Red Pick-Up Truck Daddy stood sticks In the corners of the bed And tied on a tarp To keep the worst of the sun off us. He laid down blue moving pads And lifted us little girls With our frayed cotton dresses And brown, bony knees Into the bed with coloring books And a few […]
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This poetry sequence was written by a teenaged writer in Southern NM. We are thrilled to be the first journal to publish her work. the day that we first met. eleven years old, sitting in a science lab that seemed foreign. she was sitting to the left of me, a stranger in an even stranger […]
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a young adult writer published here for the first time.
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rock You see that rock up there on this hill? Yeah, the one that looks like a face? Yeah what about it? They call that mountain the Franklins.A few years before it was called something different and later they will call it something else. So what? When that rock was new it witnessed the river […]
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I’m Everything You Know Not No, I’m not the Summertime-easy-living, sloth-slow, yardbird-yapping, lawn-jockey-like idler outside your door. No, I’m not the ski-mask-wearing, Cain-psychotic, hatred-hankering, violence-devoted brute attacking you. No, I’m not the bonobo Daddy-O with my pants down to my knees, leaving the world with a million misbegotten babies. No, I’m not the b-ball-hogging, […]
Read more "BLACK LIVES MATTER – 3 POEMS BY BOB MCNEIL"
McNeil had this to say about his drawings, “Like the rest of my work, they are a part of my need to promote positive Black images.” Bob McNeil, writer, editor, illustrator, and spoken word artist, is the author of Verses of Realness. Hal Sirowitz, a Queens Poet Laureate, called the book “A fantastic trip through the […]
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hell has all of the amenities
showers that last as long as you can stand
a full spice rack
the names of your lovers
the sound of dead friends
a huge music encyclopedia
adequate leisure time
contests and prizes
social gatherings (carefully mediated)
a robust artificial intelligence system designed to give you what you want
a realistic landscape
full of trees and sounds
a violin and drums
a pressure to perform
ennui, packaged and shipped
stamped onto your face
written into your balls
a touch on your shoulder
a whisper in your ear
a heart attack
hell should curl and twist over your arm
take it up
a packaged arrangement
for your love affair
of no iniquity
of no distance
of no priority
the badge of honor
stamped and carved into your skull
the name of god
and the name of god's god
available to to call
beautiful as a winter storm
beautiful as a woman enraged
the color of the ocean
the gravity of despair
the writ of your permission
to rise again over the air
with your eyes on your quarry
towel and dry
perfume and wash
news at ten
art in the plaza
the name of the receptionist
a beautiful chinese woman
the parking lot attendant
with his huge telephone in hand
all your relatives
your superior officer
your wife and lover
your children and friends
of all your movements
the name of your event
colored in blue
hell is blue
surreal party for the coolest women
cut in the fashion of timeless angles
unreal against the light
your deepest fulfillment
at the correct hour
heated to the right temperature
coated in wax for you to eat
amenity is love
that which is able to be loved
the most pleasant of sights
the most pleasant of bodies
the softest skin
satin and lace
the mare of the body
the sigh of the sun
the color of the air
inside of your rapture
take me beneath the world
inside of your suitcase
I carry the love of your brethren
I carry your honor as my prize
silver and marred by the dangers of your clan
ancient and wise
dip me into the Styx
for my hour and weight
hold my hand in the fulfillment
of the contract
of the unreachable stem
hotel of all the finest enemies
my deep and caroled beloved enemies
splashed out along the plaza
buried in my grave
named for my children
deemed unsuitable for acolytes
in their rue and rain
lovers beneath the veil
wracked and warded for your investiture
my dear guest
please come in
Robin Wyatt Dunn was born in Wyoming in 1979. You can read more of his word at www.robindunn.com
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Make it clear in my mind, Jesus,
am I whacked-out on Double Cross Vodka
or have I flipped out calling myself
Limburger omelet chef?
I hate question marks and angels
with crazed wings.
You know the type, John the Baptist
toking weed, stoned out of his mind, storyteller,
foul smells from poor hygiene, eating habits
open mouth, swallowing grasshoppers,
so silky, smooth as sweet honey.
Add 3 eggs in a skillet, Parmesan/Romano blend,
2 cheeses add-on, shiitake mushrooms, turmeric,
chopped kale, hint hot chili peppers, cheers.
Scramble me, I’m cracked.
I rock faith in jungle music, dance nude.
Everything is a potential poem to me.
My omelette, my life, my booze, master cook,
Read more "MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON – VODKA OMELET"
A Plastic Bowl of Snake
There was bowl on my kitchen slab
Its flesh was plastic
Or was it ceramic
It was the colour of seduction
Drizzling with beauty
Coated in nsibidi
Spiced with the language of the fathers
It drew my name
Wrote my name
Sang my name even
Beside it was a clay bowl
Screeching of ugliness
It called my name
Are you kidding me?
I reached for the white lid
Of the beautiful red plastic bowl
I flipped it open
Out popped the slithering head of a snake
As if it had long-awaited this day
The freedom promised someday
The freedom covered in hay
It stayed with my freedom
I fled with its fear
Kasimma is an alumna of Chimamanda Adichie’s Creative Writing Workshop, IWP workshop, and SSDA Flow workshop. She’s been a writer-in-residence in artists’ residencies across Africa, Asia, and Europe. Her works have appeared or are forthcoming on The Puritan, Kikwetu Journal, Kweli Journal, The Book Smuggler’s Den, Jellyfish Review, Afreecan Read, Orbis Journal.
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