Featured Poems

Green Tea Bedroom

by on April 23, 2017 :: 0 comments

Lost in the moment
the sight of C’s saucer shaped eyes
void dark
anything but desolation
millions of galaxies
born
ignited
splendid illumination
entwined nudes like a cosmic serpent
staring at cherry blossoms
on a blue canvas background

– Mike Zone

editors note:

Firecracker space love blossoms in the blue. – mh clay

ST GEORGE

by on April 22, 2017 :: 0 comments

That’s just how it is
On any given day here

The bad backs for benefits
The psychotic breaks

Nobody cares
If you have just moved in
If someone has
Put a brick through your window
Or if you work on the bins

Tobacco
Drink
Drugs

That’s all that matters here

Pornos for girlfriends
Emergency loans for the fear

That someone is coming
At any time of the day

That rat-a-tat-tat
At the back of the brain

Like those pink pills
Those any pills
Sleeping tablets at noon
Always chewed never swallowed
Like the street by blue lights

On any night
Like last night
Coming down off bad speed

The fire engines, police cars
An ambulance for the stabbed

No, I said, officer, I didn’t live there
No, I said, officer, I didn’t know a thing

I’m sorry, I shrugged

That’s just how it is

editors note:

No quiet days in this neighborhood. (We’re doubling down with JH today; read another, tightly wound, on his page here.) – mh clay

A little of this, a little of that

by on April 21, 2017 :: 0 comments

Saints have their warts.
Demons hide their halos.

We’re a mixed bag,
never all of one
and none of the other,

Too much effort
to be pure
good or evil,

Don’t be surprised
by the devil’s kindness,

Or when an angel
Sets you up for a fall.

editors note:

We can’t take life personally, can we? (Say! Joseph’s got a novel out, Labor Day, available from Peasantry Press. Learn more about it here.) – mh clay

No Baby

by on April 20, 2017 :: 0 comments

My grandfather would keep us kids quiet by saying,
“You’re gonna wake the baby”—even when we all
knew there wasn’t a baby in the house. I was young
and even though he was my grandfather, I couldn’t
get a good read on him — I didn’t know whether or
not he knew that there wasn’t a baby in the house.

– Scott Silsbe

editors note:

Always keep’em guessin’, Gramps! – mh clay

Magnifying Glass Plus Ant

by on April 19, 2017 :: 0 comments

The only place open
at this hour in the century: Kohls,

with clothing hung
in rows of full, unoccupied people.

A rabbit-like loneliness
outruns the bike I ride to my insides.

Man who throws
a glare from his eyeglasses
sifts through me:

I am a fake.

editors note:

It is a struggle to find relevance in consumer-land. Best to dodge the glass. (We welcome Daniel to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay

Her Discourteous Libido

by on April 18, 2017 :: 0 comments

My initial thought
is fuck you
when she
turns me down
for sex

It usually ends
with me fucking me
a scent of loss
emanating
from my hand

Resent travels
by my side
like a love letter
marked
return to sender

Celibacy
has my hands
softer than
they should be
balled up
in fists
on the verge
of going postal

editors note:

Libidos unlinked. – mh clay

The Calendar

by on April 17, 2017 :: 0 comments

It was all there:
I explored and climbed
through gravel and roots in embedded cars, earth cars,
stratified nowhere buildings
which hum inside of
nowhere bricks, red out there in
piles of autumn sticks
that house potato bug
tape worm ancestry shoe rocks metal
rain.

Everything his, into the smoke of my father’s machine shop.
I shuffled past with fistfuls of hot venison,
with fur clumps by the wood stove.

Inside, this: rubber mallets hooked into walls, grease hands
with black faces like coal movies. There was more meat in tin foil,
more meat than tin foil. It came from the woods on a day
like today when black face and rubber mallet went to hunt, in boots
up to my eyeballs––

and a calendar of naked girls, the first ones I’d seen,
hiding like me in the back of the building. I who like
the day was short, flipped through the months, for months.

The thighs of June, the confederate blossom of May,
And April — affective breasts, who sees me from behind the
wheel of a Camaro. Both of us grinning,
both of us hiding from our fathers.

– Alex Johnston

editors note:

Forbidden fruit; sweetest in secret. – mh clay