Mad Swirl Open Mic : 07.03.19

Mad Swirl Open Mic : 07.03.19
Yes! All you Poet-riots and Creative Conspirators, come celebrate a revolution, the birth of a nation of free expression! "Yes!" prevails and "No" is vanquished when you stand up to be heard; your poem, your song, your self in all your Googily-Eyed Glory. Join Mad Swirl & Uncle Googily THIS 1st Wednesday (aka 07.03.19) as at 8:00[read more]

The Best of Mad Swirl : 06.22.19

The Best of Mad Swirl : 06.22.19
“I believe art is a connection, like passing on a flame.” Wangechi Mutu ••• The Mad Gallery ••• It's been a great feature run by returning Contributing Artist Fabrice Poussin. But as all great things do, Fabrice's feature too must end... for NOW! To see more of Fabrice’s poignantly poetic photos, as well as our other featured artists (45 total!),[read more]

The Best of Mad Swirl : 06.15.19

The Best of Mad Swirl : 06.15.19
“When you get over the anxiety, you discover you should have been mad a long time ago.” Amy Clampitt ••• The Mad Gallery ••• In Awe ~ Fabrice Poussin To see more of Fabrice’s poignantly poetic photos, as well as our other featured artists (45 total!), visit our Mad Gallery! ••• The Poetry Forum ••• This last week on Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we[read more]

Desert Summer

A child draws a picture with
blue skies and green fields
giant flowers and clouds like cotton candy
and in the corner, a sun,
its rays stretching out to cover the land
smiling face gazing benignly down, happy
to be bringing life to all in its
two-dimensional world.
In my tiny slice of hell the sun
is not like that.
If it was I wouldn’t hide in the summer
like a giant mole or
a resident of that underground city in
My sun fools you, lulling you with
cool mornings, the clean scents of
desert sage and orange monkey flower
filling the air.
The whole neighborhood seeming to hold its collective breath
until, in that final moment,
Sol crawls over the San Jacintos,
magma fingers clutching the summit,
perching there, a slavering beast, before
it flips a switch and
turns the pavement into pools of melting tar
flames dancing a merry jig,
as it turns the whole into Gehenna.

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The Day Bob Dylan Wept

Contrary to popular belief, I’ve found.
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A small bag
A torch
A tin box and pipe

These are the tools

To present my past
To rescind the guilt
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Memories of Water

Memories of Water

My son lives in a small town. Recently, I was helping him move to a new apartment not far from the one he’d been living in for the past five years. The old apartment is a 1930s or ‘40s era city office building that had been converted decades ago into housing. It’s located on a beautiful little trout stream that runs through the middle of town. A million dollar view for $600 a month. From his second story balcony you could look down into the water and see brook trout[read more]
The Gun

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The gunsmith placed his latest creation, beautiful with precise, hand-assembled mechanisms and a handle made of rosewood stemming from metal blue, into the display case. It sat unfired, immaculate in oil, in its velvet housing for of weeks until a man came in, admiring the static potential of a gun, then bought it. The man bought the gun for protection on business trips. He carried the gun, loaded, across states, not for the protection of others, just himself. The man carried the gun for 30 years, never having to use it. There were[read more]
Stiff Neck

Stiff Neck

We kidnapped the barber with the stiff neck. I was against the plan but had only one vote. The rest of the guys were in awe of our friend from Princeton. He had a lot of family money in our small suburb. We called him Coney because his head seemed cone headed. His red hair and crew cut accentuated the look. At Princeton University, Coney was president of the Young Conservatives. We waited until the stiff-necked barber was locking up his small shop near the train station and pulled to the[read more]