He
He walks
with eyes on the ground
Counting every crack in the pavement,
He avoids all eyes
He wears a coat two times his size
Lined with whispers that itch at the skin
And everywhere he go,
He trails a shadow behind
He dines alone
Picking on food he cannot taste
He sighs and pulls on his faded hair
By night, he sits at the desk
Hands pressed to his face,
Replaying a scene over and over
Like a broken film reel
But when the stars come,
He only turns off the light
Pulling the blanket up to his chin
he whispers,
Maybe tomorrow
Jian Yeo
Last Moments with the World
A mother’s wail drifted through the gust of waves,
beware of him who walks where echo fades.
Clung her tight from the
Devil’s hand–choking,
eating those
fleshes
gargling Death before it spoke
hushed by the piercing wind
Is that what it feels like–to be
Justified?
Kingdoms fall
like lullabies luring a child to
marvel at the synchronous aurora and dirge
Nature sings so calmly,
one day it will realize
petals wither with with beauty too cold to touch
quivers of sand and wind
rocked the ship
side-to-side
tilting the decks
until all that it left was the
vulnerability a human endures–how they
writhed.
xanthic light flickers between the rumble while her
yearning carved on the woods
zipped shut by the deep hush.
Daniel S. Irwin
The Times
It was the best of times,
It was the worst of times.
Then again, maybe it just
Took a while to figure out
This party actually sucked
Like a fridge temp chili dog.
You know, looks good when
You first see it but in the
Long run it just plane fizzles
Out to the usual ho-hum.
Dig Dawg, birthday party in
Between high school class
Reunions. Lots of folks there,
Old letter jackets and former
Prom queens longing for
Those days (long) gone by.
Snoots that are still snoots
With that shit on their ears
From having their head stuck
Permanently up their ass.
Saving grace are the regulars,
Real people with smiles and
Warm conversation glad to
See everyone with no claim
Of self-anointed deity. Stay
A while, exit when ready, no
Reason to stay till the last dog
Dies. I still have things to do.
My life ain’t over till it’s over.
Regina King
Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?
Spin the carousel. Orbit
and drift, like a blinking lantern.
Chandelier wobbles. Volcano
bubbles like a skeleton cocoon.
Splash, spin. Prism shimmers.
Cathedral crumbles. Honeycomb
crawls up tower like a crimson
crown or velvet moss. Comet
tumbles. Mirrored scarecrow.
Eclipse.
Reagan Shin
Kintsugi: Gilded Clay
Crash. Smash. Flash.
The shatter of poetry splinters like my life,
fragments spilling across the floor.
What I have lost,
I’ve learned to gain.
The damage within me,
liquid gold poured into my bones
to fuse the cracks
that have formed.
It is my job to rise,
repair my own damages,
to make myself beautiful,
and forget the brokenness within.
Why am I so prone to shatter?
Why must I be both the potter and the pottery?
Kintsugi repairs,
but how many times
can I be fixed,
before I am nothing but dust?
I can be repaired,
but why should I?
Is it my responsibility,
or that of my creator who destroyed me?
Although kintsugi is art,
pretty, shiny, and lovely,
the pottery will never
be fully whole again.
There is beauty in brokenness,
but at what cost?
If you wanted gold,
then why would you
sculpt me
out of clay?
The shine is pretty,
beautiful yes,
but it is unnatural,
nonetheless.
I used to believe
that if I repaired myself,
I would become
more perfect than before.
You wanted a vase made of gold,
and I could never be that.
No matter how hard I try,
there is no way to turn
clay to complete gold,
despite the fusion attempts.
Sink or Swim
The ocean is calm tonight.
It’s always the calmest before the storm.
People see the sea
and look at the ripples of water,
assuming that it must be peaceful
because calm is comfortable.
But I have learned
that water is fickle and serenity
is nothing more than a warning:
brace for impact.
Being born in a hurricane
teaches you a language
spoken only to those
tempest-tossed through waves.
Inside the hurricane
is the eye of the storm.
That peace can only mean one thing.
This isn’t over; it’s just begun.
Oceans are unforgiving,
even in its kindest calm.
It will drag you down,
and suck you in forever.
A tourist may think
that the sea is gentle,
but a sailor like myself
knows better than to trust the waves.
Sink or swim
but never drown,
in the hidden waves
or the cruel tides.
In the water is where
I have learned to survive.
Alexis Lee
Who
My body trapped in the mirror
Another me inside another mirror, repeating until
I close my eyes.
A thin, needle-like light of rainbow
Piercing across the shadowmere color in front of me
I open my eyes.
Another me. In a sea of grass that rises above my head
Her stomach has a balloon swelling,
Carrying her away from me, up to the sky until
I — She crashes down.
Pulse
You are Are you
a universe. Small in in small universe? A
front of a blackhole, blackhole of front
compelling world world, compelling
into darkness. darkness into
Stars collapsing inward inward collapsing stars.
—silence. Silence—
Absence of life. Life of absence.
Bradford Middleton
NOT THAT LONG AGO…
I would want to go out & drown myself in
An ocean of booze,
A pacific sized glass to quench my
Almighty thirst, but those daze
Have gone so now I’ll just sit
Here smoking the ubiquitous
Whilst drinking this fruity little red.
THE HASH IS A-BUZZING
We got back to the old-skool
Hash wagon the other week
& it’s felt great. The mellow
Sweet little buzz that has me
A-buzzing with a cool tranquility
That’s been missing of late
After my confidence took a
Bit of a battering. But now, as
I sit here & smoke & write
This little poem I can slowly
Feel that sweet little confidence
Tapping on my shoulder as it
Whispers ‘hey, I’m back’ in
My calmed & chilled-out mind.
Richard LeDue
“It’s wrong”
to wish your drinking buddy
was still alive
so you’d have a good reason
to get drunk on a Wednesday,
only to remember
he isn’t really dead.
“An Empty Glass”
The whisky is calling
the wrong number again,
and I’m left drowning in silence
like it’s an empty glass
full of guilt and hangovers
that want it so bad
to rain.
Nicholas Viglietti
Smile When You Slice Dismay
Don’t lose your grip,
Don’t go insane.
Hold tight
To the flame-warped vision
In the sights
Of your heart’s,
Hair-triggered aim.
Don’t lose your grip,
Don’t go insane.
It’s the objective
Wired in the mainframe,
Meant to frazzle,
Brabble and rattle,
The operational clarity
Inside your brain.
Don’t lose your grip,
Don’t go insane.
Give up,
Tryin' to sway
The middle
To the fray.
The hills get taller,
You'll drift farther,
Smile when you slice dismay.
Don’t lose your grip,
Don't go insane.
Beaches in the Breeze
Just when I think,
I write as bad
As comin’ home
To viscid,
Four-hour old,
Dog-shit stink.
I keep on –
Poundin’ and bangin’
On the plastic squared letters,
No-fuckin-sense
To the arrangement,
Board of keys.
Somewhere...
Out in the eventually...
I hit the sentence speed...
Like vibrant acid-flashbacks
From south-of-the-border,
Beaches in the breeze.
JK Kim
This Old House
Worn smooth beneath every step,
splintered in places where shoes have slid.
It absorbs spilled sauces and dropped rice grains,
the heavy shuffle of customers coming and going.
It holds echoes of whispered deals and laughter,
silent but alive beneath each scuff.
Frame bent from years of use,
legs uneven, scraping the floor.
Its seat sags just enough to feel familiar,
cracked leather peeling like old skin.
It’s been leaned on, kicked, ignored,
but it stays, stubborn as the walls.
Hanging over the kitchen entrance,
threadbare and soaked with steam and grease.
Its edges fray like forgotten memories,
blocking the world beyond with a soft, heavy hush.
It moves only when the cooks pass through,
bearing the smell of garlic and smoke.
The Beatnik Cowboy 