“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.”
••• The Mad Gallery •••
“u wanna hit this” (above) by featured artist Madelyn Olson.
To see more of Maddi’s mad canvases, as well as our other featured artists, visit our Mad Gallery!
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week on Mad Swirl’s Poetry Forum… we followed misfortune, would fortunate be; we slid, insane, sweet soul to see; we swung from the vine of the monkey mind; we stoned away from a life of crime; we whet the whims of a suckling whelp; we sipped the sweetest, no cry help; we pulled and released the pinball ping off neon, off Lorca, off eyes of green. Scoring for the Team! ~ MH Clay
STATS by Alan Britt
Runs scored could be the most important
stat of all; it’s where rubber meets the spikes,
as they say, crossing the plate like neon
numbers sparking a 1950s pinball machine
flashing gypsy green eyes with torn purple
dress & left breast spilling out, holdover
from La Barraca, a la Lorca’s mercurial
Of course, runs batted in are equally important.
April 7, 2018
editors note: From farm team to the big league, you can count your own ribeye. – mh clay
Nocturnal juice by Hem Raj Bastola
Depth of night
Where your shy lips
But the smile
I fondle you,
Your coy smooch;
As you huddle me,
A pair of clementine,
Ask me to peel.
Juice of night
to my thirsty
April 6, 2018
editors note: Ah! Sweet, surreptitious squeeze. No juice fast for me. – mh clay
Milk Moments by KJ Hannah Greenberg
Go away little growl,
Little Guy demanded nursing,
Head held back, catching my light
In your growth of lips, cheeks, tongue.
My cups wash limpid, free of darkness,
As we share the wisdom of lactation,
Chaff’s only culled as we pause for air
Or for lesser needs.
Then, during diaper changes,
Flickerings of serious poetics totter,
Coupling your vulnerable parameters,
With history more than nature.
You impecunious thief, come
When our mutual articulations
Sing home the moon.
April 5, 2018
editors note: Babe at breast sings milk from moons. (This one comes from KJ Hannah’s recent collection, Mothers Ought to Utter Only Niceties. See how to get your copy here.) – mh clay
The Day We Didn’t Do a Robbery… by PW Covington
We talked all afternoon about maybe
Robbing a convenience store
Out on 550
Or maybe a bank
In a tiny Texas town
That Barbara knew
We all agreed,
It would be easier with a helicopter
Our get away…
Like Mexican drug lords
The football game was on mute
Pow-Wow music played on the
Albuquerque public radio station
We ordered a pizza
And packed the pipe
As a light snow began to fall
Sunset painted the Sandias
And, by the time
Our International District
Up in smoke
Down with the sun
Like John Wayne’s Teeth
And the drums of the Northern Cree
April 4, 2018
editors note: Another bad idea, arrested by the ole 13. (We welcome P.W. to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay
‘monkey mind’ of natalie goldberg by Carl Kavadlo
it’s not the lack of focus
or the lack of a coherent
statement, like they teach
you in the schools and jobs.
it’s the critic jumping around
moreso; the critic sniping
at you, blaming you for
trying, citing your
demanding truth, telling
you to quit, telling you it’s
only right, feeding you
stories on every level:
genetics, societal labeling,
innate talent vs. your lack
and ‘let’s get honest’:
the fairness—and you!
stopping the balance
of the scales which are right.
the norms of the old south,
when all understood who
was who and what was fair:
the voice, and truth—
telling what to do.
close your notebook,
shut your computer.
i mean it speaks with
such vengeance, pull
your paper from the typer
cartridge, if you still
use those— don’t get
so poetic: don’t look
at the sun in the morning.
i still care enough to
write this, breaking all
taboos where you’re
not even supposed to
think the thought.
i’ve already made
a mistake against the tyrant.
April 3, 2018
editors note: The worst wrench in your works is you; that tyrant has no teeth. – mh clay
“goodbye sanity” by Kyle Perdue
and they’re ridiculous
style like no other
I can picture her now:
waddling like a child,
a cigarette hanging from the mouth
and just behind it:
she wouldn’t approach quietly, no
there’d be a noise,
some kind of laugh
and she’d throw her arms in the air
dancing with life
for it’s all she knows
she has to
it’s her style and
her soul is just too good;
I fear for my dwindling sanity
I can feel it slipping away
dripping from my hair to my toes
I see the bangs
I watch the style
I love the dances, the movements,
the wild soul bursting from inside
there’s just something about this one
April 2, 2018
editors note: No point to careful when crazy is wonderful. “Hello!” – mh clay
Dollar Store by Phil Huffy
Her face, oddly square,
affronted by years of defeat
has an expressive sadness
highlighted by wormlike lips
Her purchase, an ordered array of
frozen things, soups, fruit drink
and packs of knee highs
bearing health claims
“I’ll leave the bleach”
The bleach will stay behind;
for what sanguine purposes
had it been intended?
She bumbles away as I advance
my Snickers and settle,
then drive off, passing her,
walking, resolute, surviving
April 1, 2018
editors note: Leave the bleach, keep the positivity. Don’t need white to make right. – mh clay
••• Short Stories •••
If your need for a read has got you feelin’ a bit crazy today, Mad Swirl has got just what the head doc ordered!
Here’s what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week tale:
“Music should be madness, but it’s noise manipulated into something that doesn’t need language, self-control, or to explain itself. It’s what in us, only freed.”
Here’s a small dose to loosen up your loco:
(photo “Bent to Broken” by Tyler Malone aka The Second Shooter)
I don’t remember her name. Let’s call her Sarah. I do remember where she worked: the Kfar Shaul Psychiatric Hospital, as some kind of psychiatric social worker. Like me, she was a new immigrant to Israel, and we both sang in a chamber choir in Jerusalem.
“Is it true you’re in a band?” she asked me one evening during a break in the choir rehearsal.
“Yes,” I said proudly. “I’m the girl singer in a country band. It’s me and three guys.”
“And are you getting a lot of gigs?”
“Well… no.” It was 1979, and Israelis were not interested in American country music. “We’re kind of digging around for places to play. We don’t even care if we make any money.”
“Then I have an offer to make you,” she said. “Would you like to come and play for my clients?”
“In the hospital?”
“It’s a psychiatric facility,” she said. “Not a hospital. My clients would love it if you came. They don’t get a lot of entertainment. And look, there are staff members there too. Believe me, it would be a mitzvah if you came. A good deed. Think of it like that,” she said encouragingly. “A chance to do a mitzvah!”…
Get the rest of this mad mitzvah read on right here!
••• Mad Swirl Open Mic •••
This past 1st Wednesday of April (aka 04.04.18) Mad Swirl stirred it up again! As always, we opened the mic up to all you mad poets, performers, artists and musicians and as always, we swirled us up a mighty fine night!
Here’s a shout out to all who graced us with your words, your songs, your divine madness…
Swirve (with special guest Aaron Gonzalez)
Mad Mic Cast:
GREAT BIG thanks to Swirve (Chris Curiel ~ trumpet; Gerard Beniks ~ skins; Aaron Gonzelez ~ bass) for stirring the Swirl the best way in the world!
More HUGE thanks to City Tavern’s Joshua Florence, Thad Kuiper & Noble Tse for makin’ our stay most righteous.
And lastly, but never leastly, thanks to all who came out to the Tavern & shared this loving, laughing, lasting night of poetry and music with us!
May the madness swirl your way! ’til next 1st Wednesday…
Last Swirl in the Tavern by Edward Hatter
(painted LIVE during Mad Swirl Open Mic)
P.S. In case you missed the LIVE feedS, it’s not too late to be a fly on the wall. Check it out in all its LIVE glory right here…
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin’ on… now… now… NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the mad conversations going on in Mad Swirl’s World? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We’ll be here…
Short Story Editor