2 POEMS – DAVID S. POINTER

Night Vision Revisited

I’d clean the killing lens night vision
goggles
with submarine seawater, but, the
eviscerated blindness is lodged off
in the long term
low intensity conflict
brain wirings
never fully sanitized
as the world pulls warm winter covers
up over the collective mindless head
waiting for a new delicate darkness
without carnage,
without calendars,
without fair trials touching down inside
unjust economic system cyber-tent sales

~

Dreamscape Crime


Detectives
relish
pursuit,
but, if anyone
dynamites
or poisons sinkholes
as a cold case walks by,
arrest
the former
not quite forgiven
when the state needs money
after receiving individuals
incensed by mouthpieces
for the vampiric economy
needing
tailbones
for the acquisitions-avoidance
culture receiving so many
mega-judgements lacking
menace-conviction corps

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THE VALENTINE’S MOPES – LANCE GAMBRELL

Horse-girls lasso me in, and brand me a “Sore Loser.”

He had never seen a Siberian winter until she said, “I have a boyfriend.”

In the T.V. illuminated room, a bill from the gym could barely be read, “over-due notice.”


The only commercial that has ever made me cry, ended by declaring that “A diamond is forever.”


“Next year’s Valentine’s day dinner will be much better, he declared,” after pushing “2, 0, 0, start.” on the microwave key pad.

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2 POEMS – Jose Luis Oseguera

L.A. Uomo

My attention is a bowl,

Every distraction a freshly

Washed grape jumping frenzied—

Slippery in its will to explore—

Bouncing off any surface.

As when a man on Wilshire Boulevard

Unburdened his head of a Dodgers cap—

Hair oils and sweat tie-dyed

Its discolored blue—

Frisbeeing it on the grassy verge

Delineating the realm of the walking and driving,

And I worried less about whether or not

He would jerk his cock out in time

To burst on the agave leaves,

And more about the sharp

Of its needles perforating

His uncircumcised flesh, blood-gush

As teeth through grape-skin.

It came out as the rain

That falls whenever it wants to

Not went it’s most needed;

People in cars swerved, unnerved.

In my 33 and a third years

Of living in LA,

I never bothered

To spend money on rain boots.

I overheard another man

Tell his blonde girlfriend:

What else do you think people do

When they move to LA to find a job?

Before he could sip his coffee,

A cyclist zoomed by sneakily,

Too chickenshit to ride on the road.

To wonder why I care about it all—

The neglected that hides,

The hidden that wants to be forgotten,

And the forgotten that wants

Nothing more than to be noticed again—

Is my struggle to look away, and still look;

Too see what I can see, yet remain unseen.

How easy it seemed to empty

Yourself of your innermost waste

On the sidewalk for all to see—

Yet as empty as you’d walk away,

The bowl would always be full of fruit.

 

~

 

nuage un

You want me to be a good boy;

You want me to keep a secret;

You want me to just try it;

You want me to trust you completely when you completely mistrust;

You want me to choose;

You want me to be as faithful as I’ve been unfaithful;

You want me to lie to myself to live your truth;

You want me to be as bad as you;

You want me to come;

You want me to figure you out;

You want me to forgive you for things you haven’t done but will even though you know we’ve been there before;

You want me to abort preconceived notions of you;

You want me to take it;

You want me to like it;

You want me to chase after you when you’re too afraid of saying what you really think;

You want me to believe that you don’t say what you want to say because you fear regret, even though your silence hurts more than words it fails to suppress;

You want me to be as good as you think yourself to be;

You want me to be the bigger person;

You want me to accept your apologies, all your apologies regardless of how unnecessarily stupid they are;

You want me to be thankful for your all understanding, all-encompassing compassion to bypass my flaws, all of my flaws;

You want me to beg;

You want me to watch what I say;

You want me to shut up;

You want me to forget how childish you can be when it comes to playing games;

You want me to fix you with love even though you’re the one who does all the breaking;

You want me to be me;

You want me to be like you;

You want me inside of you;

You want me to be yours;

You want the me that isn’t me.

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ON A THEME FROM BRECHT – MARK J MITCHELL

 ON A THEME FROM BRECHT

Wisdom was passed on from mouth to mouth.

                                                                        —Bertolt Brecht
                                                                            New Ages

And wisdom was passed on from mouth to mouth
in soft kisses, quickly lost, like music
from her piano. Windows let notes out
last night (and it was the last night) and you ran
after them with your net. Then starry air
found its way back into your open mouth.
Your tongue brushed her wisdom as it landed
on fact. Her candle out, the smoking wick
a token of wisdom from her mouth’s lair.

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For you I would be insane and lovely at the same time – ABIGAIL GEORGE

For you I would be insane and lovely at the same time
(for the Dutch poet Joop Bersee, with love)

Here’s looking at you at fifty. You’re
fifty still living in your parents’ house.
You’re not happy. You’re living in the
shade of your sister’s happiness. She
left you years ago, ventured out into
the world on her own. You still think
you’ll get better in therapy. You still
hate your own face, and sharp objects.
Steak knives with their cool, clean, pure-
serrated edges. Masters of none-and-
everything. Masters of Jericho, Ruth. Boaz.
The dreams you once had, you dream of
them still. They’re like paper flowers.
And your voice is like the agreements
between them. Full of secrets, a fading
sunlight of day paying attention to the
resonant branches and their tensing
melody. You think back to all the hurt,
despondency, useless slipping-away-
from-you-frustration, (honest), and it
moves inside of you like the first man
who molested you. You go under the sea,
and become pure again (an innocent).
Your hair dark lines, and haywire all
over your face. The road home all-pepper-
and-potholes. You’re still scared of
the dark. Yes, yes, you’re still scared of
the dark. And you’re all feminine-and-
masculine (girl with her hair cut like a boy). Still
you long for the safe truth of women.
What did you do with the angels I gave
you. I think of the coconut oil on my mother’s
hands as she combed and braided my hair
when I was a little girl. There’s a little
girl in the advertisement I’m watching
on television. It’s about hair. It’s about
hair. It’s about hair. African hair, whatever
that means. Oil, sheen, relaxer cream, and I’m looking
at the Portuguese man again who gave
me the eye in Johannesburg all those years ago.
I think about his smile that lit up my face,
his light-blue sweater as he leaned over
the counter, and I think of the hair on his
hands, his arms, the hair on his chest there
sticking out like a triangle. I think of his
European-lover-face, and how I went up in

smoke that day. How sexy he made me
feel, how beautiful, and desired, this Captain Fantastic
in the paradise that was Johannesburg then.

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2 POEMS – Jeffrey Zable

NEVER AGAIN May the burning embers twirl around your mustachio and become a river itching itself into a fit of melancholia, while the pumpkins with metal teeth snap at the Christ-like pomegranates. And when the eternal crying begins, may the faces without eyes suddenly profess, “My God, I have no idea how you found me!” […]

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