI-0Ll4sr8X-f3FxZjX4sN1RvXou4wcv8WDWDJeJqpScMUgSRncuriDzhV2-8cq2OtOPwhj5PDZYj0439w-h95ARETgnvQ/s960/jackins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhseoW_C7I0F66kNscV1AjutOCcFLZBkSm5Dc9qoIz_y8TVAOzu3JbL3b3L4kpR715aEa-Q4HazoRl8wnYRPwzwpk4IHJlKlI-0Ll4sr8X-f3FxZjX4sN1RvXou4wcv8WDWDJeJqpScMUgSRncuriDzhV2-8cq2OtOPwhj5PDZYj0439w-h95ARETgnvQ/w200-h200/jackins.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Ted Jackins</b> is a poet and musician from North Carolina. Their work has previously appeared in Red Fez, Outlaw poetry, Museum of Poetry and Big Hammer. They are also the author of both Psych Ward Blues and Mercury, In Retrospect, both available via Alien Buddha Press.</span></div></div>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-30491959629146186662023-07-28T08:00:00.034-04:002023-07-28T08:00:00.380-04:00Paul Corman-Roberts<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">As Below, So Above</span></b><br /><br />
Heaven is a perv wishing<br />
they too could squeal the<br />
immaculate carnal joy release<br /><br />
the stellar high-country shuffle<br />
coiling on sweet tar puppets say<br />
we’ve been rehearsing<br />
this pratfall for eons<br /><br />
& so, they leak<br />
returned souls through<br />
every half-assed vortex<br />
sloughing over our deserts<br /><br />
Don’t kid yourself about<br />
the one-way street afterlife<br />
ain’t what it used to be<br />
so below, as above<br /><br />
You see it wasn’t<br />
merely the fabric of the walls<br />
we tore apart when<br />
we nuked the pearly gates<br /><br />
they are coming for us<br />
the minions of a dominion<br />
we dragged to the strip club<br />
and god was never the same.</span><div><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="ydpecdba821textrun" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMb-n6yOFe0OcH7GsZb_dEKeCD6x71TwWZWFhCaXvfNj19tvZ95BdSD54wD-9NlNxzbajACpzCHEBgiieKz-nJYD77Mq7uvzl6k94RZAm346RGc_5LQ2ZvxWtZQaR4LLV-iWpv2bYueGgiw5KSMttIxXDmMTt-3GOCs1z7z0ZjsCPpJqvi7pzRI64icg/s1440/Paul%20Corman-Roberts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1435" data-original-width="1440" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMb-n6yOFe0OcH7GsZb_dEKeCD6x71TwWZWFhCaXvfNj19tvZ95BdSD54wD-9NlNxzbajACpzCHEBgiieKz-nJYD77Mq7uvzl6k94RZAm346RGc_5LQ2ZvxWtZQaR4LLV-iWpv2bYueGgiw5KSMttIxXDmMTt-3GOCs1z7z0ZjsCPpJqvi7pzRI64icg/w200-h199/Paul%20Corman-Roberts.jpg" width="200" /></a></div></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="ydpecdba821textrun" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><b>Paul Corman-Roberts</b> is the author of <b><i><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Bone Moon Palace </span></i></b><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">from Nomadic Press (2021) and most recently the graphic chapbook </span><b><i><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">The Sincere</span></i></b><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><span class="ydpecdba821normaltextrun" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"> from Libran <span style="border-bottom: transparent;">Apocaplyse</span> Books (2022.) An original
founder and current organizer of the Beast Crawl Lit Festival (</span><a href="https://www.beastcrawl.org/summer-beast-2022.html" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="ydpecdba821normaltextrun"><span style="color: blue;">Summer Beast 2022 - Beast Crawl Literary Festival</span></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><span class="ydpecdba821textrun" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">)</span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><span class="ydpecdba821normaltextrun" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"> he currently
teaches workshops for the Older Writer’s Lab, the SF Creative Writing Institute
and the Oakland Unified School District. He sometimes fills in as a drummer for
the U.S. <span style="border-bottom: transparent;">Ghostal</span> Service and the
<span style="border-bottom: transparent;">Poznansky</span> Sisters, but mostly he
is just exhausted.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><span class="ydpecdba821eop" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"> </span></div><br /></div></div>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-84593909490223125392023-07-21T08:00:00.029-04:002023-07-21T08:00:00.163-04:00Laura Cherry<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Faults</span></b><br /><br />Sense of smell gone, most of the time, except<br />
on days of a particular grace or drug.<br />
One bum ear, constructed from scraps<br />
like a clay ashtray. Lungs that suddenly fill<br />
and close, except when sighing their great sweetness,<br />
your astonishing gift.<br /><br />
Waking before dawn. A certain restlessness. A certain<br />
propulsion. A hunger. Casting this way and that.<br />
Even now, a wolfishness under the skin.<br />
After the mammalian tears, the clear eye<br />
of the lizard, the skittering limbs<br />
and shed tail.<br /><br />
That head of hair, your breathless corona,<br />
shedding silver. Those devil-like brows.<br />
Hands strong and rough. All the pleasing parts<br />
of you brought to please, as to a banquet<br />
in a dream where I cannot eat so much as<br />
a single bite.<br /><br />
The bright kind of dark. Eyes like clouds<br />
sweeping in over mountains. Now I see:<br />
I was only imagining the long spillway,<br />
the rush to beautiful nowhere, the hidden fault<br />
where the earth might split and we'd take hands<br />
and dive in.</span><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh99do5zy9A399gzQcfA-hWRAtQk5mPKbtDbiVGZYDizT9fw42cUBvHdr09AvIWeeo55QY5oNc-9kp-8w8vWwdjlmJKit860i9LWLSRHvu2vampVP6uBhRg0MCXyAjPNhttKR8kKc2YtXysNBJ3e3ouiFCV7GzMFqlPSw3Xgx2npO6PTos51QjF39W7UA/s3088/Laura_Cherry.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2320" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh99do5zy9A399gzQcfA-hWRAtQk5mPKbtDbiVGZYDizT9fw42cUBvHdr09AvIWeeo55QY5oNc-9kp-8w8vWwdjlmJKit860i9LWLSRHvu2vampVP6uBhRg0MCXyAjPNhttKR8kKc2YtXysNBJ3e3ouiFCV7GzMFqlPSw3Xgx2npO6PTos51QjF39W7UA/w150-h200/Laura_Cherry.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div><div><b>Laura Cherry</b> is the author of the collection Haunts (Cooper Dillon Books) and the chapbooksTwo White Beds (Minerva Rising) and What We Planted (Providence Athenaeum). She co-edited the anthology Poem, Revised (Marion Street Press) with Robert Hartwell Fiske, and her work has been published in journals including The Glacier, Ekphrastic Review, Los Angeles Review, Cider Press Review, and DMQ Review. She earned an MFA from the Warren Wilson Program for Writers. She works as a technical writer and lives near Boston.</div></div></div>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-7870663829607767842023-07-14T08:00:00.029-04:002023-07-14T08:00:00.166-04:00F. John Sharp<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Coronary on Aisle Six</span></b><br /><br />
The EMT’s made great time<br />
when minutes count, the vise<br />
in my chest stretching seconds<br />
to eons, my will rewritten<br />
in my head on the floor<br />
of the WalMart, next to the socks.<br /><br />
Then: electrodes, calm<br />
reassurances that don’t<br />
reassure, an IV, oxygen<br />
in a mask that doesn’t hide<br />
my face from voyeuristic<br />
shoppers and clerks on a Saturday.<br /><br />
A gurney ride past the cashier<br />
(I never got my socks) and out<br />
the door, eyes following. I know what<br />
everyone will be talking about at dinner.<br />
A secret little part of me wishes<br />
that would happen every day</span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZxZi2AULM_J-gwl1dPhqqbPIj2Q9OZnJ92cWIANMsI8XqGF0LZ5idIrCBdMhyxhp2ZsQDownTtNGAhS8u14Pb9c-DH934mOjUH1gqlBI1iGyn5DXvd8w7H3O9rBsSDmPCoXcYucdgaP8q13MsD7EX-EAMgxaJCY0sn1GZ8NdtcTAUzH64VvBc5meJ1w/s2048/sharp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZxZi2AULM_J-gwl1dPhqqbPIj2Q9OZnJ92cWIANMsI8XqGF0LZ5idIrCBdMhyxhp2ZsQDownTtNGAhS8u14Pb9c-DH934mOjUH1gqlBI1iGyn5DXvd8w7H3O9rBsSDmPCoXcYucdgaP8q13MsD7EX-EAMgxaJCY0sn1GZ8NdtcTAUzH64VvBc5meJ1w/w150-h200/sharp.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>F. John Sharp</b> lives and works in Northeast Ohio. He is the fiction editor for Right Hand Pointing, and selected published works live at FJohnSharp.com. </span>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-79119200523970291572023-07-07T08:00:00.001-04:002023-07-07T08:00:00.138-04:00Gerry LaFemina<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Post Card to Charles Wright from a Recording Studio in Bristol, Virginia</b></span><br /><br />
Charles, today in the birthplace of country music I recorded guttural rock & roll, then crossed the double yellow line on the main drag to enter Tennessee. Then back again. How easy to move between two states. Like the drop in your low rider line: both break and continuation. Like light: both wave and particle, even as it wanes in the dwarf orchard at dusk, reducing the corporeal world to shadow. How often have I oscillated between grief and joy, how readily one becomes the other. This is why I love the prose poem. There’s hunger’s pangs and the pleasure of anticipation, too. I went for dinner in a dive bar where Hank Williams stopped the night his heart surprised him with its final struck chord, a D minor, dissonant with only a bit of twang. He hadn’t eaten there, but let me tell you, the hamburgers were to die for.<br /><br /><br /><b><span style="font-size: large;">
Postcard to Jan Beatty from the CSX Rail Depot, Cumberland, Maryland</span></b><br /><br />
Dear Jan, I’m thinking of you on a train across Canada and of my earliest memory—the rattle and racket of the elevated F line out my window in Brooklyn, how that rhythm pulled me into dreams I can’t remember. The voice of my nightmares remains the screech of steel wheel brakes. What do we do with the blurry faces of absent fathers, the various ways they can be unknown? What do we do with the sparks sent flying so they seem to burn within us? What do we do with the fact that we all may be clown babies? The conductor as he passes counting passengers could be a lost relative he looks so familiar, after all. Or is this a lie we tell ourselves. Out here, the boxcars are being pushed together to make new trains from old. The way the cars hitch together like words or friendships. I used to walk with my son along the freight line that ran through our backyard in Michigan, the tracks another mad river of steel and speed: look in either direction and it was heading away, past the horizon, to whatever next town awaited.</span><div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdGB_Jyb1UjAkKrBLdQB5jAOyr-SKDJ_s4IUqmFQGTo0YQfPIa6vxvuIOB6G-n8OQzJTDMXmcePki_CJ8iO1095b_b0zm68SxhnESF2Jpt_UrQq9sbmk_APgPj3oAQ-xpxHHXawTasR_ODHPXfNfKXrtF3Wczmn-TS8iJUuvYL-XzKAYPAdCNNoid3KA/s1920/lafemina.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdGB_Jyb1UjAkKrBLdQB5jAOyr-SKDJ_s4IUqmFQGTo0YQfPIa6vxvuIOB6G-n8OQzJTDMXmcePki_CJ8iO1095b_b0zm68SxhnESF2Jpt_UrQq9sbmk_APgPj3oAQ-xpxHHXawTasR_ODHPXfNfKXrtF3Wczmn-TS8iJUuvYL-XzKAYPAdCNNoid3KA/w200-h133/lafemina.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div><b style="font-family: inherit; font-weight: bold;">Gerry
LaFemina</b><span style="font-family: inherit;">’</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">s most recent books are </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">The Pursuit: A Meditation on Happiness</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">
(creative nonfiction) and </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Baby Steps for Doomsday Prepping</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> (prose
poems). A new collection of poems, </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">After the War for Independence, </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">will
come out later this year. A noted arts activist who has served on the
Board of Directors of the AWP and edited numerous literary journals and
anthologies, LaFemina founded the Center for Literary Arts at Frostburg State
University, where he is a Professor of English, serves as a Mentor in the MFA
Program at Carlow University, and is a current Fulbright Specialist in Writing,
Literature, and American Culture. In his “off” time he is the principal
songwriter and front man for western Maryland original rockers, The
Downstrokes.</span></div></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></div>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621093163694780109.post-23255796044051780772023-06-30T08:00:00.026-04:002023-06-30T08:00:00.137-04:00M. J. Arcangelini<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Sunset In Chicago</span></b><br /><br />
February, 4:30 PM, the sun slants sharp<br />
through the large, streaked,<br />
boarding gate windows at O’Hare airport.<br />
Waiting for a flight home and for the<br />
sun to leave the sky around<br />
the same time, both of us heading west.<br />
The sun will sink beneath<br />
the broad tarmac of landing strips,<br />
turning everything between us<br />
into silhouettes casting shadows.<br /><br />
Stuck in the airport waiting for a plane<br />
which keeps moving further away,<br />
taking-off later and later, hours<br />
delayed, allowing me to pound<br />
away laboriously at the keys of my laptop<br />
trying to wring poetry<br />
from the commonplace,<br />
pull profundity<br />
out of mere inconvenience.<br />
Yawning into the glare of the<br />
setting sun.</span><div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmN8OVSWQOEszb0H7ZYsa3YAncepUKjLJxNhflft8sVnWpRpvv_G7jyU3YHbdDZAjmQfPVfbibCohCs89qIQGpMFdHScJilyqIjJt3YXWYqYP-D_7uncVpMTD0kRZ1LkMEzPtL7YCim4pSTRnsmITfdTZPt0lC2tPEbvYmTY2rS6Z-_J9QoUJFOHvIsQ/s1944/mj%20arcangelini.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1458" data-original-width="1944" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmN8OVSWQOEszb0H7ZYsa3YAncepUKjLJxNhflft8sVnWpRpvv_G7jyU3YHbdDZAjmQfPVfbibCohCs89qIQGpMFdHScJilyqIjJt3YXWYqYP-D_7uncVpMTD0kRZ1LkMEzPtL7YCim4pSTRnsmITfdTZPt0lC2tPEbvYmTY2rS6Z-_J9QoUJFOHvIsQ/w200-h150/mj%20arcangelini.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><p class="Standard"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>M.J. Arcangelini</b>, born in Pennsylvania in 1952, has resided in northern California since 1979. He has published in little magazines, online journals (including The James White Review, Rusty Truck, The Ekphrastic Review, The Gasconade Review, Trailer Park Quarterly, As It Ought To Be Magazine, and The Rye Whisky Review), & over a dozen anthologies. He is the author of 6 published collections, the most recent of which is PAWNING MY SINS, 2022 (Luchador Press).</span><o:p></o:p></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></div>Heather Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08852180644348307217noreply@blogger.com0