Featured Poems

Air Dancers

by on October 23, 2017 :: 0 comments

Where homes are houses
And shoes are anchors,
Bound to the earth that
Sings out of tune,
The flight of music is a wounded bird
And dancers all have weighted wings.
Poetry is the hub of assorted data
And stories are lists of vital instructions.
Sleep is a refuge for all the rebels
And dreams are for the disenchanted.
Sound is an obstacle to the flow of music
And the passion is for heated lovers only.

Air dancers leave the earth while they dance.
They roll with the sound of the silent clouds.
They twist their bodies to the mood of the rain.
They fly into stories of space and beyond.
They kiss the angels and jump into heaven.
They sing with their feet in the mystical air,
As they dance with the poetry
Of their playful minds,
And laugh with the wind
As they sail into forever,
While disconnected to that rocky sphere,
That planet of various
Weights and measures,
That earth that touches the dancers’ feet.

editors note:

Yes! For the dancers who have broken free; may we follow them, rejoicing. – mh clay

Inquiring Minds

by on October 22, 2017 :: 0 comments

Where do photons go to get some sleep?
Away from all that light?
Where are the “W”-rays, the “Z”-rays?
How come the “Xs” get to have all the fun?
When gravity waves… should we wave back?
How many PhD physicists does it take to change a light bulb??
“Oh, that’s a problem for a psychologist,” was their reply.
(And the bulb has to really want to change).
What is a gathering of “scientists,” who ignore some facts
but endorse the findings of others who ignore facts, called…?
A Consensus.
Who warmed up the earth?
You know, way back when the earth was covered in ice?
As in the last Ice Age?
(I’m melting!)
How did that happen?
Perhaps from Humans or,
maybe Neanderthals,
hugging to stay warm?

editors note:

Let’s reverse the process; aloofness all around! – mh clay

Down On Front Street

by on October 21, 2017 :: 0 comments

This is a foggy step
An amber goo between the prints
The more there is the better chance I have of it fossilizing
I hope you get the metaphor
My paranoia limiting my patience
My paranoia
My paranoia
My paranoia
It seems that’s all there is anymore
I fight so hard to be free
Down on Front street
Just to cage myself in my cave like notions
I wonder if I could ever love again
Or if I’ve ever loved before
Perhaps all I felt was a
narcissistic sense of
ownership and betrayal
Caveman emotions trying to speak modern language
And I’m trying to get rich off of Bitcoin
I had a client say “what’s the point in investing?
We’ll all be dead soon anyways.”
I check my pulse
I pat my gun
And I think in response
“Not me motherfucker, not me.”

editors note:

Not me, either! Uh, wait… where’s my gun? – mh clay


by on October 20, 2017 :: 0 comments

Circumstances force me to be unpleasant
it leads to a low ebb
…the tides of good thought recede
leaving their naked sand
full of crabs and crawly vermin

where the soul comes to bury love
…watch TV instead
of looking out toward the streets and their gardens,
stuff cigarettes and food
by the load
to manage better what vagrant daydreams
still linger
in an unconscious eye
which would see all things
as beautiful!

– Sam Silva

editors note:

When within renders none, be seen as such by association. Nice guys, all. – mh clay

The End of The Line, Strikethrough Font

by on October 19, 2017 :: 0 comments

We pay in change and ask the sentence
to seek solace in other forms, maybe roll
into loose-leaf instead, or pen stabbing yourself
to death outside the former car dealership,
inflatable dinosaur, now lumberjack pancake flattened,
no longer hissing air.

The diner is full, as S(entence) has been out of work recently
and asking for references; which pages are open
or what support groups can provide editing.

Had it been me, I’d resort to exhausting all options,
seeking strikethrough if the cards on the table are muddled
and wet, reeking like basement laundered currency.

But instead our day goes on, and eventually,
we all figure it out,

– Alyssa Trivett

editors note:

Words out of work, awaiting gainful employment. – mh clay


by on October 18, 2017 :: 0 comments

Everything is different, in the horizon the Sun is crumbled
The crumbles remained on the earth’s heart like triumphant arrows.

We can’t recognize the colors through the wind caressing the memory
We do not read poetry in the universe of foolishness
Where relations between darkness and light
Appear just like relations between the wall and thought.

Behind is played the surprising game, just like before
Birds are falling on the ground, just like in times when hell was written,
Oh God, everything has changed,
At a time when a small fence is darkening our big eyes.

The moon finds a path through mummy hands remaining like arrows towards the sky
And the sun dissolving just like a candle through tired eyes
Who can’t see anything in the blue sky, except a small cloud
A cloud darkening everything

Therefore, vision is coiled in space
Just like the wind creating its avalanche
Then many faces appear.
At a night, when everything is different,
Containing inside the borders within your head
When your feet walk through illusions
And squeeze their bad dreams
For the time that isn’t
For the time that wasn’t
For the time that will not come
For the time that goes with the wind.
Utopia struggling against reality
Her dreams hiding at the corner of secrets
Are swallowed

– Ndue Ukaj

Translated from Albanian by Peter Tase

editors note:

This Kosovar poet wrests the reality of reconstruction from explosions of ideology. – mh clay


by on October 17, 2017 :: 0 comments

Each moment I’m ducking under the streams of thousands of rivers. After each willed bath floats a corpse. Logically there is left no claimant of that corpse. Rather caring a straw for it, I too look forward to a new dawn. At times somebody whispers, pulls one or two of them. I feel hilarious to find me alive among some sounds of arrested silence.

– Utpal Chakraborty

editors note:

One person’s horror is another’s hilarity. – mh clay