Failed Haiku 1 Blank page on my laptop A tree still waiting for leaves 2 A hazy childhood memory The dense, swirling fog in which a killer might lurk 3 Passing clouds cast fugitive shadows over a hayfield Lines for a poem that vanish on waking 4 Bright red patches on the wings of blackbirds Christ’s wounds 5 Your inner child A figure pursued across the ice
John Maurer
Panic Attack on a Tuesday Afternoon I'm falling to ash again Blinding myself to my blessings Turning the spotlight to my troubles and hating myself for being cognizant of it I don't see the glass half empty I see it shattered and pressed against my neck I see a thousand paths to nowhere Can't find a single one that goes anywhere If you think that you think your thoughts I'd say you like having that thought that you aren't thinking
Judge Santiago Burden
It Could Be Worse It Could Be Raining Up, out of bed 3 pm Saturday San Jose Costa Fucking Rica, I can smell the rain with a mixture of car exhaust and diesel fuel, gray skies gray world, just the Gods reminding me what a hangover looks like, the storm has already saturated the city, flooding streets and low lying areas, the smell triggers my olfactory memory machine to recall fond thoughts of Mexico City, resulting in a smile that occupies what feels like my entire face, replaced quickly with a grimace from the pain of this cancer eating away at me like alligators gnawing from the inside out. The Gods, hilarious bastards yuckin' it up at the joke they have perpetrated, I could have contracted Lung Cancer, I've smoked everything that can catch fire, Liver Cancer, the fish drink like me. Quote from a past love Christina. I drink like a fish I once stated, "No Santi the fish drink like you", Cancer of my blood, I've shot and tried to shoot everything that would dissolve in water, even cough syrup with codeine as well, Stomach Cancer no, never been a big eater, the thing I enjoy most Sex, so I get diagnosed with Prostate Cancer. Those of you thinking Karma, kiss my ass, you people piss me off more than christians, as though there is some cosmic cloud waiting to rain down retribution for malicious acts I may have performed during my present or past life, now I am really agitating myself, past lives what a myth, Karma was created to pacify the Egos of those who don't have the balls or aren't willing to fight back. Bad luck the culprit maybe, luck doesn't exist good or bad, it's just the consequence to an unforeseen event, nothing more, but there are those that need to believe in some mystic force, an omnipotent deity controlling their destiny, you think I'm coming off a bit self righteous do you, demonstrating my best character flaw. Andrea calls often to check up on my condition and has accompanied me on a few IMRT sessions at the hospital, seeing me going through therapy made her uncomfortable, so she stopped coming, she seems to call shortly after I've injected a massive dose of morphine and I'm too high to carry on an intelligible conversation, when I do attempt to speak I drift back and forth from English to Spanish then French causing her to laugh, her voice brings me back into cognizance, " Español Bigotes! Porfa Espanol" I once asked her to dedicate five years of her exclusive affection to me in return for a sizable inheritance, assuring her I wouldn't live that long, she declined graciously with a passionate kiss, her hands cradling my face. " My love I think there is nothing that can kill you. Let's leave our relationship where it is, And I believe you will outlive me and I'm only thirty years old." I had just celebrated my fifty-sixth birthday and that was eleven years ago when I made my request, She has never asked me for anything except during moments of passion, I've attempted to convince her she does love me only she doesn't know it, falling in love with a man like me is a risk she isn't willing to take. I'm out of coffee, cigarettes and morphine, exiting my place with no umbrella, off to the Pulperia and Farmacia, the prostitutes flash their twenty dollar smiles and Los Bichos de Calle (street insects, bugs) are out early searching for Rocka Tocka (crack), the deluge increases its intensity, the sky crackles with lightning, it could be worse, it could be raining.
Brian Rhilmann
Fuck it as I approach 50 I grow tired of trying to fix all my various problems— my emotional problems my people problems my drinking problem it’s like pretending I’m somebody else somebody I’ll never be so...fuck it— I surrender I’m done fixing anything it’s a waste of whatever time I’ve got left this belief that we’ll die at 85 after a long retirement is a hubristic modern fallacy I’ve had a few classmates go already in their mid 40s people die in their 40s and 50s all the time and don’t you forget it shit...they die in their teens and 20s too and in cribs and wombs back to my so called problems... I guess I could be sorry it’s taken me this long to figure out that they’re not problems at all— that this is just more cultural propaganda clinging to my already too old too heavy concrete shoe soul like a thousand rotting dead skins so again fuck it someone has to be me and someone has to be you so we may as well quit pretending and really go for it you know? really inhabit ourselves fearlessly because after all nobody can play these parts better than we can The Same Old Face it’s always those with power telling the powerless to not take it personally— it’s just the market you’ll find another apartment one you can afford you’ll find another job don’t worry there’s no need to hate me there’s no need to curse or spit on my shoes why are you so angry? and while those with lots of power can be vicious worse are those who’ve been powerless themselves and now they have a little bit and they’re testing it you see they want to know if they have the stomach to do what’s been done to them just like they always dreamed I like to imagine they’re surprised at themselves by how easily they slip into the role of master I like to imagine some crisis of conscience but they probably don’t even notice— they look in the mirror and see the same old face they haven’t changed a bit
Ian Copestick
What Are You Supposed To Do ? Just what are you supposed to do, when the bottom has fell out of your world ? I don't know, I've tried heavy drinking, but that's just made me worse. I never want to get a drug habit again. That is seriously the worst of the worst. So, what the Hell do I do ? I really don't know, that's why I'm asking you. I just get up each day, and try my best to go on. Writing helps, but I'm only writing about once a week. Before it was usually four, or five poems each week. I don't know I don't know what to do. That's why I'm asking you.
Alan Catlin
Another Day in Paradise If Jesus lived now his mug shot would be on the AP wire as the face of the man who attempted to throw a live alligator into a crowded bar in Florida. He’d have done something criminal on the tail end of a three-day binge like driving a stolen car into a line of charity bike racers, taking out bystanders, competitors and a utility pole then, undeterred, backing up for another go around despite a steaming, leaking radiator, detached bumpers and caved in windshield. Deployed air bags don’t count. His stained t-shirt would have an AK 47 decal, a slogan like “My rights doesn’t end where your emotions begin.” In his next life he would be a Shotgun Judas with a sawed off, infiltrating a political rally, church fundraising event, for the homeless. His chest tattoo of a screaming eagle with a US flag decal in its beak is where the service revolver bullets go.
Stephen Jarrell Williams
No Man’s Path Fewer footsteps these last few months Less trash from a foodless land Empty backpacks left behind Not a grave mound near Songs no longer whispering Behind the far trees lumps of decay and bones Dust covering most of the bent grass The path a thinning trail Scavengers’ fur lies in lines from starvation The wind dying The dimming sun blends into the night moon Man or woman hasn’t left a dream here Something like smog in the air The scent of losers everywhere As a few of us still chase the glories of heaven Birds have not flown high for years Swirls of feathers lace the treetops Tiny eyes like pin holes full of sand Ants cover hilltops like dry beads moving Swarms taking their time Silent with their billions of mini legs Scent of far cities crumbling Hum of drums on the skin of earth Now a nothingness of importance No man’s path from one dead-end to the other The way is not by foot But by heart.
Daniel S. Irwin
Tapestry Tightly Woven So is there a ‘how & why’ of it, A life history writ in failure-ese? Poor choices or no choices? Genes, geography, lack of luck? A tapestry tightly woven in woe. Is it all down to kismet and fate, Wholly the will of deranged gods? The future revealed by moments. Perhaps, the best is yet to come. Perhaps not. But, as ever, we try. Boldly try in the face of adversity, Fools driven on by blind ambition. In essence, is not the very struggle Just as exalting as the end goal? The fight as regal as the crown. The warrior as revered as the king.
Gerard Manogue
burrowed in the rhododendron burrowed into the rhododendron the spiked drink gets me in a gravitationally bound state barfing towards sagittarius a* and rolling in the yellow dandelions to dodge sun baked syringes where the crocodiles die in lake mead good great fantastic marvelous burrowed into the rhododendron i throw up big macs and shermsticks to a wackadoodle studying calculus and the black hole takes its time forcing my two halves together like mismatched puzzle pieces in a pot of bolied chicory the world will end bad awful terrible horrible burrowed into the rhododendron i come out of the other side with eight arms i come out of the other side wanting to shit i come out of the other side talking to the seventeenth coming of jesus a toothless salvadorean man who runs a botanica in south central the guy i talked to for five minutes 11:15pm, christmas, lan kwai fong i remember stone lions, furious perched outside the crimson mansions “i am waiting for my girlfriend” said the young man pointing to the mouth of the hungry club hyperventilating “she won’t reply to my texts” “she won’t answer my phone calls” “she won’t talk to me” “i’ve left 20 voicemails” “i’m going crazy” “here, drink this” i offer my bottle of peach flavored soju he takes a pull while russians fight outside 7 eleven people crowd the street like doves “are you sure she’s in there?” “how do you know?” “are you sure?” “you want to go in?” he won’t go in the cover charge is 200 hkd i tell him, “love is worth more than money” well aware he has neither
John D Robinson
THERE, THEN I was there when the light burnt eyes for the first time, when love was felt, I was there when it turned ugly and vicious and compassion was near death, when we had almost destroyed the world’s beauty and natural resources, I was there when we turned and looked at each other and wept as our children played games long dead in our hearts. STEPPING A step away from victory heaven hell beauty, a step away from war peace loneliness perfection tranquillity, a step away from grace harmony failure murder fucking riches satisfaction uselessness, a step away from hopelessness genius beginning, always one step, a step away from grasping the preciousness of this life together. TAKING AND HOLDING I knew by taking her hand I’d end up in places I’d rather not, but I reached out anyway: ‘Hold on tightly’ she said with a smile: for a decade or more our hands were intertwined, our heads burnt like roman-candles and then she closed her eyes, forever and now they shine behind mine.
The Beatnik Cowboy 