who's your momma what hip-hop got it got from jazz Fountain of frictionless New Orleans spilling into gumbo-rich air and stale beer all that has to be said pretending it’s not interested in talking—heartbeat heat drop beat feet—who’s that momma slapping you up side your head Billie and Ella Sarah and Dinah and too soon dead Bessie Davis and Dizzy Louis and Hubbard and Brown—all putting it down so the new peeps can pick it up and do what they do—do what they do old school new school bruises—black and blue and blue and blue
Jc Rammelkamp
Young Love When we passed the boy and girl on the muddy Stony Run path that cold January day, he in shorts, a mug of coffee in hand, she in her pajamas, slippers, we remembered young love. “I don't think I can go on,” the girl's voice quavered, indicating her slippers, the muddy path. “I thought you'd put on your boots,” the boy observed, almost as if the girl were stupid. What a prick, I thought. “I wanted to show you the mourning doves,” he pressed, as if a romantic soul. We left them behind us, still arguing. Not really an “argument,” but the tension was palpable, a conflict of wills. You took me here to see some fucking pigeons? I imagined the girl saying, putting the boy in his place. At least it could have been a kingfisher, or pleated woodpeckers! But fucking pigeons? PIGEONS! Really? “That's a relationship that's not going to last,” my wife commented when we were out of earshot.
Merritt Waldon
Limping toward awakening___ Dream hollow cracked Open. Hammered by Booming thunder Electricity rushes through Veins Under golden blue sky Southern Indiana blooms A garden from fractured Broken skulls Infected w immortality Symbolic gestural moans Limping toward awakening Cartwheeling nightmares Directed by Tim Burton Masquerading caravan Of madness Dumbing down tomorrow ------
Howie Good
The Sacred Is Profane They are more numerous than humans. Some are covered with scales, some with matted fur. Others have eyes all over their heads and bodies. You could not endure it if you ever encountered one. Edgar Allan Poe, who had the misfortune to be somewhat of a poet, went mad just imagining the possibility. They roll like a ball to get where they want to go, often to the graves of those who died violently. Hounds tracked them to the outskirts of town before losing the scent. The Lord has showed us His glory but also His great big ass.
Daniel S. Irwin
Supper Time I say, “Willy, It’s Supper Time. Let’s Masticate.” Willy, Clearly Stunned, Says, “Ain’t No way I’m Spankin’ My Monkey Here.”
Ken Kakareka
Twitter War I created a Twitter acct. in 2023 – late to the game at the request of my new publisher for marketing purposes. I’d been trying to put it off for as long as I could but my publisher was a good egg and I didn’t want to make him regret taking me on. My first tweet received mounds of backlash from the writing community. My wife and I had just had a newborn so I posted a picture with the caption: feels almost as good as holding your own birthed book. The writing community lost it. They had never failed more to see humor. This is despicable, one “poet” wrote. Your poetry is despicable, sir. What a lousy joke! another novelist asserted. Your prose is so lousy it puts me to sleep! I couldn’t respond to everyone I wanted to. It would’ve taken forever. Instead, I doubled down with a follow-up tweet: Holding your own book is better, I’ve decided!
Brian Dolan
this city's sinking under the mass of glass paned steel framed skyscrapers – drowning – a first draft of the lost city of Atlantis
Shiva Neupane
Hospital As I walked past the mortuary room The morticians were busy picking a coffin And, so were other staff in their roles like there is no tomorrow. I felt like life is nothing But the package of melancholies. As I walked past the psyche- ward I saw miserable souls being bruised Inside the prison of bones and flesh My eyes welled-up with tears Upon seeing their pathos-ridden lives. As I walked past the Emergency I saw the grannies were crying Because of their terminal illness I fast forwarded my life and implanted the futuristic suffering within me. Thus, envisioned the borders between life and death. As I walked past the maternity ward The mother was crying owing to labour Upon receiving the bundle of love Her tears dried up and smile colonized her Facial –geography. After all, hospital is the fountain of knowledge To learn the eclectic mix of philosophies I was enlightened upon observing The hustle and bustle in and around hospital.
Kushal Poddar
The Obscene Gesture of A Milestone Although the lines these lanes draw meet at the eternity We do not see that while parallel-driving. Then, our ignorance holds more truths than some knowledge and a theory. We pass a few grazing cows, drills, a mill without a single operating hand and some trees withered and waiting. As we drive the first rain hits our car roofs as if clouds have borne the long-term wait's weight until We drive past a certain milestone. Shouldn't it state the distance to eternity? Instead, one digit almost erased expresses an obscenity.
Alan Catlin
The ones with no souls always come in pairs, making the night club scene their own personal floor show, wearing wraparounds so dark they need guide dogs to find a free place at the bar, wear too much makeup and a scent that lingers for days after they go. He wears a too-tight black, silk shirt that would have looked ridiculous on someone ten years younger than he was and his woman looks like a fashion plate left behind at a banquet in the 30’s someone forgot to clean up after, cloaked in the fur of an endangered species that slides down her bare shoulders to reveal designer logo skin art that does everything but glow in the dark. It’s a tossup which one’s nose will begin to bleed first, given how much abuse their sinus cavities have been made to endure. Manage to order something that goes unheard in the din of the band and the strangled-by-professionals voice, imitating songs, she has no business listening to, much less singing. Barely notice their bartender’s choice cocktails in front of them, in fancy glasses, you could have poured expensive poison in, and it would have been acceptable as long as the look was right. They sip and smile, content in their self-contained vacuum sucking everything into the black hole of their lives; all of us there the same, even me, behind the bar, maybe even, me worst of all because I knew better and I still didn’t care.
The Beatnik Cowboy 