5:16 A.M. A lonely car cruises down the dark street outside my window, as the empty coffee cup laughs at me from the abyss. The reverb in the headphones is cranked up, so I can barely hear the keys tap. I am the son and the heir Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar, croons Morrissey. Time to make the most of the early a.m. without seeing well-meaning people clogging up the sidewalks. I am not antisocial, more asocial (there is a difference.) Crowds work my nerves, and a twitch crawls up my spine when the coffeehouse is more than half full. How does it feel To treat me like you do, cries New Order. Who knows what my internal organs are plotting or doing? (Colliding like irresponsible drunk drivers; tying each other up in knots.) Seize the day? Today could be the last day. I have to make it count. Slave to the power of Death, belts Iron Maiden. The fresh mint dental floss on my desk promises Extra Comfort, but I would settle for more darkness before the glaring SoCal sunlight and monotonous blue sky invade my inner sanctum. I would give anything for some New England grey and a widow’s walk — Oh, no! Cursed daybreak unfolds! — Now I must finish this vampire paean to dark solitude. The sky is thankfully foggy, which, at least, is a step in the right direction. Bela Lugosi’s dead Undead, undead, undead, drones Bauhaus. PLEA Stick figures with crooked leers bully the boardwalk, trampling sandcastles made by faceless unfortunates swept away by the tides of implacable change. The TV is an oozing neurosis box on which commercials abound about dental implants, home invasions, panaceas with wretched side effects, and candy-coated pills encapsulating bite-sized fears. Somebody stamp my transcendental passport and give me a leg up and a way out. Watch me leap over socially reinforced quicksand, lash together a driftwood raft, and paddle until I land upon the other rarely reached, distant shore.
Daniel S. Irwin
Sweet Bitch Lane A sweet bitch Takes care of her man. A sweet bitch Works two jobs to Support her man’s habit. A sweet bitch Blows the cop to Get you out of a ticket. A sweet bitch Screws your mechanic For a free engine. A sweet bitch Jerks off the butcher For extra meat. A sweet bitch Does all your friends. A sweet bitch Gives the mailman A hum job just to Stay in practice. A sweet bitch always Keeps her back door Open for business. A sweet bitch does All that and more For her man. Now, a good woman Doesn’t do any of that. A good woman inspires Her man to be a man, A provider and protector. That’s what makes a Good woman ‘Great’. That’s the one you keep.
Stephen Jarrell Williams
"War of Words" Learning how to spell and writing with hot lead
Grzegorz Wróblewski
I REALLY LIKE LOVERS OF POETRY I really like lovers of poetry. I have a faithful friend who is always interested in my new books. When I hand her the next edition, she asks me to read a few selected works from it. And then she asks like this: And what do you get out of it? And I answer her with a question: In what sense? Then she explains: In an economic sense. Then there is a two-minute silence. And after a while we are already talking about problems with nature conservation. And so we have been together since time immemorial. I really like lovers of poetry. (translated by Grzegorz Wróblewski & Marcus Slease)
Sayani Mukherjee
August Teal blue of my fairy strands The murderous blues The hauntings of sun dried cuts Kill your belongings It's August They said But I'm still Hooking my drunken soul My red wined Coolings Can't Your own dealing Homicides across globe My spirits a childish grimace Enjoy your youth Sip be merry A good natured wife Milk of human kindness Halted on London bridges Cycling through ages Your white coloured tie Pattern of your very being Still my child's sweater Warm sipping A home cooked meal But The city's on fire A Phoenix Soul Soon a torpedo glory Sky high nebulas I screamed through Be drunken white Your own patterns Still it's August They said And My.
Dan Flore III
I stepped in vomit today it oozed between my toes I write this because it’s not everyday you step in your own filth wait, actually it is THE GREASE IN THE EMPTY PIZZA BOX I feel awful the day is putrid greasy pizza box condom wrapper on the floor last night was champagne moonlight today the sun is a hangover I don’t think anymore I just react like the squirrel on the deck when I open the door I run for my life I’m tired of it I’d like to just get it over with my death could just be like jumping into cold water but I remain I sustain I don’t know why I’m lying here on this unmade bed crushed under the weight of these words
Cary B. Ziter
AT 3:32 at 3:32 a.m. a freight train whistle runs up valley walls into my bedroom mixing well with images of lust, blame and heartbreak jamming my head; a throat-clutching moment. if I smoked cigarettes it would be a good time to chain smoke so the wispy tar cloud could lift me off my blue sheets, carry me closer to exquisite memories, closer to where a boastful locomotive soul is born onto this world, the bull iron thing always pulling out on time, guided by someone who knows how to navigate every tricky, twisted track without getting lost. STEPS OF THE SCAFFOLD The fires of love, part of a scheme, a raging tentacle at times that closes in on the fleshy throat. It’s so difficult to learn from the scar, to sit in the confessional chair and beg for help. It appears we of human need are born to play with matches, to drink heat, to lay at the gold altar of lust, ignoring nails in the floorboards, waving off answers hurled our way, directly and with good intent. Silly at times, unwarranted, yet we remain possessed with hope; we cast off the cost of scorching temptation, tick-tinted desire; we seek to be touched in a way that ignores crackling thunder; we want to be cuddled, drooled over, fused with cherry blossoms, a safe place where we aren’t face-slapped, where the stringy soul isn’t hung out to dry, where our bravely galloping dreams don’t slide too damn close to the steps of the scaffold.
Gabriel Bates
Burger King There's this guy at my apartment complex who walks to his fast-food job every single day. He wears the same shirt, the same pants, the same backpack, the same pair of headphones, and always has the same blank expression on his face. And every time I see him, I can't help but wonder if he's just dedicated or completely insane.
Sayani Mukherjee
Reflections. Silvery opulence amidst Snow clad hours My forever blue Anatomy of love A golden rose Bow tied piano scape Scary as love Around wintry snowflakes He embalms my soul Autumnal palsy His goodness gracious Poignant peak I couldn't summon my notes Momentum reflections Necessary To be written down For me When Autumn comes I will gather My snowing pal And I will ride these Paper towns With my oceanic wetness.
Glenn Armstrong
1981 Whatever happened to gliding down the Slip ‘N Slide or getting a toasted almond bar from the white uniformed Good Humor man? Stickball bat set aside, we flipped baseball cards, and I won a tall stack. Then lost it to a random flip, an early gambling addiction. We played Ms. Pac-Man at the pizza parlor; she ate the pellets hungrily. One kid had a quarter on a string like Buster Keaton when he cheated the gas meter. The sci-fi film Escape from New York came out; crime was real in the Bronx. Our house got robbed when a kid squeezed through a narrow basement window. The teenage neighbor saw and chased the burglars down the street with a baseball bat, but all my mother’s jewelry was gone. She cried. AC/DC’s 1980 album Back in Black still tore up the airwaves. Poor Bon Scott died a grim death, but Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” was playing everywhere on WPLJ. Black leather clad Joan was my first crush. When 1982 rolled around, I discovered WNYU, punk and new wave music, plus Greenwich Village, Bleecker Bob’s Records, and a one-dollar subway token ride to anywhere worth going. But 1981 left an indelible mark on me like a tattoo or scar.
The Beatnik Cowboy 