Not Enough
not enough
now
or ever
after the rain wrought
wrinkled
wet
and worlded
the way out
it’s not enough
the way you held the standard poem
and read it out
the way the world loved it
and gave me the towel
to wipe you down
give the world all its bliss
and give me everything after
in the ruins
where I can make my home
Read more "POETRY: ROBIN WYATT DUNN – NOT ENOUGH"Dodgy Edge
You’re out shopping
right now
for the room
we’re going to share
tonight.
It will be cheap,
somewhere
on the dodgy edge of town
but you’re looking
at the color
and pattern of the curtains
the quality of the artwork
on the walls.
I’m disappearing
in faint gusts of wind
lost in anticipation
wondering why
you expect to take away
anything more
than what
I put inside you.
Dear Kelly
Some things exist only to be seen by
those that need them most. As a
child, I watched a young theologian
reduce the divine to a chalkboard
sketch. Time is a circle that we live
inside, he explained, and that the Almighty
exists outside of. How simple
the universe is, sometimes. I’ve driven
down enough country roads to know
what loneliness is, walked down enough
city streets to know the isolation of
crowds. Wherever you are, you are
small amidst the vastness of the unknown.
I am standing atop a bridge, surrounded
by strangers, watching an eclipse
overhead. One whispers to another,
“We are witnessing history.” It’s true.
In eighteen years there will be
another, and by then none of us will
remember each other’s names.
Read more "Poetry: Matthew Heston – Dear Kelly"To the couple from the orange tent
whose amorous shushes
crept around the campground
long into the night like a bear
looking for leftovers,
I’m sorry if my kids
happened to slam the car doors
a few too many times
on our way out to an early morning
Ranger-led flora and fauna walk.
Staring at a lineup of RVs
crammed with wildlife-gawking
selfie-stick swinging day-trippers,
he said: the valley
had become a petting zoo.
Better head for the high country
if you’re looking for something wild.
So we did, and found more people and cars
but also endless pine, something blue
called sky, and mountains rising up
with a shrug that said: if not wild
then closer. Maybe it was the thin air,
or not showering for five days,
but I’d recommend the ice-clear lake
I dove into, for once not wondering
how much time was left on the clock.
Read more "POETRY: Yoni Hammer-Kossoy – Scrawled on a Yosemite Park Map"IN BETWEEN
In between grandmother’s scandalous stories
and the little prints of thumb
in between Carol’s secrets whispered and the
Genesis of the long gone rum
in between howl and forgotten ancient words
and fickle minded dreaming sons
in between sand and time and life and wine
She breathed her last as a corpse
trapped-
in between.
Read more "POETRY: Arushi Singh – In Between"Remembering
I walk in the shadow of skeletal trees,
their fearsome, naked branches reaching out
in desperation, pleading for redemption
like ghostly soldiers back from war in search
of peace, an end to dreams
of screams and shattered flesh.
Scattered underneath, concealed among
withered, blood-red remnants of last year’s
flowers, lurk spiked seed pods,
tiny, inobtrusive land mines
set to detonate at slightest touch
exploding everywhere new seeds
prepared to sprout, to conquer, and
to dominate all lesser growth
exhibiting their red magnificence.
Until, again, the glory ends
in stark, bare desolation.
Read more "POETRY: RITA ROUSSEAU – REMEMBERING"Lemon Water in Lake Michigan
Midwestern boys use tongue. And I’ve sprouted
from cracks in concrete. Midwestern boys use their fingers.
And I’ve used my hands
too. Trust me. I’ve used numb hands
to mold Midwestern boys. I know how they form words
in their heads before slapping asses
in beds that I’ve made.
I don’t wash my sheets anymore.
I used to know Midwestern boys, but they don’t bleed
with the vigor that I do. They don’t smack
ball of foot to earth the way that I taught them to.
And Midwestern boys use pretty words
like “only child” to water me,
make me grow, spread me
out, lick me clean. Midwestern boys borrow
my knitting needles and use them
wrong. Midwestern boys show me their photographs,
let me put finger to gloss. Let me put finger to mouth,
Midwestern boys. I’m stuck
between two slabs of planet
and all of the Midwestern boys are drinking
lemon water.
Read more "POETRY: LAURA MANARDO – Lemon Water in Lake Michigan"Irrawaddy Dolphins and Casual Sex
Like the Irrawaddy dolphin,
I have sex for pleasure
and it ruins me
because I need you to hold me
afterward in the Mekong River.
I need you
to swim alongside me
and let me take a breath
from your blowhole.
It is estimated that 91 of us still exist,
still swim together.
Well, every time I leave
your bed I feel the dead
dolphins lining the river’s bottom. They lived
their lives trying to breathe
in each others exhaled breaths,
trying to buoy themselves to see
the sun rise and fall
on each others backs.
Read more "POETRY: Laura Manardo – Irrawaddy Dolphins and Casual Sex"Where Are the Sidewalks?
Blades of grass slashed my feet.
“No Trespassing” signs smacked my face, screamed,
“Go back to your city, we have no sidewalks here.” Sidewalks,
sidewalks, where are the sidewalks?
Limping, dripping bloody footprints on the macadamia road,
I edged toward the school bus stop,
where hyenas brayed, “We are the cool of the suburbs,
worship at our Gucci feet!” The school bus choked me
with a mix of diesel and fluffy yellow cake uranium,
crazy-glued me to the seat with chewed orange bubble gum.
The rambling, random brick walls of the school blocked my path,
spat at me, mockingly proclaimed,
“We have no use for you, little girl,
go back to your dingy drabby scumdummy school.”
The bell shrieked, “You’re late for your viral
algebra class! Your punishment: prove theological theorems
for all to see. Pray to the icon of iconoclasm!”
Blackboards surrounded me,
erasers clapped together, suffocating with clouds of cyanide chalk.
The gymnasium belligerently belittled my body,
bleachers ripped off my clothes,
chanting, “Boo, boo, no one will ever make love to you!”
I hid in the showers and cried for the sidewalks.
But the sidewalks shed crock pot tears and
not for me.
Read more "POETRY: CATHERINE WOLF – WHERE ARE THE SIDEWALKS"Devoted dad
Nothing more I reveled in than seeing my little kid’s blithe face.
One day we were sitting round my daughter’s birthday cake,
Say, ‘‘what you want for your birthday gift?’’
I will do whatever you wish.
There were some red fish in the aqua tank.
She said, ‘‘Please gulp them down in a blink of an eye.’’
Since I didn’t want to make her sad,
I swallowed them all at once.
Now I’ve got stomachache for two days long.
But I made her at last burst into lusty laugh.
~
Husain Abdulhay, born on 26 August 1979, is from Iran.
Read more "POETRY: Husain Abdulhay – Devoted Dad"
Cacti Fur 