Archive for April, 2011

By Nick Hranilovich

Schrodinger’s poem isn’t even here.
You just needed something to read.
Everybody who thinks they’ve gone interstellar
constellation unconscionable consciousness
dart toward the extreme left
(H)ad better wake up and smell the Traverse City Cherries.
Smearing my makeup on myself, on the bus,
on the guy next to me,
wearing the glittery bargain basement bedazzled shirt
“Cum Slut” fights to = something like “Mommy’s Little Angel”
Smear it on all three sets of my lips, push the envelope
to the edge of a cliff
and fist its stomach ’til it pukes all of the letters into the ocean.
Good fudging riddance you printpiles.
Never sent good word to home,
’cause the written language is a dead one
they hear me on the TV beating drums,
standing fifty feet away from the marches
Leading a revolt against the revolution
and a coup against the cause
Down with picket signs, up with mortars.
Down with Lords of War, up with alcoholic baby formula.
Chocolate for dogs.
Equator for Eskimos.
Malcolm X and a Rabbi walk into a bar.
One got shot, one got disowned.

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By JD Nelson

The Orion Nebula.

“Earth was eaten this morning and there’s nothing you can do about it,” said Mr. Connolly.

“Speak,” said the machine.

“Ten of those twenties are mine,” I said.

“What is your life plan?” asked Mr. Connolly.

“Speak,” said the machine.

“I want to make a fresh start,” I said. “I want to bake a book of cookies.”

“Very well,” he mumbled. “You are dismissed.”

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By Julien Edmund Moss

Like myself in another life
I am one soul, one love, one life
I could compose a thousand lines of vomit

I am a schismatic
And I recalled that from a different state
My semipermadrunk mind the more plastic
More pliant than before

Those three jazz ghosts
Mortent aux 60’s
And the three Kings
(Pale infidel like me)

The ghosts played of a “free” movement
While the Kings brought of a style from bondage
To elaborate, a kid, a reedsman, and a gestalt
To elucidate, Blues Boy, Southpaw, and Let It Roll

Forget the poetics of Apollo among literary circles
Give yourself instead to the Birdolotry of jazz squares
Holla: For the Bard would have loved the Bird
Lest we forget the copyjobs of dead slingers

Don’t forget those who took up
The tenor in recompense to a rhapsode
You was a God, you remember
Your improvisation was supreme

But I’d want to walk with the composers
The Duke to the Monk to the Ming(us)
But somehow I could never just get there
I never had the conception to do that

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By Mary Pacifico Curtis

The magnetic north pole is moving
I hear and imagine

it’s gone for a walk freeing itself
in circles around where it was fixed
stretching and testing the magnets mood
as the globe shifts too

what was the USSR
now a collection of stans
and Kurdistan for northern Iraq
“country of mountains”
hiding terror’s plan makers

bumps on the globe elevate terrain
that doesn’t change so easily
no matter the name
paper mache under thick glaze
holding the world together.

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By John Grey

Some carnival.
The cops decide who and what
and how much we celebrate.
And the rides are cheap and always breaking down.
And thievery’s masked as games of skill.
Candy apple, candy cane, candy floss,
sold by a woman named Candy
with a tattoo on both breasts.
But it’s the neighborhood
so what do you expect.
It’s the empty field
I pass by every day
and now someone’s pitched a tent,
hooked up a ferris wheel,
put together a cheesy carousel.
So instead of litter,
it’s hucksters.
Instead of one cop
munching on a donut,
it’s six cops
munching on six donuts.
And deciding who and what
and how much we celebrate.
I’m on a ride and it breaks down.
But, in this neighborhood,
that’s always how I get my money’s worth.
Some carnival.

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jungle cat

By Ben Adams

at 11 p.m. wednesday I return
five books of poetry borrowed
from the barr smith library

having scanned through each of them
in turn, finding nothing but
landscaped academia: the gordian lines

of creative writing professors who
squeeze conrad’s dark wilderness
into middle class backyards.

afterwards I light a cigarette and drive
to a strip club on hindley street
with bad lighting and no entry fee

where twenty dollars slipped in the palm
of a wide hipped blonde
leads me to a booth and i sit

drink in hand, looking up
between the double-d breasts of this
c-grade dancer:

the lines of her jungle cat body
like pages and pages
of unwritten

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Ronald Reagan

By Joe Cloyd

Even in death
You are
Worse than a
Hollow suit
Worse than a
Hollow head
Worse than a
Hollow tip bullet

You are dead now
Buried in the west
Where the grass
Is always green
And the dirt
Is gold

There are streets and
Freeways and malls and
Airports and
Who knows
What else named after you
Because you
Were good at
Selling GE
And laundry

Most importantly
You could sell

A lifeguard
And varsity
Football player
Who went
To Hollywood
And made it
And then
Became president
Who won the
Cold war
By cutting taxes
For the rich
Got on
His horse and
Put on
His cowboy hat
Riding out into
The sunset

Your myth
Is at our

You are
A product

You are
The bleached
Phony smile
That promises
Prosperity but
Brings misery

You are
The picture
Of the pope
On a bag
Of potato

You are the
Squinting icon
Of the
Credit card

You are
Death on the

You are a war
I don’t want to fight

You are
Norman Rockwell
With Marcel
Du Champ’s
Head up
His ass

You are the
Mother of
The moneyed
Manson family

You are the
Soul of

You are
The spokesman
For fat
Shitting social

You are
South American
Hit squads
Cutting off the
Genitals of
Labor organizers
And priests
And stuffing
Them in their

You are W—
The letter that

You are the
Walt Whitman
Wall Street

You are a
John Wayne

You are a
5-year old
On fire

And someday
Thanks to your
You might
Just become
Jesus Christ

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By G. David Schwartz

I do not eat bricks
I do never chew them
I cannot stand the bricks
That’s why I never do chew them

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By William Merricle

Surgery once started must be completed.
The probability is 97.73% of playing into the devil’s hands.
Unresolved is not so terrible.
The autopsy showed top management potential.
The time machine’s been discontinued for lack of interest.

Serenity is the diameter of a single breath.
You’d think we’d have been punished by now.
The perfect world must die to be perfect.
Morning rubs her half-opened thighs.
We’re lined up; each of us has to tell a joke, and I don’t have one.

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The World As Spin

By Jim Price

Walk across a room and tilt the universe.
You can’t put a teacup on a table
without the saucer preparing for unauthorized flight.
Things really do just get up and walk away by themselves.
Don’t try and catch them in the act,
the spin is quicker than the spun.
There is so much motion that we tend not to notice.
Homeostasis. The set point of perception.
The modern world has conjured so much twisting
that we need to tie ourselves to a tree
to keep from being swept sideways by the hype.
Listen for the background noise,
the drip, drip, drip of tilted language.
Your cup of tea is made from the same water,
the weaving of words into a drinkable swill.
Think you’re too clever to down the drugged potion?
Opportunity looms in the unguarded moment,
casting lures that hide hook, line, and thinker.
Beware the mishaps of prophecy, the pinprick
that draws you into a hundred-year sleep.

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