He watched her back a long time. Her soft sway
kept slow time steadily, his metronome.
Her elastic music measured his day.
Not a dancing creature, his mother would say,
he herked and jerked stiff as a moon
clock. Her soft back was long, a controlled sway
was her weapon of choice. She liked to play
roles: child, temptress, wayward wife whose next home
was elastic as music. All working days
bored her. His hot gaze was modeling clay
her cool hands enjoyed. He lived on his own.
She watched him back. The swift time held soft sway
over each of his steps. Her eyes delayed
his dreaming self and her diva mask loaned
him elastic music. He measured days—
rationing them. He was trying to save
Read more "POETRY: Mark J. Mitchell – Stranger Dance"
her like coins but knew she’d remain unknown.
He watched her, lost in time, her soft sway
stretched musically through his measured days.
To Hachijō Island in October
We look out at you
split into your full
and we think
it’ll pour here or it won’t
there’ll be food for us
or we’ll rumble up at
the full-bellied clouds
we’ll find a bed
or we’ll sit up
counting the stars
upon the Philippine sea
think I’ll halve you
at your waist
and fold your
two peaks into
a ball as warped
and cragged as
the earth itself
then I’ll roll you
back to Tokyo
in the harbour, dyeing
the gunmetal water
the dark green
of your many
Read more "POETRY: David Eves – To Hachijō Island in October"
Bionic Just The Same
I pulled a nail
out of my head
the other day,
more out of anger
than in a panic,
it’s a real bitch
I’ve taken a knife
to my womanhood
in front of the world,
I know pain
and I have been dead
I know what it’s like being dead.
That scares an audience;
that and being a man-made
Mulling around in my afterbirth
looking out of my one good eye,
feeling my way through life tragic,
picking metal shavings from my own vomit.
So VERY punk rock!
Eh, the ruminations
of a tired poet,
reality of dinner for one
and horrible coping skills;
it’s made me the woman I am today.
Bionic just the same.
Read more "POETRY: Abigale Louise LeCavalier – BIONIC JUST THE SAME"
The baby is crying.
We are all alone.
She is Fantomas
And we don’t
Know what to do.
Last time I was here
They didn’t give me
A paper cap.
But the guard offers us three
And I put them on us.
I feel Napoleonic.
Fantomas is inconsolable.
She wants to face out.
So I carry her
Past the guns and armor.
The Grand Palais was closed again
And so we are here amongst the arms.
You are interested
In how a world war starts.
I never knew you to care before.
History is hard, you say to her.
But what you don’t say is
Because the future is not just ours.
How can cities be taken?
Read more "POETRY: Philip Rafferty – FANTOMAS"
You search with a mother’s concern,
Work to build a cursory understanding of
What to fear in the coming years?
You look for signs as I pace
Rocking the baby to sleep.
Visiting the Pierce’s
I greet you with a hearty handshake
And a half-hug, your wife
With a decorous peck on the cheek.
We go inside. We’ve been friends
So long I make my own drink.
I and my martini wander the comfortable family room
While you and your wife clash
Dishes and tart words in the kitchen.
There are framed photos from early days to present.
I always start at the same place
The one of your wife on Martha’s Vineyard
With her left hand holding her blond hair out of her face
Laughing, while the cold wind
Turns her nipple to a bright raisin beneath her thin top.
I see that picture in my mind
Almost every night when I go to sleep.
I turn my attention to another picture:
Your first-born, then a toddler in a sailor cap
Now a handsome young man.
Try to turn my attention…
It doesn’t work. Never does.
Once, over wine, on an anniversary date
My wife, who was in a very hostile mood,
Said I married the wrong girl,
Should have married yours.
In a stroke of genius, I said nothing,
But I’ve wondered ever since
What women know, and how they know it.
I drain my martini in a brain-twisting gulp.
And seriously consider another.
Check out Andrew’s second poetry collection The Divining Rod.
Read more "POETRY: ANDREW HUBBARD – VISITING THE PIERCE’S"
All day the wind bemoans
Read more "POETRY: Anne Britting Oleson – November"
its solitary state, the birds
of summer long since fled,
leaves turned from green to red to brown
then stripped away from skeletal trees
to race dryly along the roadside.
In the cold house she wanders
from room to echoing room,
wrapping her arms around herself,
speaking once or twice to hear
a human voice. When she settles
among the shadows with a book,
her eyes stray—to the stopped clock,
the dusty photos. Outside, the sound changes,
and she turns: suddenly, a hailstorm.
The ice clacks against the glass.
The sun shines on, oblivious.
The Sodomite is Dead!
street continues underwater
and onto Delaware’s eastern bank
where empty structures are no longer
stores in designated places
along the four lane formerly city
street [this is no longer a city]
with no fear of getting hit [it’s already hit]
on its own accord the blood moon once full
bled out and yet its gray visage remains
if only because of parting clouds
and in that instance poetry is seen
by some the few walking this still street.
What liquid courses
through our veins tonight
As ghosts stride
by your beloved Delaware
they try to catch a glimpse
of your penultimate abode
only 200 yards south of Market
and yet the view is obstructed
by the Panopticon prison
rising as one of countless
towers, this one jutting out in the cluttered
but abandoned Camden air.
What thoughts course
through ghosts’ minds
of you tonight Walt Whitman?
Someone built a fair, tents, rides, and all
on the former foundation of another prison
directly north of the big blue bridge.
Imagine the revelry the prison was only torn
down a few years ago and now it’s a party.
America’s screaming drunk children
revitalize the cities kick out the residents,
redistribute the poor not the wealth.
Prisoners shipped beyond
the suburbs in privacy
not so subtle slavery what do you think
How long is the party going for?
Will we overstay our welcome?
There are no peaches left in Camden’s Market
no penumbras for you to fondle, what fun is there
in eyeing the now jobless homeless grocery boy?
“The sodomite is dead!” they said and still
the phantom mob stands
on what used to be known as Mickle Street
when they heard news of your death
the city rejoiced and since then America
has changed the name of your street
to MLK Boulevard in mock honor
and all the incarcerated are thinking of you
Walt Whitman even if they don’t know
it, our sinful American saint.
Rise from your gray tomb
renounce manifest destiny
renounce the empire
so that we may begin again
bathed in fresh morning dew.
Find Sean online.
Read more "POETRY: SEAN LYNCH – THE SODOMITE IS DEAD!"