3 GHOST POEMS – TIM STALEY

Zulema brought a Ouija board to 3rd period Zulema brought a Ouija board to 3rd period. She’d lost her boyfriend to the war. He was shot by friendly fire in Syria. No civilian in America had even known he was there; a ghost before he became one. Zulema set up the board on her desk. […]

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STUNNING SOPHOMORE EFFORT FROM NEW MEXICO POET: TIM STALEY ~ ORDER YOUR COPY TODAY

“Reverence for the women in the poet’s life, stealth bombers, a juvenile cougar strangled on the trail and plenty of blank space on well-organized pages come together in The Pieces You have Left,  Staley’s second full-length collection. Echoes of recent giants from Mary Oliver to bell hooks, musical quotations from Lucinda Williams to Miles Davis, support […]

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A RARE AND DIFFERENT TUNE – A PRE ORDER OPPORTUNITY FOR OUR READERS

Forthcoming from Beatlick Press in September 2021 “In his stunning sophomore effort, The Pieces You Have Left, Tim Staley brings you to the woods and asks you to stay the night. In this moving and fast-paced collection, Staley touches on an array of subjects–space travel, love, fatherhood, masculinity, death, solitude, youth, and dementia–delving deeper than ever […]

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HOLLY DAY – 2 POEMS

            Where I Shop for Fish   Street merchants with carts packed with ice and fish shout commandments at each other over the bustle of the crowd channel God in the most scandalous of ways. Via conversation, they strip away each other’s damaged pasts—secret love affairs, attempted suicides— until no one in the marketplace is […]

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INSIDE MY HOUSE ~ BY 100 SENIORS IN SOUTHERN NEW MEXICO (class of 2020)

INSIDE – A Found Poem

 

This couch has a permanent ass print on it.

A doorway that goes to a magical place 

called the bathroom. 

My mom’s vacuum 

that has been sitting since after we used it 

to clean the confetti embedded in the carpet after Easter.

All the toys around the room are scattered like flailing fish.

Wow, look! It’s my cap and gown! 

My head twisting three sixty

just saw my snapchat 

someone’s selling weed for sixty.

A lavender plant is high on vinegar. 

The next living room is occupied by my grandmother 

watching her favorite christmas movies over and over.

My grandmother’s ashes sitting alone.

Mother’s religious crosses, big as the wall.

As I turn to my left, I’m greeted by my PS4, 

my only form of social contact. 

You avoid the actual problems. 

That is if you can count 10 year olds 

screaming into their mic because they lost a game.

I yell every time a motherfucker kills me in Call of Duty. 

Seasons pass like menstrual cycles 

with a staircase leading nowhere stuck in between. 

TV overheating having seen thousands of movies 

and wayyyyy more youtube videos 

because after i fall asleep 

it just cranks those things out 

like the engine cranks the pistons. 

A messy bed i lay in for 20 hours a day.

 I see a backpack hanged. 

A closet that looks like a faucet. 

It feels as if i’m a rock that has been tossed into the ocean 

of my own house.

A man in torn clothing 

stumbled out of one of the facility’s testing rooms, screaming. 

My intention is to stop being a slave for this house. 

I stay secluded with my own actions. Let’s move on.

Doors everywhere, Specifically two.

One leads you to the outside world,

And the other leads to a smaller one. 

I’m brave enough to open them

There’s white butterflies all around

Flying in a green meadow 

cast over by an endless blue sky 

at the end of the coffee table. 

I open the red door,

It’s my mom’s room again, but this time more familiar

With red curtains,

The curtains—

I say my goodbyes to the lion, robot, and vacuum.

I step through the door-

hear fingers hitting keys—

Light and dark piano with its black and white keys—

Shoes hitting the floor in a slow rhythm

You start to feel the cool breeze 

coming from the blades on the ceiling. 

All these Christmas lights, still shining.

Puzzle pieces scattered everywhere. 

Parents walk in then leave. 

It feels like I’m alone and no one’s ever not busy. 

A signed jersey by Jj Watt in a frame. Dusty cords on the floor.

A strong loving feeling with a newborn boy sleeping next to me.

Then back to the TV with Johnny, Moira, David, 

and Alexis Rose, and Back to Computer Screen One.

Two. Then Three On top of a foldable Table.

 

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READING WINDOW NOW OPEN!

Word up. Yo.
Send us your best poems
because we want to
publish them.
Send us your naughty poems.
Send us your funny poems.
Send us your poems that the
Sewanee Review refused. 
Send us your poem with the word
“Doody” someplace in stanza 3. 
Send us your poem nobody
understands but it’s got sexy. 
Send us your poems because Cacti Fur
has been around for, like, 4 years
and that’s the longest
any poetry journal has ever lasted
in the history of poetry journals. 
Send us your poems because 
that’s what poets do. 

Here’s our submission guidelines.

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2 POEMS – DAVID S. POINTER

Night Vision Revisited

I’d clean the killing lens night vision
goggles
with submarine seawater, but, the
eviscerated blindness is lodged off
in the long term
low intensity conflict
brain wirings
never fully sanitized
as the world pulls warm winter covers
up over the collective mindless head
waiting for a new delicate darkness
without carnage,
without calendars,
without fair trials touching down inside
unjust economic system cyber-tent sales

~

Dreamscape Crime


Detectives
relish
pursuit,
but, if anyone
dynamites
or poisons sinkholes
as a cold case walks by,
arrest
the former
not quite forgiven
when the state needs money
after receiving individuals
incensed by mouthpieces
for the vampiric economy
needing
tailbones
for the acquisitions-avoidance
culture receiving so many
mega-judgements lacking
menace-conviction corps

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