TIM STALEY – 2 GUZZLES

2 GUZZLES ~ pronounced two ghazals

4.29.20

All this time I’ve been talking to myself:

meet me in the weightlessness between breath

The moon pouts and is unsure how to age

Which of our masks protects us from our thoughts?

Eyeballs slither like the sliding glass door

heavy like shadows against the curtain

A fleck of gratefulness comes at what cost?

which one happens to correlate to you?

All my actions grease the slipping of time

as manufactured love crumples the foil

5.4.20

So a part of your blood I’ve already

fast forwarded your best intentions

Your family matters because they complain

but inches below the water they glow

The spilled milk is 14 billion years old

the space time continuum continues

Like the Milky Way, be deliberate

acknowledge the itch, but do it slowly

Yo! how much have you paid per square moment?!

My stomach is my own Magnum, P.I.

OUTSIDE MY HOUSE ~ BY 100 SENIORS IN SOUTHERN NEW MEXICO (class of 2020)

OUTSIDE – a found poem

I have an issue going outside.

I just see myself getting tired.

A bright beautiful glaze of sunlight hitting my porch.

I step outside into my backyard.

That’s as close to a public place as I can get.

Nothing much to see. Dry, peed-on dirt.

If I climbed out onto my roof, I’d experience a lot of different things.

Sunlight, for one. Very tall but dead palm trees.

A desert meant to goof around in.

Dirt needing to be played with.

Small families of quail,

groups of 6, running through the desert.

Meows of newborn cats crying for attention.

Middle age men doing yoga in the dog grass with weights.

Weight has no purpose—

Then the trampoline of broken dreams.

A Police officer conducting an investigation.

Black pavement.

Goats inside a chain link fence.

Three dark shadows on the grey tile.

Drive by shooting victim.

House being robbed.

Man on oxygen.

Red roadrunner on a moving trailer.

The snails are cute

Salt salt salt.

More importantly, I’d see a curve.

A point, where the sky and dirt meet,

and neither wins.

The sun sits in the center of the sky just staring.

The sun is quite rude in my opinion.

My intention is to look up at the shining sun

and be blinded for a second

or become one with it.

I finally saw who I got my attitude from

Hint hint it’s my dad…And as I come back around

I see A pig hanging by the neck from a tree,

Dad’s big red truck parked further back in the yard.

So many sculptures.

I see myself in the door window again,

I see the yard behind me,

and I remember the days before with my friends.

I see the spider expanding her spiderweb

between the legs of the grill.

Wind swirls around me,

A Tiny dog hides in the bushes

under the giant pecan tree,

roots creeping from the ground

like the kraken attacks an enormous wooden ship

and drags it under The grass that’s been freshly lawned.

No cop / No stop

Tia wants to plant some grass knowing it won’t last.

1 by 1 people become the ground.

Nature is happy at the absence of man.

Animals walk the paths joggers used to run.

Nature deserves this win. My intention is to adventure like the animals do

when they leave the cage

listening to country music or their favorite corridos.

My intention is feed the animals so they don’t try to kill me.

As the sun sets i can taste the clouds

browner than crap

throwing punches at me…… hitting me directly.

It’s terrifying and peaceful to walk around at night

and the loudest thing is your own heart beating

and the thoughts in your head

like a tornado blew through.

Who taught you

to unlove yourself

so sweetly.

Am I happy or sad, no, I feel free a little longer,

but it’s gross, the hovering moth.

Blue breeze comes from under the pink dragon

on the back of my kimono.

I see stars, wait, is that a fire in the distance?

INSIDE MY HOUSE ~ BY 100 SENIORS IN SOUTHERN NEW MEXICO (class of 2020)

INSIDE – A Found Poem

This couch has a permanent ass print on it.

A doorway that goes to a magical place

called the bathroom.

My mom’s vacuum

that has been sitting since after we used it

to clean the confetti embedded in the carpet after Easter.

All the toys around the room are scattered like flailing fish.

Wow, look! It’s my cap and gown!

My head twisting three sixty

just saw my snapchat

someone’s selling weed for sixty.

A lavender plant is high on vinegar.

The next living room is occupied by my grandmother

watching her favorite christmas movies over and over.

My grandmother’s ashes sitting alone.

Mother’s religious crosses, big as the wall.

As I turn to my left, I’m greeted by my PS4,

my only form of social contact.

You avoid the actual problems.

That is if you can count 10 year olds

screaming into their mic because they lost a game.

I yell every time a motherfucker kills me in Call of Duty.

Seasons pass like menstrual cycles

with a staircase leading nowhere stuck in between.

TV overheating having seen thousands of movies

and wayyyyy more youtube videos

because after i fall asleep

it just cranks those things out

like the engine cranks the pistons.

A messy bed i lay in for 20 hours a day.

I see a backpack hanged.

A closet that looks like a faucet.

It feels as if i’m a rock that has been tossed into the ocean

of my own house.

A man in torn clothing

stumbled out of one of the facility’s testing rooms, screaming.

My intention is to stop being a slave for this house.

I stay secluded with my own actions. Let’s move on.

Doors everywhere, Specifically two.

One leads you to the outside world,

And the other leads to a smaller one.

I’m brave enough to open them

There’s white butterflies all around

Flying in a green meadow

cast over by an endless blue sky

at the end of the coffee table.

I open the red door,

It’s my mom’s room again, but this time more familiar

With red curtains,

The curtains—

I say my goodbyes to the lion, robot, and vacuum.

I step through the door-

hear fingers hitting keys—

Light and dark piano with its black and white keys—

Shoes hitting the floor in a slow rhythm

You start to feel the cool breeze

coming from the blades on the ceiling.

All these Christmas lights, still shining.

Puzzle pieces scattered everywhere.

Parents walk in then leave.

It feels like I’m alone and no one’s ever not busy.

A signed jersey by Jj Watt in a frame. Dusty cords on the floor.

A strong loving feeling with a newborn boy sleeping next to me.

Then back to the TV with Johnny, Moira, David,

and Alexis Rose, and Back to Computer Screen One.

Two. Then Three On top of a foldable Table.

EMILY HOOPER – 2 POEMS

nightmarish

how does the girl

with the loudest voice

disappear into

the background

how does she disguise

her crowd drawing smile

with the tired faces

around her

how does she

slip away

why is she forced into

the abstraction of

happiness

how does she explain

to her loved ones

she doesn’t want to be here

how does she hide her tear stained cheeks

from those who expect

her to move mountains

5 quiet roses

above my bed sitting deliciously

each a gift

withered from many beatings

by the pillows, stray hands, possibly

a cat that has snuck into my room

however they remain pinned

by their sturdy stem

whose struggles remain unknown

each rose is me

stripped of their thorns

because women are prettier when they

don’t speak

and remain pinned to the wall

petals weep

on their journey to the ground

each petal a word

i chose to bite into

and slide down the back of my throat

like a jagged, salted syllable

an unpleasant experience if i’m being honest

so why do i continue

to prick my throat with thorns

that i strip from the roses

rather then using the vocabulary

i was gifted with

easy

i want you to think i’m beautiful

TOM MONTAG – from “The Woman in an Imaginary Painting”

from “The Woman in an Imaginary Painting”

As if to split
the world

say: this is
a real chair;

that is a
painting

of a chair
and of a

woman.
Say: I am

here, before
that which is

not here,
except in

color and
line and play

of light. Say:
that light

touching her
breast is not

real light. Say:
that breast is

not real flesh.

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.

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.

Michael Lee Johnson – OPEN EYES LAID BACK

Open Eyes Laid Back

Open eyes, black-eyed peas,

laid back busy lives,

consuming our hours,

handheld devices

grocery store

“which can Jolly Green Giant peas,

alternatives,

darling, to bring home tonight-

these aisles of decisions.”

Mind gap:

“Before long apps

will be wiping our butts

and we, others, our children

will not notice.”

No worries, outer space,

an app for horoscope, astrology

a co-pilot to keep our cold feet

tucked in.

Heather Sager – 2 POEMS

The Smokestacks of the Country

And my aunt, a farmer’s daughter,
did not live past 64.
And neither did her brother,
cancer-ridden also.
My farmer grandfather died, heartbroken,
a wheezing lung-diseased hunchback,
before aunt and uncle hit 40.

And the smokestacks of the country
still descend from below the clouds
to settle on the green hills
of the valley.
They puff invisibly, raining destructive chemicals
over the farms and people.
Puffing as they’ve always been
with the newest developments.

People in the neighboring valley,
too, have died.
From cancer of the brain
that afflicts dairy farmers
as well as the diseases
of the pancreas and lung
that affect them.

I lived on that farm.
After Grandpa lost it, Mom and Dad moved in.
A lynx once bit my brother
and the snows were wild
as the old farmhouse cellar was menacing.
Full of potatoes and the odd spiders, blasé-beige,
ball-shaped.
I thought the valleys so green
where I hiked for days and days
as clouds passed from one aisle of the sky
to another.
Little did I know
about the smokestack chemicals
hidden in the sky.
That truth
came out with the bodies, the funerals,
that sudden dismay.

I remember, too, the bees—
giant ones, with Homeric stingers—
and the nests, basketball sized,
humming in the idyllic trees
near the clear stream
where crayfish, perhaps,
still swim.

No, I am incorrect.
The chemical chimeras puff no more.
All the farms are dead.
The suburbs have expanded
and there is hardly any green left
to wander in. The chemicals have moved elsewhere,
into a craftier form.
The stream is paved over,
the field of mustard grass
blazed for new developments.

Was the wild ever really there,
or only in our hammering,
kept, dreaming hearts?

The Way

I neared bliss the way
coins
drop skyward from an open hand
I neared bliss
the way a gambler
lassos
his bartered pride
I neared bliss the way
airborne geese
circled your land
I neared bliss the way
your lips
touched mine

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.

Find Elaine online here.

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