LeAnne Gomez – Master Copy

Master Copy

I had split myself in two
and chose to leave some
gray areas in the new copy
like a photocopy, not as clear
pleasing, or useful as the original
but still able to function
for all intents and purposes
in tasks that require no heart or moxie
sure, she can smile
but she won’t feel happy
a xerox me is a little fuzzy
around the edges
of emotion and ambition
those bullet points that are subheadings
of the non-physical realms
crispness is absolutely necessary
to feel true pain
and true joy
and wonder
and gratitude
and in all matters of the heart
eventually, xerox me
would have demanded another copy
“the original has been lost”
she would proclaim
with unshakeable confidence
“and I am all that is left-
make copies from me,
and I will be
the master”
But there would be no light in her eyes
and the child would have disappeared
searching for the next lifetime
to inhabit
when the child is not nurtured
she has a tendency to wander
for curiosity of the world and beyond
and in search of divine potential.
Her sources are limited
without a master copy.
So the long and short of it is
that I have decided to shred xerox me
for fear that she would take over my life
and sell me to a mundane existence
that would eventually leave all of my most
beautiful flowers
without water
and my white wolf
without food.
xerox me has no concern
for much other than herself
and she foolishly tries to convince others
she is the original
but the originals among her
can tell that she is not.
i am relived to know that cheating
in this life-test did not progress
and hinder my progress
I really am here to learn
and damn it
I dont care about the grade
if the teacher cannot tell
who the real me is…

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Erren Geraud Kelly – BROKE OFF LIKE TRUMP

Broke Off Like Trump

an old hippie sits

on the street in

handcuffs

they stopped him

because of a joint

 

they  used probable cause

to search his truck

and found a .45

they took  him in

though he had a gun permit

the hippie yelled for hours

about a trumped-up charge

 

another football player

takes a knee in the shadow

of the american flag

when questioned by the

media for his actions

he explained ” i’m just a pawn

in the white man’s game,” though he

bragged

in the past about being ” broke

off like trump ”

 

in brooklyn, i once worked on a

moving job on christmas eve

we had to pack up a mom

and 4 kids, cos they fell

four months behind

i told my co-worker

it was the foulest thing

a person could do

but her neighbor bailed her out

the woman told her, she’d

love to point her .38

at the face of old mister trump

 

the headlines read like orwellian declarations

like muhammad ali knocking out

sonny liston

” The Donald,” grabs life  by

the  pussy

he stands with his trophy wife yelling

” i shook up the world…”

this is the penitence we’ll  pay

for not appreciating Obama

 

i wonder could i spend a

few years, not saying the word

” Trump?”

 

an interracial couple

boards a greyhound bus

for montreal

they dont know when they’ll

be coming back

but they know love trumps

hate

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ROBIN WYATT DUNN – NEW MEN

New men

We’re designing new men

macerated men

cut to length

arbiter of luck

maker of stage

metal men

flesh men

 

huge and triumphant

unable to remember or feel

 

men made out of iron

and lace

 

men who whistle

and club words off of pages

and the names out of children’s mouths

 

what luck with forgetting

the forgetting men

 

made new and bright

made out of everything you’d seen

from the lighthouse in Windsor and Bohemia

and older places

 

watching them move into the light and out of it

while you shouted their names

to see if they could move in time

~

find Robin here

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WES HOUP – 3 POEMS

Watch Out For Aardvarks

The high council of pissants
carefully reviewed your application
for permanent inclusion and finds that
you lack any clear sense of order;
you remain stubbornly and selfishly
anchored to ephemera
and take on balance
more than you generate and provide.
We acknowledge your curious disposition,
and your genuine affinity for activities
that promise no monetary gain
and thus no clear class mobility.
But this is just a footnote
in a much larger negative report.
We will not, in the end, recommend you
for tenure in our pismire.
Also we are unwilling to discuss
our recommendation
via chem-trail or antennae.
We wish you the best of luck elsewhere,
and watch out for aardvarks.

~

DIGESTATION

a.
Cool spring water shimmers
a narrow dissolution channel
between my legs.
Nearby a raccoon has passed
the entire exoskeleton
of a crayfish,
most likely Cambarus
(given the lack of suitable habitat
for Orconectes),
pincers folded up
in prayer, like Jonah.
Sun-bleached, it looks like
an obtuse piece of diggery,
equipment found in a junkyard
or moldering behind
the dead farmer’s barn.

b.
Where the spring’s flow disappears,
a great horned owl
has eaten a crow,
and from the crow’s feathers
sweet Betsy grows.
Crows die, crows grow,
I know, but woe is he
and she who doubt
the kind of hunger
that forces dominance in the wood,
to eat crow every night
and remain wise,
or the crow, for god’s sake,
the crow, to sacrifice itself
to fertilize trillium.
Pandemonium.
Harmonium.
Ad infinitum.

~

Custodial Testimonial

4:15am, Sunday,
the only other soul
on the road to Damascus
is a young preacher
in a Corolla
headed to the church office
for final revisions.
He’s worried about messaging,
and his left headlight is blank.
God-only-knows-what
he’ll fashion: surely love, hate,
forgiveness, avarice, charity,
or some other heavy cudgel
based on a verse from Acts
magically supported
by a verse from Isaiah.
See? Continuity.
Poof! Even vengeful gods
Change their minds.

I’m headed to work, too,
and I’m also worried.
A wedding party drank and feasted
all yesterday and now
the Forest Lodge sewer line is clogged.
A rough calculation suggests
each person must have defecated
2.3 times to impound (TVA-style)
an 8” pipe. Damn.
That’s a proverbial shitload.
Sadly, there was no child present
able to turn a shitload into wine.
But it’s Sunday morning—
time for forgiveness.
I am here to ease things
to the underworld,
and while I cannot perform miracles,
I know a snake who can.

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R.T. Castleberry – BUILDING A SILENCE

BUILDING A SILENCE

Street empty as a healing heart,
I lean the patio wall,
Swisher Sweet packed with pot,
friends equally afraid.
Wednesday brings the chill,
hawks fleeing ahead.
They say it’s a west wind—
it carries the desert, it trails a fire.
A car scrapes a manhole cover,
the squall of a New Depression song
rackets from the apartment.
I sit beside you on the couch,
urging you to say
what’s wrong, what’s wrong.
Tell me a dream, you demand.
I can’t. I refuse them.
They’re not meant
for sunlight or the litmus pa
Bitching, bare-legged,
you leave for your car.
That cell phone photo joins a gallery:
you with a beer, you with a bourbon,
you with a Bonnie Parker tilt to your smoke.
Anarchist amid barred gates, builder’s stakes,
the furtive criminal on the corner
heats his alley dinner fire
with mattress flyers, garden scraps.
Seeing me, he waves a clenched fist.
I slam mine into the wall.

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