DRUNK AND HELPLESS IN THE DARK Some of us lie Drunk and helpless in the dark Waiting for the angel that never comes Because there is no her Beyond the sad spiraling reveries Of the drunken insomniac Smiling wanly in the glow Of a halo That exists only In his Fevered Imagination HUMANITY IS DOOMED I heard the birds that chirp at night And I saw the cats under the tree. I know the cats need to eat And I know the birds want to live. So here I am In the parking lot of a Walgreens, Rooting for nothing.Read more "JOHN TUSTIN – 2 POEMS"
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RICKY WINTERS – 3 POEMS
“ghost” my disguise is my only friend but at times it stabs me in the back too “caraphernelia” this portrait of beauty still remains upon my eyes the soft colors that dance around my sorrow and mock the ache in my chest the blinding lights of the heart you have broken and carved out have dimmed their glow to an absolute fog they too have fallen into the pits of regret and anguish just as I “damien” his eyes were clouds and the rain never stoppedRead more "RICKY WINTERS – 3 POEMS"
Gaby Bedetti – 2 POEMS
Motion
You speed through
the Minotaur’s labyrinth
hoping to avoid the monster.
The motor responds.
You have another
someplace to go.
You look into the wind,
a lop-eared hound
head out the window.
Complicit,
the GPS tracks your
departures and arrivals.
In your sonic life,
you are the hip hero pointing
toward the next adventure,
the lover with the ball
of thread to navigate
the labyrinth.
~
Her Final Email
Days you stayed in bed.
Migraines. Texas heat
and medications
made you sweat. And then
another week had slipped away,
unlike your chores and wishes.
At your desk, a compost heap
of essays. You even began grading
and then Shadow would sigh
to say it was past feeding time
and you abandoned them. You called
him the best dog in the present world.
One son announced he was moving back
so you removed the sewing machine
from his room. You then grew angry
with your husband for leaving.
The other son mentioned downsizing
and you heard nursing home.
Your grandchildren were delightful.
In your final email, you acknowledged
you were lucky, but only so far.
And soon after, the fatal dose.
We could have reunited,
here in Kentucky or there in Texas.
We could have remembered,
and renewed, our luck.
Read more "Gaby Bedetti – 2 POEMS"
R A RIEKKI – 5 POEMS
The
My girlfriend told me her least favorite word is ‘the.’
I asked why. She didn’t know. Said words like ‘pool’
and ‘mouth’ and ‘night’ would kick the’s ass.
But it’s ‘the pool,’ ‘the mouth,’ ‘the night, I said.
Not necessarily, she said, it could be ‘our pool’
or ‘her mouth’ or ‘six nights.’ She went to work.
I sat there thinking about ‘the.’ I looked at ‘the lamp’
and ‘the couch’ and ‘the crack in the ceiling.’
So many the’s in the room. But all of them over-
shadowed by nouns. I looked at a shadow
in the corner. I thought of all of the evil of the world.
~
I Worked Eighty Hours This Week
I worked ninety hours once. On an ambulance.
I had a co-worker who fell asleep once,
driving the ambulance. You only do that once.
But he didn’t get fired though. By the way,
he told me he worked one hundred hours
that week. That’s what you do when you make
minimum wage. A lot of people don’t realize
you make minimum wage on ambulances.
Those ambulance companies rake in billions.
Five thousand dollars to take you from one city
to another city just two cities away. Five grand.
I remember one night when we were waiting
for a call. We were parked near some
telephone wires and a crow came and landed
on the wires and got electrocuted. We were
right there, staring, right at it, like we were just
waiting for it to happen. Strangest thing ever.
My partner called dispatch and reported it.
I remember him saying, just in case any kids
go near it. He hung up. I said, Kids can’t fly.
Then our radio went off. We had another call.
It was for a guy who sat on a pen. When we
got there, the pen was sticking out of him
like a little tail. He asked if he should yank
it out and we yelled no, that it was acting
like a cork. A cork? Yeah, a cork, I said.
~
On the Phone, My Mom Told Me I Should Write a Poem about Working with Coronavirus Patients
I said it’d be a boring poem.
She said, no, that’s not true at all.
I said that all I see is fog, that my mask
fogs up my glasses so I can’t see anything
all day long. I’m in the back of the ambulance
and we just drive them to where they need to go
and I can’t see nothing.
She said that I was exaggerating,
so I took a photo of myself
with my glasses fogged over
like the clouds at the top of mountains in places so high up you can see both heaven and hell at the same time.
~
My Dad was a Good Dad
He told me one time
about coming home
as a kid and finding his mother
passed out
on the kitchen floor.
He thought she was drunk
again
so he pulled her down the hall
to her bedroom and
tucked her in
and it wasn’t till the next day
that he realized
she was dead.
My Dad was a good Dad.
When I worked in the prison system
as part of the nursing station
one prisoner threw his piss
in my face.
He had saved it in a cup.
I remember
after I washed my face
in the prison bathroom
for like a half hour,
not joking,
I looked up,
my hair all wet,
just sopping,
looking like I’d been crying
at the bottom of the ocean
and I smiled,
because I was alive.
My Dad was a good Dad.
That’s all I have to say.
~
I’m Old and I Don’t Make Much Money so I Am Forgotten But I Write to Tell You I Exist Too and the Casino Near My Old House Where I Grew Up Caught Fire
so I went and looked at the ashes
and it made me think of when I was at the guard gate
in the hills
in California
where I’d just stand there
for hours
and hours
and hours
every night and
during the fires there
the ash was falling horizontal
like the world was tilted on its side.
FIND RON HERE
Read more "R A RIEKKI – 5 POEMS"ANDREW HUBBARD – Priorities
Priorities
Reincarnation.
One of those things
I’d like to believe in but can’t
Because of the logical improbability
And the pile of unanswerable questions
About who and when and how and why.
But just suppose
(It’s ok to have a little fun)
That after 200 years of conscious sleep
Some benign authority
Brought you back, age 20
In perfect health, memories intact.
What would you do first?
Eat! Steak—shrimp—
Something with creamy garlic sauce—
Strawberries—chocolate ice cream.
And then make love
Again and again and again, with every sense
On overdrive, and doze off
Smelling her sweat and hearing her whispers.
You’d almost forgotten
How sensuous sleep can be.
Wake up. Repeat,
But with a change of menu:
Coffee, hot eggs with cheese melted over,
Cold white wine, bacon,
Peaches and whipped cream.
Continue this for forty years
Then turn your attention
To intellectual growth and refinement.
Sit with works of Plato, Milton,
Kant, Chaucer, and St. Augustine.
Twenty minutes should do it.
Then get back to the important stuff.
JULY 2020
Read more "ANDREW HUBBARD – Priorities"ANDREW HUBBARD – 2 POEMS
Sharing the Bathroom
I over-analyze everything
I know it’s true
(And you’ve told me enough times.)
But why on earth
Would I find it sexy
To watch you shave your armpits?
Knowing me you won’t be surprised
To find I made a list:
- Because everything you do is sexy
- Because you touch yourself
With such unconscious concentration
- Because you say you do it
To look pretty for me
- Because I love the smell of your hair
- Because it’s something nobody else
Sees you do
- Because it’s commonplace
And mysterious and intimate
All at the same time.
- And because the lines of your raised arm,
Your neck, and your wrist
Make me think of a Rodin sculpture.
~
Turn Down the Lights
Hey, it was more than kind of you
To come home with me
And you so much younger
And thinner and all.
And I’ll do my best
Not to disappoint you.
Honest to God, if I disappoint you
I don’t think I’ll ever
Go to a bar again.
But hey I’m going to be honest,
Only because there’s no alternative:
I look better dressed,
So I’m going to turn down the lights.
Those horrible white curvey smiles
On the skin behind my thighs,
They’re from the hip replacements.
The thick-soled shoes
Just bring me back
To the height I used to be.
I joke that my ears pop
When I take them off,
But it’s not that bad. Yet.
I’m not tearing my eyeballs,
I’m just taking off my contacts.
Hopefully you can’t see me
The same as I can’t see you.
Now excuse me, I’m going to the bathroom
To take some pills.
The flatulence ones work pretty well
And the little blue one
Had damn well better work.
What’s that look you’re giving me?
It better not be
The “I-made-a-mistake” look.
I have many fine qualities.
You said so yourself
Not two hours ago.
Now hang on,
I’ll be right back.
SEPTEMBER 2018
Read more "ANDREW HUBBARD – 2 POEMS"John Anthony Fingleton – Moorlands
Moorlands
A soft wind blew across the moor,
And the heather danced in tune,
Some grouse flew up to test the air,
Then snuck back, into its sweet perfume.
A sparrow hawk circled low,
In anticipation of its prey,
Then attracted by some other thing;
It quickly flew away.
A beauty haunts this desolate place,
With its contours shaped by ice,
Where beasts can still roam wild and free –
A small touch of paradise.
Bracken on the moor-edge slopes,
Mixed flora in the glens,
All produce their radiant colours,
Without the help or seed of men.
The walkers-path is overgrown,
Not many came this year,
The changes in the weather,
Have brought many summer storms to Clare.
There are some patches now of topsoil,
I hadn’t noticed at first glance,
Just a small sign – like so many others –
That we are on our final chance.
Julia Gerhardt – The Invisible Stranger
The Invisible Stranger
I love lying,
in my own bed,
with my hands
stretched above my head
and my fingers barely touch one another—
as if they are unfamiliar,
as if they are unknown to the rest of me.
And now it’s not just a touch, but a graze,
an affectionate line drawn onto one finger
by the other.
I wait.
The line ends
and becomes a hook,
an unwillingness to part;
a stage to go through,
a grief.
I don’t want to let go
of the unfamiliar hand,
lying next to mine
The invisible stranger,
I hope to see again.
Read more "Julia Gerhardt – The Invisible Stranger"Alexus Erin – MAKING SANDWICHES
Making Sandwiches
Me & my brain are making sandwiches for the first time in years
& I remember
I like sourdough. I wonder
whose hands made the bread & if this cooking,
this creation, is a kind of holiness. My brain laughs.
We’re having a sleepover on a school night
& I wonder
whose mother authorized it
By the grace of God
I am with my brain
& by the grace of God,
this brain’s a scrappy one
Which is to say, she is still sprinting: I’m impressed-
she did a lot of math this month. I joke that
she looks like she’s here
to eff the party up.
Brain tells Body (my body’s here too)
The first rule
of any effective love practice
is to synthesize its thoughtwork
with its bodywork: “Classic
substance-presence query, honeybee,” she sighs
& I know
that sigh was for me
I tell them, “First rule
of the big city
is to mind ya own damn business.” My body sets up
a cot at the foot of my bed
Gingerly removes her stockings, that they won’t rip
& I know
mishandling must be a violence
in which the body keeps score. She, of all people,
must be keeping score- I could stand
to learn a thing or two from this inclination
of tenderness, alone
My mouth, every morning,
famously reaching,
rooting ‘round any regional iteration of the daylight
To inhale a verbose evidence
& then exhale, like
my photosynthesis must be scheduled
to kick in any day now
As though this were the only thing
I knew how to do
Latha Kottapalli – An Ode to Black Gold
An Ode to Black Gold
Roots pulled from hiding
Soothe my soul like soup.
Into you, I empty their skins.
Crucifers crisped to crunch,
Laced with lemon, linger on my tongue.
Into you, I empty their stalks.
Egg whites whipped to stiff peaks
Greet my lips with kisses of meringue.
Into you, I empty their shells.
Coffee beans roasted to an aroma
Titillate my nose to chase the whiff.
Into you, I empty their grounds.
Drupes drooping from stems
Satiate my sweet tooth.
Into you, I empty their stones.
Autumn’s burst of hues,
A muse for my eyes.
Into you, I empty its leaf litter.
Into you, I empty all the refuse.
Off you stir and cook them to a new birth.
Lo and behold, Black Gold tumbles out.
Gold that crumbles to the touch.
Smells like the parched earth
When kissed by the first rain spells.
Gold that soaks up like a sponge, springs up
As the roots, stone fruits, and all that nourishes.
O Earth, your kindness knows no bounds.
Read more "Latha Kottapalli – An Ode to Black Gold"