Poetry Man I’m the poetry man, understand? Dance, dance, dance to the crystals of night, healing crystals detox nightmares, night tremors. Death still comes in the shadow of grief, hides beneath this blanket of time, in the heat, in the cold. Hold my hand on this journey you won’t be the first, but you may be the last. You and I so many avenues, ventures & turns, so many years together one bad incident, violence, unexpected, one punch, all lights dim out. 97, Coming to Terms & Goodbye (An atheist faces his own death) Wait until I have to say goodbye, don’t rush; I’m a philosophical professor facing my own death on my own time. It takes longer to rise to kick the blankets back. I take my pills with water and slowly lift myself out of bed to the edge of my walker. Living to age 97 is an experience I share with my caretaker and so hard to accept. It’s hard for youngsters who have not experienced old age to know the psychology of pain that you can’t put your socks on or pull your own pants up without help anymore— thank God for suspenders. “At a certain point, there’s no reason to be concerned about death, when you die, no problem, there’s nothing.” But why in my loneliness, teeth stuck in with denture glue, my daily pillbox complete, and my wife, Leslie Josephine, gone for years, why does it haunt me? I can’t orchestrate, play Ph.D. anymore, my song lyrics is running out, my personality framed in a gentler state of mind. I still think it necessary to figure out the patterns of death; I just don’t know why. “There must be something missing from this argument; I wish I knew. Don’t push me, please wait; soon is enough to say goodbye. My theater life, now shared, my last play, coming to this final curtain, I give you grace, “the king of swing,” the voice of Benny Goodman is silent now, an act of humanity passes, no applause. *Dedicated to the memory of Herbert Fingarette, November 2, 2018 (aged 97).
Ian C. Smith
Afflicted When I hit the road, not for roadwork this time, morning light thin like my shakily packed bag, it was the end of winter, time to go. A scrapper since boyhood, neurals now explosive, I left my treasured boxing scrapbooks behind with the sad-eyed girl I married. After my seventh bout, concussed, untreated, I knew I must box no more. Subscribing to Ring Magazine at first, scissoring action shots to paste in pages beyond my meager cuttings, I continued flirting from afar with what I realized was an uncaring, brutal sport. I fretted for the ersatz feeling of glory entering the ring ducking between ropes, referees’ ignored instructions, nervous tap of gloves before combat. I also left training behind: contest posters pasted on the gym’s walls, liniment and leather’s waft, soft slap of skipped rope, the speedball’s thrummed tattoo; instead, learned to read to overcome depression, a different kind of obsession taking root. Trapped in a neutral corner now, alone with nothing left of that faded time except my developed yet weakening brain, memory’s slippage like an unwanted heirloom after these quiet years afloat in the world of literature, art, this unaccountable loss, those grueling days of damage done, that sad-eyed girl, stagger me, a rip to the solar plexus. I feign nonchalance, keep on the move, defence stoic yet porous, want this tempo of rapid decline to slow, dreaming back, wondering what became of my youth during this still life, those scrapbooks, crave to trace their pages’ yearning once again.
Fabrice B. Poussin
Living at 55 It is all a matter of time as he watches from the windows darkened by years of abandon an old cinemascope movie at twenty-four frames per second a super high definition at twenty-nine lives moving by at fifty-five miles per hour. They come and they go without a sign making not a trace upon the present no memory of their passage remains for the future no story to be told for these unknown ghosts in a rush to reach the next stop sign another supper with friends becoming strangers. They hit the asphalt in the early hours to slide by again as the skies darken hoping for a smooth journey to their temporary homes while some will crash into an unseen oblivion remembered for a few lines in the morning news most will merely perish asleep at high speed. Fixated on the lights ahead, their dreams too are in slumber fleshy robots they no longer ask those puerile questions of those years when still attempting to survive their souls have been subdued by the unavoidable race intoxicated by the unbearable sleeping agent they call a life they continue on the path unable to rediscover their extinct fancies.
John Tustin
JENNIFER Jennifer wants the world to live by the rules she has provided. Jennifer doesn’t like to be called Jenny. Jennifer doesn’t want to hate me but she does even though she loves me, too. Jennifer doesn’t understand The Beatles, The Stones, Bob Dylan. She doesn’t want to. Jennifer wants the world to be good and doesn’t see that when I argue I give her her own words back to her. Jennifer is so sad and so beautiful I could weep. I imagine that she masturbates thinking about the good and bad things about me. If Jennifer and I were children together we would be sitting in a tree and kissing. We are not children and we have lived already so all we do is fight. Jennifer inside herself is a child who has witnessed war and I am a lot like her. Jennifer kisses ghosts. Jennifer embraces barbed wire. Jennifer wraps her legs around fantasies and listens intently through the wall. Jennifer gags on the thought of being conquered with tears in her eyes and likes it. Jennifer’s eyes were meant to be admired. Jennifer was meant to be used in the most loving way imaginable. Jennifer’s lips were meant to be kissed. Jennifer’s body is scarred with a life of decisions. Jennifer’s heart is a sieve. Jennifer doesn’t want to make decisions anymore. Jennifer makes me feel upside down. Jennifer makes me think things at night when I’m alone. I want Jennifer and she wants me but Neither of us can be had. It’s not that easy. I only want Jennifer to love me But I also understand.
Alan Catlin
A Real Story She delivers mail every day to the bar The new day guy asks her out They click Make plans to move in together Get married They’ve narrowed down honeymoon options to two or three She makes plans to move her son, from a previous marriage, to a new school Drives him to the airport for a pre-relationship, no cancel, extreme vacation in the mountains Kisses him goodbye Says she’ll see him in a week He meets the perfect woman while rock climbing Claims there is nothing more romantic than making love on a mountain ridge after a strenuous climb as the sun goes down Proposes to her though there are already clear signs she is an absolute bitch on wheels The mail carrier picks him up at the airport When asked later why he didn’t give her a heads up about his new plans he says, “She was my ride.” Her world as she knew knew it ends His goes on as usual
Daniel Klawitter
Preface to an Ontological Cookbook For me, the cooking life has been a long love affair, with moments both sublime and ridiculous. —Anthony Bourdain It may be that hunger and love Are twins from the same Mother— An eternal longing to lull our lack. And the presence of an absence Is the recurring attack of history. To be struck by such fictions or facts Is a recipe beyond all reverie & endurance: As you step back to your private kitchen Where no snack can bring assurance. It’s Inevitable For now, the buzzards float Counterclockwise In a sky of exceptional blue. But the inevitable Shall come to pass: A carcass and a rendezvous. Take It All Off, Slowly Some leaves are the color of lust, Or speckled gold & burnt sienna. The spectacle of Fall is a carnival: Bold flashes among the branches In this sun-freckled fiesta of autumn. The aspens turn & then they shimmer, As the leaves peel off like garments— Flung at the feet of a stripper.
Shiva Neupane
Loneliness is my ultimate friend: In my search for a companionship I have toured my heart in many places, But I didn't find anyone who understood me? After finding no one I slouched beneath the azure sky of my Solitude, from where I found my truest friend - Miss. Loneliness. Miss. loneliness perched me on the ground of philosophical enlightenment, and lectured me the ups and downs of those romantic- mercenaries in the battle of futile love. Miss. Loneliness gave me a key to open the door of pluralistic-reality of the world, where love is ambushing the hearts of many with a romantic- mantra.
Daniel S. Irwin
Bullshittin’ Late at night, when confronted by A gun-totin’ fool outside the bar, You just know the gutless wonder Demanding money is bullshittin’. But then, Messieurs Smith & Wesson In a shaky hand, might not, in fact, be Bullshittin’. So, bye bye wallet and Bye bye my whole last two bucks. Which, when my robber checks The take, he laughs and gives it back. “You need this more than me, dude.” Out of the goodness of his evil heart, He hands me a crisp new Jackson, Then disappears into the darkness. Truly a fine gentleman. Perhaps, I’ll Meet him later, in the slammer, Since I got arrested for, sucker that I am, trying to spend a crisp new ‘Counterfeit’ twenty dollar bill.
Paul Tanner
musk we did it with the window closed and the little plug-in heater going full whack. afterwards we lay marinating in our puddle. my eyes boiled in their sweaty sockets. the ceiling vibrated, purple. everything looked purple and hummed: the walls, her. even the air was starting to bleed. I couldn’t breathe and I didn’t mind. I was being choked in the aftermath and it felt like I was still cumming, like I’d cum and choke into eternity. I do like our musk, she said and did a theatrical sniff of the air, her nose pointing up like a cartoon character sniffing out a delicious pie. we’re proper fucking potent together, us! and lit a fag. the smoke of her duty-free Marlborough Light baked us in her humming purple box. I’ve been being cooked alive ever since.
Ian Copestick
Day By Day Day by day I'm forgetting more, and more about you. How you smelled, how your lips felt. I hate it, but I can't stop it happening. Next I'll forget your voice. I hate it, but I can't stop it happening. Day by day you disappear more and more. I hate it, but I can't stop it happening. God ! How I miss you !
The Beatnik Cowboy 