CURTAIN TWITCHERS
As I run the day to begin it
the sun comes up and I want to get out before anybody sees me and sees I have used up my quota for the day.
I think I can go out the front way once and out the back way the other time and no one will see me. Maybe I can sneak out two or three times in a day before all the curtain twitchers see me.
It is only a matter of time before the have a hot line.
I saw him going out again twice yesterday and three times on Monday.
People
realnm
John Dorroh – “It’s Probably More Than Colitis”
“It’s Probably More Than Colitis”
I like a woman with a clean colon,
the way she starts telling stories
at the end
and works back toward the beginning,
expecting me to connect all the dots.
She takes her temperature every hour,
tells me the results, wants for me
to tie a knot with my swollen tongue
in her cherry
stem. The french kiss should have been
the second best clue
that we wouldn’t click, at least not like that.
I can cuddle like a fish with the best of them,
but sometimes we have to be satisfied
with a flag at half mast. You can always
use tulips to brighten the
room. We fidget in the clinic for an hour
before they call her name.
She refuses my hand, gives me an orange-lipped
piranha smile, and disappears into the
blue-white light.
Read more "John Dorroh – “It’s Probably More Than Colitis”"JOHN GREY – 2 POEMS
THE TRUNK
I nudge aside some old poems
to get at the real poetry:
love letters from a former flame.
I’ve no idea why I’ve kept them
only that I’m a hoarder,
even of affection.
There’s something of nostalgia
to them,
like the Marvel comics
in very good condition,
or the copy of Sports Illustrated
with Larry Bird on the cover,
celebrating a championship.
The writing is neat,
the passion likewise,
nothing, I’m sure,
like the long-trashed missives
I sent in response.
Reading between lines is called for.
But, to be honest,
I find more neatness,
only it’s invisible.
From memory,
there was no great passion
between the two of us.
It’s what comes of listening to Yes together.
And decking ourselves out
in bell-bottoms.
But they’re part of history.
And, to my mind,
must be preserved.
But I throw in a few
more useless items,
bury those letters deeper
going forward.
It’s enough to know they’re there.
No place else would have them.
~
THE CIGARETTE LONG AFTER
A double downer:
I feel dirty as soot,
sheets smell like dumpster fires.
And here,
on a motel side table,
one cigarette burns a long, neglected ash.
No need to smoke it.
This room’s like a cigarette
with me cocooned inside it.
You and I shared this roadside hideaway.
Years ago.
Before there were flat-screen TV’s.
Before there was flat anything.
Now I lie on a lumpy mattress.
staring up at the nicotine-stained ceiling.
My teeth grind the grit
of what was once desire.
Read more "JOHN GREY – 2 POEMS"HOLLY DAY – BLUE CAR
Blue Car
The car appeared outside the house, as if by magic
dropped from the sky into a pile of snow, tire tracks obliterated by fresh snow.
A sleeping bag blocked the back window completely, candy wrappers
could be seen on the front seat.
After a couple of days, my neighbor came over and asked me if it was my car
if I wouldn’t mind moving it so that her nephew could park there. I told her
how the car had just appeared in that spot, and that I didn’t think anyone
had come back for it since its arrival, although
I thought I saw a couple of people sitting in the front seat very late the night before
hands frantically moving in the dim overhead light
but it may have been a dream.
A week or so later, a tow truck came and got the car, probably called by my neighbor
the one who came over or perhaps a different one entirely
the spot where the car had been parked was black and green with oil and antifreeze
dirty snow and a couple of smashed beer cans. I watched the car get pulled
backwards down the street, waited for a door to fling open angrily
in the car or in a neighboring house, but no one came out after the car
no one chased the truck frantically down the street.
Read more "HOLLY DAY – BLUE CAR"
ELAINE WEBSTER – BORDERLINE
Borderline
Quiet along the border,
Stars and moon reflect on water,
Who would have guessed the effect Power had,
On woman, man, and beast?
Six hundred fifty miles,
Not long enough to stop the mix,
Of peoples, of places, of life.
Must build stronger and longer,
Wider and higher until the heavens can’t see,
The love of a boy and girl,
Divided at the Borderline.
Katrina learned early to be silent,
When asked about family.
She joked about her father wolf,
Uncle coyote and mother earth.
Shy smiles and giggles hid the fears,
That invaded her nighttime dreams.
Dash worked cattle and lived to ranch.
He’d seen them take the water,
From here and put it there.
The Power knew nothing
Of natural flows and the thirst,
The thirst of creation.
“Buenos Dias,” she said one morning,
To a pickup and a cowboy hat.
Kat knew better than to smile big,
The way he did, with such swag.
“Good morning,” he boasted,
Chest out and head high.
“Dash and Kat have a good ring,
Don’t you know?”
They met at sunset in a cabin,
In the shade of the Borderline.
The morning brought a sense of place.
Kat spied a wolf couple and two pups,
Through the pane-less window.
“Dash, that will be us,” she whispered.
“Kat, then let it be,” he answered.
Bingo came under a full moon,
His eyes filled with shooting stars.
No wonder he grew so tall,
So fast; to see beyond the Borderline.
The night the ICE-men came for Kat,
Dash and Bingo had no choice.
They stood back as the van took their own,
And howled in despair.
Soon many joined the pack,
Peering through the wall of fences.
At the Borderline both sides ran the gamut,
Back and forth in emotional and physical despair.
The wall extended further,
By the decree of Power.
Families divided—couldn’t get through.
Except to touch snouts or fingers,
Before the Borderline militia threatened,
With freedom denied or death.
“There have been walls like this,
Built to deny and control,” said Dash.
“Yes, I know and they did not last,” Bingo pondered,
With the strategy bouncing in his head.
“We will bring Kat and Los Lobos home,
On the next full moon.”
The Power ordered a cover-up,
Of how a Dreamer could be deported.
Kat faced the Press from her refuge,
In the church near the Borderline.
She could see the wall of fences,
From the pain-filled window of her soul.
Dash and Bingo gambled all they had,
To spread the word of wrongs to be righted.
Their travels took them places,
Where anyone would listen to the pleas of families divided.
No one knows how it happened,
How a Wolf Pack and a Mujer came to Power.
The Press swarmed the White House lawn,
To report the confrontation between Ruler and Ruled.
Bingo led the Mass of People—
Until they filled the World with new understanding.
He stood tall and saw Beyond the Borderline.
~
CALLING ALL POETS BORN IN NEW MEXICO
CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS
Grandma Moses Press will be publishing a poetry anthology containing only poets born in New Mexico. Lots of writers call New Mexico home, but for this project, we’re only interested in poets who were born here.
If you were born in New Mexico (you don’t have to show us your papers), and you would like a shot at being included in this unique chapbook, please send up to 5 poems to: grandmamosespress@gmail.com
Your poems don’t have to be related to New Mexico, but if they are it will help your poem’s chances of being included in this anthology.
Of course we can’t offer you any money for your poems. If you want money for your poems please contact Penguin Publishing and take it up with them. They can be reached at 1-800-733-3000 between the hours of 8:30 AM and 6:30 PM Eastern.
Read more "CALLING ALL POETS BORN IN NEW MEXICO"2 POEMS – RICKY WINTERS
“#24”
A single mind
Over crowded with different colored emotions
Divided by the even and odds of the feeling
For bravery can’t be without fear and sadness without happiness
But the fear and sadness have switched themselves into a pair
A pair that’s making you push that EMERGENCY EXIT
“Dysphoria”
mother, forgive me for i have sinned i am the monster who will slaughter your daughter and parade her corpse around
I will mutilate her skin, form her a new friend
i will poison her blood, with poisonous T
i will eliminate these lumps, flat chested dreams will someday come true
So open your mind before your mouth
It’s my time to shine, my imprisoning time has been done
I am your son.
Read more "2 POEMS – RICKY WINTERS"4 POEMS – DAVE SLAGLE
Forecast
Another rain prediction
while the alfalfa turns blue.
Hurricane moving toward Baja.
Fronts shifting.
I found more photos
showing what I missed.
But none of divorces
or the miscarriage
or the two bouts with lymphoma.
Just beautiful Marianna
with her smile owning
the light and everyone.
Albums arrayed as they were.
My worries now
from the future,
while I feel the tug
of an anchor’s rope.
Cardboard Box
I’m careful with the sides,
coming unglued,
and the warped shape,
water damaged and
no longer perfect.
It holds the twigs
that start my late fire
to which I add bigger wood
keeping the box well away
as flames absorb grief
venting into summer.
If only these feelings would
recycle back to those evenings
when we were teens in Tucson
smoking and talking
on the edge of change.
It was a time like this box,
in need of care.
And I left it out
in August rain.
Wet cardboard
never again smooth and virgin.
Shop Tree
A weather measure
comes from clouds
behind the big shop tree.
Where are they going?
Are they fast or heavy?
One has to stare
because today they are slow
and not going
yesterday’s way.
A soft mantras
calming and true.
Keep looking,
be patient,
and from distraction,
their new form
will carry you
into the future
the sweetness here now
the surprises
you’ll never guess.
Meteors
Would this meteor shower
make me cry?
Because it will be so beautiful
and really far away.
Finding some kleenex
in Marianna’s purse,
breathing in the closeness.
And remembering through decades
to a time, on my bicycle
riding home
after Marianna
and more than i deserved,
stunned by a celestial
streak that wouldn’t end.
Amazement light years away.
My bicycle noisy in desert dirt.
Elevating my heart
to an unfortunate level
I’d never forget.
The Mundanity of Chronic Illness – Lindsay Ballew
The Mundanity of Chronic Illness
when i say that i don’t want to live like this, it’s not an idle suicide threat
it’s just that i’m tired of my life exploding
little explosions and big explosions
not just my life, but my brain
my kidneys are fine for now, thank you
because someone (hollywood?) must think bipolar is so exciting
not the days when you can’t string three words together but go to work anyways with the other ten stuck in the cosmos
not the evenings alone at the kitchen table because you have alienated the other three
not the tremor or dizziness or running into walls or the stupid snakes
that aren’t snakes but (my doctor says) might be a tumor but it isn’t a tumor because I’ve been dealing with this shit too long
not the fear that the only things that have worked are not working
the scars on my body are not exciting
the incompetence is not exciting
the ways i’ve let everyone down – still not exciting
yesterday the phlebotomist told me her mom is taking such a high dose she doesn’t know if it’s still her mom
i didn’t say that maybe she is more herself
i didn’t say that there are no angels
no demons
no self, just
ions, synapses, protein
codes that don’t get screwed up, just passed down
which is unbelievably pointless
i want to open my brain from the base of my skull and pull out the snakes
hollywood would love it
Read more "The Mundanity of Chronic Illness – Lindsay Ballew"JOHNNY HUERTA – 2 POEMS
THE RED HOT COILS
the fan sitting on
a window sill
was gently blowing
the curtains on to
a radiator heater
the phone rang and rang
water boiling in a kettle
steam whistling out as if
it were a toy locomotive
circling the red hot
coils on a portable
electric range
plugged in to a
bloodstained wall
water overflowing in
the old clawfoot bathtub
Randy Travis blaring on
a portable FM radio
from an empty living room
~
DRYING OUT
Drying out
An army cot
Above the Taos
Fire station
Is not an ideal spot
But the cool breeze
Coming through
The window
Sure feels
Nice
~
Purchase Jon Huerta’s debut collection of poetry and moonshine recipes HERE.
Read more "JOHNNY HUERTA – 2 POEMS"