Movie Theater

Stained seats from a plethora of spilt drinks,

that stain might even be melted butter,

surely the brown stuff is melted chocolate.

The floor squelches when you walk,

adhering to your shoe, trying to take it from you.

Faded movie posters promote the blockbusters

come and gone. Dust layers the counter where

butter and sugary sweets used to reside. Sugar to dust,

almost the same but different in color and taste.

Actors still smile where kids ran laughing

the happiness their movies brought still lingers here.

Coffee Shop Vignette

A bell rings softly as the door pushes inward,

outward pushes the smell of bittersweet coffee.

The typical soft jazz of a coffee shop wafts

through the air alongside smells of savory food.

Buzzing chatter underlines the music

with the soft whir of espresso machines adding to

the symphony of the cafe.

Voices talk from walls where no bodies sit

a collection of the conversations absorbed

like the coffee stains the barista hates.

The large glass windows reflect back the

faces of colleges students that haunted the tables.

Rusty circular stains mark the growth

of coffee groups that grew and shrank,

through the years.

Read more "ZAC VAN PELT – 2 POEMS"



when i was younger
i would shoot the rapids
on any subject
showboating in the shallows
and later on
enjoyed being in over my head
discussing the depth
of wider deeper places

having spent half my life
working both sides of this river
i feel i know the pools and eddies
fairly well
and when the conversation flows these days
i find it impossible
to wade right in

but don’t misunderstand
the silence
for i do enjoy being here with you
to the things you have to say

and in some small way
comprehending perhaps
why the so-called enlightened
simply stand
by the water


This poem was originally published in VOICE OF THE HIVE in 1978 by Smithmark Publications.




Oh hateful man what happened to you

with more money than some countries’ treasuries

the pick of beautiful women yachts the best beluga

golden faucets in resorts Scottish golf courses

why are you an angry sloth hateful man wearing

wispy ginger hair so fine a baby could coo

you have blonde children retinues of lackeys

waiting on the next word wave escaping

your thin lips hateful man what attracted

you to green and silver paper why do you need

to steal other people’s money why do you admire

Mussolini did you smile with your parents

what did they do wound your bilious psyche

when they favored your brother why did you throw

tantrums like rancid onions when friends didn’t remain

friends when your mother shipped you

to military school when you listened to bullies

who taught you platitudes when your father

gave you only a million to build empires

when you cavorted in that Moscow hotel

do you remember the time you told your first lie

and everybody believed it and you did too

and lied so much you forgot the lies

why don’t you love people pets your children

did you see your destination as bankruptcies

and successes battled like angry twins

hateful man what makes you happy

the Aurora Borealis on Christmas day

a herd of zebra galloping over the Serengeti plains

the rarest stamp or a ringer for the Mata Hari

what is it hateful man making you tell beauties

whose pussies you grab I want you hateful man

do you love anybody in the red depths of your heart’s

dark caves dear hateful man when you fire sycophants

do you feel better after crushing their souls

hateful man as you eat Big Macs on the airplane

watching Wall Street do you have a Manhattan

of revenge to soothe your throat crying

when you sleep in your elephant satin pajamas

in your dark tower and wake up after three hours

to stew on the toilet pressing the phone’s power

button stalking the internet where your tribe

reads your tweets and you spend hours thumbing

insults so you feel better for a Washington

second and don’t care what the pundits think

because you’ll show how lofty you

are but hateful man you know that’s not true

do you ever think yourself evil as a bus

of snakes destined for a Mexican village

hateful man you think you’re greater than Alexander

the Great more brilliant than Einstein than Madame

Curie than the mathematician with the highest IQ

in history do you believe it how long can you

deceive yourself but you’re aware as an anteater

do you believe you’ll escape Karma’s chokehold

dreaming of Hitler of Rasputin of Manson

don’t you worry your minions might see

the hateful man you are because you’ve forgotten

you’re not blessed yes you’ve eluded the Gorgon

dodged a lunatic’s bullets because madmen

don’t kill madmen hateful man loneliest man

on earth no the man who’ll destroy you

hateful man one you fear and despise

not the man with long legs distant gaze

and grey suit walking halls of justice

followed by other men no he’s not that man

collecting facts but you are hateful man you



Aspiring Gay Poet

after Han Yongwun

I’m no Walt Whitman but in bed

I can write with my felt-tip pen

his penis his chin his lips,

and those dimples that hover above his eyelashes as he yawns.


When my roommates are away

and even the late hours hush,

I’m still too scared to share

the verse his tongue gave me

to the yawning stars.


I’m not an experienced poet, but I can write

his gaze, his laughter,

the way he sneaks across the campus lawn

before walking to my open window,

even each blade of grass

on the path that runs

the many steps from there to now.


Jeff Nazzaro – YOGURT CUP

Yogurt Cup

The plastic cap snapped off

with a pop, the foil peeled

back, my mother and her

yogurt cup. New packaging,

new flavors, the word new.


Perhaps she spooned me out

a little taste. Perhaps not. After

the stainless blade of the spoon

had scraped most of the yogurt,

creamy, white, and teeming

with hidden life from the smooth-

molded plastic curves, I asked for the cup.


She rinsed it well in the kitchen sink,

popped the cap back on with a plastic

snap, and handed the cup to me,

a little boy in late 1970s suburban USA.


I went out to play. I took the yogurt cup,

thought I might put stuff in it—dirt

or rocks or bugs or something.

The O’Reilly’s were in their backyard.

I found them. Little Ryan said, “Let me

see that.” I handed over the cup.


Little Ryan turned the cup around

and around in his hands, then he lobbed

it like a World War II-movie grenade

over the wire fence where his father

dumped the grass clippings.


The fence was too high for me. It

skirted the backyard. There were branches

and brambles and grass clippings.


I looked at my yogurt cup

through the wire grating of the fence,

where it lay nestled in the clippings,

and thought: I don’t have my yogurt

cup anymore, but it’s only a yogurt cup.


I looked at Ryan O’Reilly, his challenging

blue eyes and mop of blond hair. Helplessness

and violence flared up. He was a year younger.

I thought: He is a mean little person, this Ryan

O’Reilly, but he is, after all, just a little person.

Read more "Jeff Nazzaro – YOGURT CUP"



Broken festering wounds

deep within shins that try to crawl through it.

The glass shatters from a ceiling that

surrounds, encases, allows


to see





The dome may be broken

but there are other things to



scream at.

To be consumed by the glass

to fall into the glass

to drag an already limp and outrageous body through the glass

is only just one victory.

No one can stop at just one victory

because to stop at just one victory

is as bad as giving up.

These shards come from

cracked vanities

ruined window panes

curved glass domes.

Devour these shards

swallow them

slice your throat open

with ragged edges.

Embed them

into your stomach walls.

Splinter them off into smaller pieces,

digest the fragmented remains.

Pierce your skin

and let it be known

that you don’t mind blood

pooling at your feet.