Archive for March, 2012

By Luis Rivas

i have these dreams
where i finally find and confront
the private contractor who never
paid me or my brother for a couple
weeks of cement mixing, painting
plastering and general construction
work, where i try hard in controlling
my breathing, trying not to let the
rage take over, how i coolly explain
to him that we either handle this by
immediate payment or i stick a
knife in his throat

and he says that he’s sorry and
that he doesn’t have the money
and his eyes turn into deer eyes
and i can’t stop from shaking
feeling my anger taking over
almost crying with rage and relief
stabbing him, thrusting my pocket
knife into his neck as deep as i can
picturing my grip completely going
through his throat, searching his deer
eyes, soft and almond shaped
watching his sick, cheating, greedy
exploiting life leave his body, his
eyes turning gray and dull, then
pulling the knife out and doing it
again, glad, relieved that i’m doing
this, that it has come down to this
scenario, that it ended with him not
willing or wanting to pay because
i have wanted this

but i am hoping, hoping i don’t find
him but secretly i am wanting nothing
else more and i’ve been carrying
a knife ever since

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By Paul Vincent Andrews

your dreams become a porn movie
deranged thoughts worse than Satan’s
gyn center, the Doc himself asks you

“staying above water in this”

“had to buy a snorkel”

you’re back in the brown, red, and pink
strange pimply flesh, and the razor burn

God’s sounds the alarm

you luck into Terry Callier

“I’ve seen a sparrow get high”

“and waste his time in the sky”

perhaps today’s the day

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Little Hand

By Neil Ellman

for Mayer


Almost the dream I had almost the same dream I had so many times the dream I had of little things small things small minus small minus the size of a tiny hand in the dream that I had reaching with opposable improbable almost possible sweep in the dream that I had of a tiny hand.


Littles hand your hand how it reaches beyond my reach the reach of my smallest hand how it reaches for my dream in my dream at the end of my fingertips on my smallest hand you reach beyond my dream.


Almost my hand maybe yours this hand in the dream I had so soft this hand so small holding in the dream I had my dream the possibility of a tiny hand holding my hand in a dream.

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Iin Veery Baad Taastee

By Ben Naga

II haad aa leetteer
Froom my dooctoor toodaay
IIt waas baad neews
EEspeeciiaally foor aa wriiteer
Thee teests caamee baack
IIt’s coonfiirmeed
II haave vooweel caanceer

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standing still

By Bill Winchester

i was sitting outside of a bar
at about 3 in the afternoon
there were spores or something floating in the air,
some kind of plant ovary or seed and all that
whatever it was, it was light and the sun shone right through it
then, a dog turned around the corner of the building
he was small,
a lap dog i guess
maybe a pug, i don’t really know about dogs
he had a
sweater on
it was a college sweater
ivy league, i think
nobody was walking him
he was just scooting around the neighborhood
in his dog clothes,
he had escaped

well, i’ll drink to that
they brought the mcrib back again,

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St. Patrick’s Night

By John Grey

In a bar called Finnegan’s Wake, a hundred Irishmen celebrate
St Patrick. The clubs are hopping. Crowds are sprawling down
the streets. Those who fear are locked inside their houses.
Or they’re Irish and they’re much too drunk to care.

A woman is dancing on a traffic island while cars zip by on
either side. An old man is walking his dog, a lab mix.
The banks are long closed. The checks are cashed.
The moon is quoting from every other night. A
couple sprawl on a grassy East Side hill, stare up
at the sky and its trillion lights. And someone is singing
though none can tell where the voice is coming from.
Maybe the cleaning lady in the top floors of the city hall.
Maybe the waitress at the greasy diner. Maybe the
one who first said, “All government is local but
there’s no government at eleven o’clock at night.”

But there’s cop cars to be sure. And an ambulance has
its own shrill song to serenade the dying. A kid was
beat up. A priest was propositioned by a hooker.
A drunk pissed on the State House gate. The Irishmen
are chanting “Danny Boy.” Tears flood every eye.
A fight breaks out but it’s a friendly scrap. No need
for the cops or the ambulance. No need for the government
either, in Washington, in Providence or in Dublin.
Someone said St Patrick rid Ireland of its snakes.
Another says he missed one.

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By Nick Hranilovich

Scene: A strapping young lad and his busty damewell companionado are resting against a cabin made of palm trunks. The sounds of celebration blast from the background, and they are apparently stepping away from a large festivity.
Lad: So do you think things will ever be the same?
Damewell: God, I hope not. People will never be able to change the way they live, and I’m glad. *Laughs* I’m fucking glad. It’s so beautiful.
*Guy Enters*
Guy: Hey, guys, the waterfall is exploding! Come on!
Lad: In a minute.
*Exeunt guy*
Lad: You know, now that everything is out there, there’s only one thing we don’t all know. Well, I know it. I… I love you.
Damewell (Crying): You sure could have said it sooner. God, I love you too.
-Camera pans up, and over them, as they start to stand up. It goes in a crane motion over to the waterfall, which bursts without flame, and sends bits of ROY G BIV light into the air. Pieces of it land on the excited spectators, who then hold hands in a massive energy transference that heals the fissure in the Hearth Valley (the portion of the Earth’s magic cortex that allows complete flow of mage). Pan down to Professor Limon.
Limon: It’s a beautiful day. Forever.
-Fade out (Street Spirit)

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By Quasimofo Snyder

“i am not who i think i am” thought the protagonist
sitting on a piano stool with no trousers waiting
for trashday when Gabriel might blow the amp
on his Mother of Pearl Fender Strat.
What joyful ode do i lipsinc my 2% regretfulness
nestling wholesome sin skimming true vidal sassoon
[he always found it easier to confess his ultra split ends
violence in a mullet salon decked out in art deco].
{And he couldn’t stomach Art Nouveau anymore
since his lactose intolerant Goth girlfriend had left him
for the manager of Toys-R-Us}.
An ode a day will keep the joy at bay, he would trill…
for it’s best kept in season far from trespass, reason,
and treason.
Get both palms inked at Droog’s Tattoo Parlor
–one that reads “I love you?”
–and the other one says “Say ‘hello’ to slappy!”
They’re interchangeable.
But as he got older, he considered buying an inept
yet loyal monkey who would take his B-day spankings
for him. He began to doubt the redoubt of his
homogenized faith.
He would go to furniture stores just to turn the tables.
He would dress up like a spaceman to take his toy raygun
into the Laser Care Center.
The cops couldn’t do anything with him.
Finally one evening while he was frolicking in the forest
with an escaped mental derangee posing as the Greek
demi-god Pan, aliens disguised as butterflies caught him
in their net and he found true belonging as the prize stud
in their collection.
Yes, he lived in a Bio dome habitat refuge flowing with milk,
honey, and spunky roller derby gals located on the planet
Exoticamart. And there these voluptuous beauties grilled
steaks and potatoes for him and carressed his brow till all
of his worries about life and existence washed down
the gutter of his inner abbreviated annotated index
smoldering in the metaphorical midnight second sun.
Sometimes it’s best to forget reference.

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By Donal Mahoney

He tries again to situate his grosbeak
nose beneath his spectacles.
He twists the silver toothpick in his teeth
and hunches now a little more toward her,
saying “Listen, dear, I’ve said all this before,
and now I’ll say it all again.
Perhaps this time you’ll listen:

“You’re slovenly and gross. Your jowls
swing beneath your jaws like testicles.
Your mammoth breasts need tweezing.
Your freckled calves are carved of lard.
These things are true, my dear.
They’re not some crazed
vision of conjecture.”

The lady belches as she reaches for
a pickle spear, a slice of cervelat,
and begins to comb her yellow hair.
She hunches now a little more toward him,
saying “Listen, dear, I’ve heard all this before.
What’s happened here is eminently clear.
You no longer love me.”

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By Brian Le Lay

i will not talk to anyone who isn’t vegan,
because the air coming from his/her mouth
may have been in contact with a dead cow
and that air could float into my mouth
and i could be a contributor to the suffering
of another being.

someday i will have
a child.

grocery lists make immortal poems now.
one cucumber, tomatoes on the vine,
a bunch of bananas. say what you mean
in as few lines as possible

without actually saying what you mean,
merely allude to the meaning
by juxtaposing two unrelated images
without bridging the gap.

(i.e. i saw you today walking between traffic,
along the dashed lines.

i went home and smashed my piggybank
on the pavement and bought an elephant.)

you take yourself too seriously, maaaan…
please read my poems.

before entering a room
i ask, “is this doorknob vegan?”
before throwing a piece of bread
to a scattering of pigeons
at a public park, i ask,
“Are those pigeons vegan?”
before placing a rose on
my mother’s coffin, i ask
“were any animals harmed
in the carving of that wood?”

i reject everything,

one cantaloupe,
a bundle of scallions,
two halves
of watermelon.

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