POETRY: Robin Wyatt Dunn – BEARING IN & MORNING

bearing in

my cut of the left
deft but poor, now slaughtered down my side
cut in and left
like scarring too subtle to see:

what mooring keeps me here extends around my city
like a strange weather pattern

I didn’t need that part
I needed you

beat me again

—-

morning

This is my life under the drum
ecstatic ruminative celebration of not a whole lot–

Everything’s a miracle but we’re designed to disregard it,
and a good thing too–

I can remember one thought
like God

coffee:

—-

Visit Robin Wyatt Dunn online.

POETRY: JESSI LAIL – ANTIQUE SHOP

Antique shop

Is that what he told you
     he said he would tear you apart
    bit by bit
    and piece you back together with scotch tape
    because your soul wasn’t broken enough to be beautiful?

Is that what he told you
as he pressed you into a corner
and covered your rejecting mouth with his?

Is that what he told you when he ripped your best skirt
    as he thrust himself upon and into you
    in the back of that musty, fear-stained
    2001 Toyota Camry.

Is that what he told you
that you were the best lay he’s ever had,
it’s a shame you couldn’t be prettier?

What did he tell you
when you walked away from that tragedy of a bed
and rejoined your friends inside?

Did they tell you they would kill to be with
    a guy like that?
Did they tell you how lucky you were to be with
    a man like him?
Did they ask what he smelled like?
    the smell that makes you wretch,
    the fragrant scent of violation,
    the musty 2001 Camry’s fear-stained upholstery.

Is that what we told you?
That you were an antique paper doll?

POETRY: A.J. HUFFMAN – THE SOUND OF A SKIRT

The Sound of a Skirt

falling is an earthquake
of anticipation, silence. Silk,
like an avalanche, consumes the room
in suffocating embrace. Words give way
to flesh. Touch becomes
language of stuttering
midnight. Motion ignites. Two bodies
whine as this fabricated flag
and all inhibitions hit the floor. Contact,
consumption, and eruption are inevitable
as dawn and the sex-
stained tendrils of smoke that temper its mood.

–

A.J Huffman is founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press: www.kindofahurricanepress.com

POETRY: KATIE GOETZ – THE JUDGE

THE JUDGE

I tried to wrap my words around you
too hard for too many weeks
with too little success.
The right ones found me
when I remembered a phrase
I heard an out-of-town judge turn
all those years ago
at the county fair.
In giving his reasons
to the crowd in the bleachers,
he explained why
he hadn’t placed my steer —
an athletic black baldie
with a mercurial temper —
any higher in the class.
The judge slowed his words
over the tinny old PA:
“He’s got some real nice parts…
He just dudn’t tie together
quite the way I need him to.”

POETRY: KYLE FLAK – CARNIVORE DOLLS

CARNIVORE DOLLS

After tuba practice, I went to the mall to look at Carnivore Dolls. I’ve got: The Bobcat, The Crab Eating Mongoose, The Eurasian Badger, The Ethiopian Wolf, and The Giant Panda. I ain’t got: The Bush Dog, The Aardwolf, The Spotted Hyena, and multiple various others. My Dad only lets me get one at a time, which is totally lame. Johnny Bronson just gets the whole damn Annual Set mailed to him year after year after year–the lucky bastard. One of these days, I’m just going to run away from home, become my own Carnivore Doll, eat whatever stuff gets in my way. Mailbox: chew, chew, chew. Ice Cream Truck: chew, chew, chew. Homework: chew, chew, chew.

Yeah. Chewing’s good. But now I’ve got to decide what I’m going to tell that crummy old man who sits behind the counter. The one who really controls my fate. The one who can either let me or not let me play with the European Pine Marten right in the store. That thing is fucking great. He’s feisty. He’s moody. He’s grouchy.

He eats rodents, birds, and beetles. Also: he’s an excellent tree climber. Whenever I get to play with him, I make him climb all over the fucking place. He gets on people’s sweaters. He gets on people’s heads. He taunts and flaunts. He coasts and boasts. His fur is brown and full and lush. You really wouldn’t want to get on his bad side because even his good side is basically a bad side.

Yup. He’s one rough dude.

I really hope that I will get to play with him today. Play with him for own particular purposes.

Which basically are: to harm.

To harm and to harm and to harm.

Cacti Fur

a poetry dry ground