CURTAIN TWITCHERS
As I run the day to begin it
the sun comes up and I want to get out before anybody sees me and sees I have used up my quota for the day.
I think I can go out the front way once and out the back way the other time and no one will see me. Maybe I can sneak out two or three times in a day before all the curtain twitchers see me.
It is only a matter of time before the have a hot line.
I saw him going out again twice yesterday and three times on Monday.
People
Sal Marici – As We Wait for His Transport to Cremation
As We Wait for His Transport to Cremation
George’s body lies in bed
mouth ajar. His skin
each minute turns
in a shade of white
paler than before.
In front of his grandpa’s corpse
grandson flips through tropical shirts.
The few items George’s daughter
did not pack for me
to take to Goodwill.
Grandson picks one. He pulls
his t-shirt over his head.
Slips his arms through sleeves.
When buttons fasten holes
birds, flowers align.
A friend of George
who has the same name
who influenced George’s poetry
wears a tropical shirt he selected
from the stack.
George would smile
if he could see them
wear him.
But he said no afterlife exists.
Read more "Sal Marici – As We Wait for His Transport to Cremation"John Dorroh – “It’s Probably More Than Colitis”
“It’s Probably More Than Colitis”
I like a woman with a clean colon,
the way she starts telling stories
at the end
and works back toward the beginning,
expecting me to connect all the dots.
She takes her temperature every hour,
tells me the results, wants for me
to tie a knot with my swollen tongue
in her cherry
stem. The french kiss should have been
the second best clue
that we wouldn’t click, at least not like that.
I can cuddle like a fish with the best of them,
but sometimes we have to be satisfied
with a flag at half mast. You can always
use tulips to brighten the
room. We fidget in the clinic for an hour
before they call her name.
She refuses my hand, gives me an orange-lipped
piranha smile, and disappears into the
blue-white light.
Read more "John Dorroh – “It’s Probably More Than Colitis”"Rehanul Hoque – END OF AN ILLUSION
End of an Illusion Walking like a Walking Catfish, I march towards your ivory-coated frills You use turmeric for skin care I burn and become pitch-black. On your doorsteps, someone told me- You love to ride an Olive Ridley Like to admire all the travelers with rare skill of crossing the sea Without fee- […]
Read more "Rehanul Hoque – END OF AN ILLUSION"TIM STALEY – 2 GUZZLES
2 GUZZLES ~ pronounced two ghazals
4.29.20
All this time I’ve been talking to myself:
meet me in the weightlessness between breath
The moon pouts and is unsure how to age
Which of our masks protects us from our thoughts?
Eyeballs slither like the sliding glass door
heavy like shadows against the curtain
A fleck of gratefulness comes at what cost?
which one happens to correlate to you?
All my actions grease the slipping of time
as manufactured love crumples the foil
~
5.4.20
So a part of your blood I’ve already
fast forwarded your best intentions
Your family matters because they complain
but inches below the water they glow
The spilled milk is 14 billion years old
the space time continuum continues
Like the Milky Way, be deliberate
acknowledge the itch, but do it slowly
Yo! how much have you paid per square moment?!
My stomach is my own Magnum, P.I.
Read more "TIM STALEY – 2 GUZZLES "
OUTSIDE MY HOUSE ~ BY 100 SENIORS IN SOUTHERN NEW MEXICO (class of 2020)
OUTSIDE – a found poem
I have an issue going outside.
I just see myself getting tired.
A bright beautiful glaze of sunlight hitting my porch.
I step outside into my backyard.
That’s as close to a public place as I can get.
Nothing much to see. Dry, peed-on dirt.
If I climbed out onto my roof, I’d experience a lot of different things.
Sunlight, for one. Very tall but dead palm trees.
A desert meant to goof around in.
Dirt needing to be played with.
Small families of quail,
groups of 6, running through the desert.
Meows of newborn cats crying for attention.
Middle age men doing yoga in the dog grass with weights.
Weight has no purpose—
Then the trampoline of broken dreams.
A Police officer conducting an investigation.
Black pavement.
Goats inside a chain link fence.
Three dark shadows on the grey tile.
Drive by shooting victim.
House being robbed.
Man on oxygen.
Red roadrunner on a moving trailer.
The snails are cute
Salt salt salt.
More importantly, I’d see a curve.
A point, where the sky and dirt meet,
and neither wins.
The sun sits in the center of the sky just staring.
The sun is quite rude in my opinion.
My intention is to look up at the shining sun
and be blinded for a second
or become one with it.
I finally saw who I got my attitude from
Hint hint it’s my dad…And as I come back around
I see A pig hanging by the neck from a tree,
Dad’s big red truck parked further back in the yard.
So many sculptures.
I see myself in the door window again,
I see the yard behind me,
and I remember the days before with my friends.
I see the spider expanding her spiderweb
between the legs of the grill.
Wind swirls around me,
A Tiny dog hides in the bushes
under the giant pecan tree,
roots creeping from the ground
like the kraken attacks an enormous wooden ship
and drags it under The grass that’s been freshly lawned.
No cop / No stop
Tia wants to plant some grass knowing it won’t last.
1 by 1 people become the ground.
Nature is happy at the absence of man.
Animals walk the paths joggers used to run.
Nature deserves this win. My intention is to adventure like the animals do
when they leave the cage
listening to country music or their favorite corridos.
My intention is feed the animals so they don’t try to kill me.
As the sun sets i can taste the clouds
browner than crap
throwing punches at me…… hitting me directly.
It’s terrifying and peaceful to walk around at night
and the loudest thing is your own heart beating
and the thoughts in your head
like a tornado blew through.
Who taught you
to unlove yourself
so sweetly.
Am I happy or sad, no, I feel free a little longer,
but it’s gross, the hovering moth.
Blue breeze comes from under the pink dragon
on the back of my kimono.
I see stars, wait, is that a fire in the distance?
Read more "OUTSIDE MY HOUSE ~ BY 100 SENIORS IN SOUTHERN NEW MEXICO (class of 2020)"
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.
Read more "INSIDE MY HOUSE ~ BY 100 SENIORS IN SOUTHERN NEW MEXICO (class of 2020)"
HAPPY 420 FROM DR. JOHNNY HUERTA
EMILY HOOPER – 2 POEMS
nightmarish
how does the girl
with the loudest voice
disappear into
the background
how does she disguise
her crowd drawing smile
with the tired faces
around her
how does she
slip away
why is she forced into
the abstraction of
happiness
how does she explain
to her loved ones
she doesn’t want to be here
how does she hide her tear stained cheeks
from those who expect
her to move mountains
~
5 quiet roses
above my bed sitting deliciously
each a gift
withered from many beatings
by the pillows, stray hands, possibly
a cat that has snuck into my room
however they remain pinned
by their sturdy stem
whose struggles remain unknown
each rose is me
stripped of their thorns
because women are prettier when they
don’t speak
and remain pinned to the wall
petals weep
on their journey to the ground
each petal a word
i chose to bite into
and slide down the back of my throat
like a jagged, salted syllable
an unpleasant experience if i’m being honest
so why do i continue
to prick my throat with thorns
that i strip from the roses
rather then using the vocabulary
i was gifted with
easy
i want you to think i’m beautiful
Read more "EMILY HOOPER – 2 POEMS"TOM MONTAG – from “The Woman in an Imaginary Painting”
from “The Woman in an Imaginary Painting”
As if to split
the world
say: this is
a real chair;
that is a
painting
of a chair
and of a
woman.
Say: I am
here, before
that which is
not here,
except in
color and
line and play
of light. Say:
that light
touching her
breast is not
real light. Say:
that breast is
not real flesh.
Read more "TOM MONTAG – from “The Woman in an Imaginary Painting”"