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Archive for September, 2010

a haiku before serendipity

By Desmond Kon

fuck this shit, I’m gone –
with that, buick and trophies
left too, lights intact

call me in donghae
make it matter, you said cold
to the touch, gold chains

downloads, games, sadness
both fridges stocked for three weeks
marker stains, whiteboard

contact me there, you
make it matter, you wrote, cold
to the touch, gold chains

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By Harry Calhoun

We’re talking Jupiter, bigass planet
but where the hell is it? Behind some cloud,
probably, even if not, I got no telescope.
OK, so we’re talkin’ the largest oyster

ever spotted in the depths of the sea.
Never saw that, either. We’re talkin’ about amoebas
and other creatures you can’t see
with the naked eye. Or we could be

talking about the obvious you never see.
You know, the huge red inkblok,
a colorful Rohrshach sleeping beside you
like the faithful dog that you ignore

because it’s kinda creepy and a different species.
We sometimes ignore that which we can’t see.
that is our doom, the oyster, the amoeba,
the bright red spot and the obvious that

we are not equipped to see.

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First date

By Tyler Bigney

So, she said
you’re some sort of writer?
I guess you could call me that.
What do you write?
I write about everything, really.
No, she said, I mean, like,
do you write poetry
or short stories or what?
Both, I said.
There’s no money
in poetry, she laughed.
Not at all, I smiled,
and changed the subject.
What about you
What do you do?
Oh, I work in insurance.
I mean, it sucks,
but it’s not completely awful
or anything.
It pays the bills.
Good money, I bet.
Good money, she nodded.

I waved the waitress over.
Can she have the bill, please, I said,
nodding to my date
across the table.

I looked up from my feet
once the waitress was
out of earshot.
I sort of just assumed,
I said, smiling, so wide
I laughed.

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This Is It

By Mike Meraz

so here you are
reading another one
of my poems

it is not going to be
a good poem

it is going to be
a poem about you

reading another one
of my poems

if you have never had
a poem written
about you this is it.

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The Milk Man

By Larry Jones

Blame it on the woman,
the cop
the church.

On the soldier,
the left
the right.

Blame it on Obama,
Elvis
Smith/Jones
Bush.

On the black man,
white man
rich man
poor man
milk man.

The problem,
man,
is little ol’ you.

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By Donal Mahoney

Between her legs
the doctor found a goatee

gray as city pigeons
flying through factory smoke

a goatee that hadn’t been combed
that hadn’t been kept

that quit in fangs
an inch above her knees

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last grenade

By Damian Rivera

the physician’s
assistant at the
doctor’s office
told me that my
blood pressure
is way too high
for someone
my age
“how high?” i asked
“dangerously high” she responded

so now i’m waiting it out,
ready for this blood pressure
to make good on it’s threat,
waiting
for
it
to
boil
over
and
crescendo
into
a
glorious
explosion
in
my
brain,

the
final
grenade
to
end
the
war
up
there

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Do Something Swampy

By Mark James Andrews
never call my breezeway a man cave
it opens up on a bed of Painted Daisies
Black Eyed Susans and Dusty Millers
floats and soars softly with the stereo
in shuffle mode on Erik Satie now
one of the Gymnopedies and before that
the Rondo Finale Allegro of Mahler’s 5th
as the newsfeed of a cable station
on the 42 inch flat screen
the sound turned off keeps flashing
an ethnic Middle Eastern killer from Flint
Michigan who slashes undersized
black men as I work at my laptop
on a make-shift card table and chair
set-up when the garage door flies
open to what sounds like the report
of a 12 gauge which fades to screams
my daughter and granddaughter
shooting hoop in the driveway
but it’s only the time and place
for the door spring to snap and rocket
launch into the bare wall particle board
no blood but its time for me to motor
to a poetry reading where I’m working
with a multi-instrumentalist who begins
on the electric keys with what to me
sounds like Woodstock the Joni
Mitchell version so I ask him to do
something swampy on guitar
he complies with Tom Waits
Chocolate Jesus and I do an old one
The Mongoloid Brother Popped In
from my chap deciding to save
Condoms on the Handlebars of a Rusted Bicycle
which is forthcoming in November
in an online lit mag called Word Riot.

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By Mather Schneider

I got a letter from a guy in prison.
The envelope had a big
red stamp on it.
The guy had read a few of my poems in a
magazine.
In one poem I had used some swear words
and he didn’t approve of that
while another poem was about sex
which was ok
as long as I didn’t use the swear words.

He told me
he’d murdered his wife
and that he also wrote poetry
and he included several handwritten poems
in a tiny, beautiful
penmanship.
He said he believed in self determinism
and wanted to know how
I felt about the improvement of
humanity.
He said prison had freed him
from responsibilities like keeping
himself fed and housed in an expensive
and insane society
and had given him time
to read and to figure
things out.

I wrote him back telling him I didn’t
like his poems
(they were robotic)
and that I also had bars on my window
and worked 50 hours a week to
hold it together
and I told him I was not interested in
self determinism or his
plans for humanity.
I told him if he wanted to save the world
he probably should have started
by not killing his wife,
which was a cruel thing
to say maybe,
but then again maybe you should ask his
wife’s family before you
judge me.

I have wanted to murder many
times but never did.
Maybe that makes me a coward,
it’s hard
to be sure about anything,
and anyway
he never wrote
back.

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By Misti Rainwater-Lites

That was the time. That three months in 2004 time.
March. April. June.
A spoonful of time in Albuquerque
when we were starving
and taking to trough
two shameless muddy glorious pigs.
Taco picnics and tequila slams
by neon Budweiser and Dos Equis signs glow.
That Easter time of Risen Indeed
me sitting in chair
of studio apartment
in flowered dress
legs spread
so to receive
the healing worship
of his industrious tongue.
Stars spilled absolution
and Mercury whizzed past
faster than usual.
We were surrounded by intoxicated aliens
and displaced angels.
“Your eyes change colors. They’re
green when you’re horny. Blue when
you’re not horny,” he said.
I was his kaleidoscopic next of kin.
We’ve been there and we keep going back.
Today’s tacos are too fucking stale.

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