Featured Poems

ALL OF DAT RIGHT NOW

by on January 25, 2022 :: 0 comments

Watch out wen Eros
dat winged god

fills you wit desire.

Da feeling will be
so zonky

dat it will turn you
into wun monkey

wit bananas on da brain
twenty-four-seven.

Dats wat makes da world
smile or frown

as it spins fastah
den wun merry-go-round.

And look

da horses
have come to life too

to run even fastah.

On one steed

da mustang spirit
wants to buck

wun sudden ridah
dats holding on

to unseen reigns
in one hand

and wun plantain
in da adah.

In dis horse dash
witout wun jockey

tings can get
really interesting.

Wat does dat mean?

It means watevah
you tink it means.

Tossed onto
wun dirt road

wun dismounted chimp

is tinking about
all of dat right now.

editors note:

Thinkin’ on dis when slippin’ on dat to hold on to da adah. – mh clay

after post modern

by on January 24, 2022 :: 0 comments

kaleidoscopic images
grasp at them as they
twist twinkle twirl
across neuronal wires
endless non-loops
processing to nowhere
in particular
the only destination

passing along the way
pre-antiquity gaps
of anciently destroyed libraries
and nature’s erasures
post-antiquity gaps
of recently prescribed history
fragments tumbled by doctrines
twist twinkle twirl

mirrors emit
pungently sweet colors
brightly shadowed scents
synesthetic, dis-esthetic
hyper- anti- auto- hypo-
elegant malaise

all the while marching
from adolescence to senescence
and back again
no stops between

processing has no significance
signifying does not process
sense is dead
long live sense

– Archie Abaire

editors note:

Trying to make sense with no change for a dollar. – mh clay

BOKETTO ON THE CONEY ISLAND PIER

by on January 23, 2022 :: 1 comment

Boketto
on the Coney Island Pier

&
waiting for the first snow

alone
in this barren place I taste the oceanic solitude

&
inhale the vacant universe & the cosmic breath of the Ultimate Nothingness

&
now I dream & gaze mindlessly into the Void where a vast desolation eats my brain

in
Covid time

Boketto
on the Coney Island Pier

&
drifting through the chimerical snow I vanish into a dream a fugitive from the Un-Reality

of
the eerie earth & its unspeakable secrets & the Self growing in me-transmogrified & alien

editors note:

Take a long stare into what you’ll be somewhen, somewhere. – mh clay

This Insubstantial Pageant

by on January 22, 2022 :: 0 comments

Upon our stage we romp and rage
in Goldilocks’s golden cage
amongst colossal cosmic crowd
with spark of liveliness endowed
of pomp and circumstantial fate,
whose worth we underestimate,

in constant discontentment caught
‘and sicklied o’er in cast of thought
so enterprises turn awry’,
with not an inkling as to why.
Oh, actors in this earthly scene,
what do your frantic antics mean?

‘The heartaches and the thousand shocks
that flesh is heir to’ come in flocks,
while nature tenders wherewithal
if we but list her earnest call
in lieu of inner outer din
that sends the senses in a spin.

Our little lives today may throng
‘this insubstantial pageant’ long
(to borrow varied Shakespeare tropes),
where humans share despair and hopes
on greater globe of bonny blue—
oh, rarest planetary hue!

And yet when all ‘our revels end’
this world will leave a stardust blend
behind, ‘to still a beating mind’
of poet bards midst humankind,
a ‘rack’, or wisp of cloud, as told
in Prospero’s discourse of old;

for sun shall take its final breaths,
as dramatized in stellar deaths,
to be a nebula newborn
celestial heavens to adorn
in evermore creation’s dawn—
yea ‘such stuff as dreams are made on’…

editors note:

Leaning hard on the Bard, about our fate we prate. – mh clay

No, no longer a god

by on January 21, 2022 :: 0 comments

I am a cloud, he said
Lavishly spreading his glee on my windows
No, you are not
I frown and mumble in my chin
You, sir, are a figment of my imagination
Be true to yourself, dear
Your jealousy might change my mood
From fluffy, feathery white I might turn to dark stormy, lightning spitting in a blink of an eye
If I say I am a cloud, then, goddammit
I am
I have all the features
The grace, the plump form, the easiness to glide on the open blue sky
I can smile as easily as I can thunder my curses through my lashes
I definitely spy on you every chance I get
No, no longer I am a god
From now on
you all will treat me as a passing cloud
A midsummer innocent cloud
A light prayer to a merciful sky

editors note:

If they say so, we might know so, if only we see them their way. – mh clay

The Pocket-Magpies

by on January 20, 2022 :: 0 comments

I’ll trade a Sampson Mordan
ruby glass vinaigrette bottle
a third full of the heartbroken
tears of a ‘tricked’ virgin
3 weeks away from dollymop
… for some dry powder,
a skull & bones Gate-Pass…
and a partway-sincere kiss.
Nah, stay away from Uptown
… the house burglary
turned nasty, ugly and fatal
… you can smell the Murder
across most of the Borough.
Let Sammy know I’m ‘round,
I’ll be in the Jack O’ Spades
just afore midnight next
with The Dockside Knives
… they’re inching Territory.
Ha! they not be sex manacle
wrist-wounds… I’m villain…
they only proper heal in Clink.
Later, yeah… be lucky, girl…
yer looking more and more
like yer dear old mother
with each passing 12 month
… I drank so much Belch
I lost two toes and a finger…
the day they swung her Dead.

editors note:

A fond memory, mangled in a midnight melee. – mh clay

A Polyglot Portrait

by on January 19, 2022 :: 0 comments

There is a syntax
a toddler applies to name the stars
she’s never seen

There’s another one at bedtime,
the damnation-and-entreaty dialect
of a disappointed angel

It’s a rough tongue, roughly as relevant
to mom and dad as we are
to the surface of the earth

In it, to tell only the truth
is tantamount to using only half
the letters in the alphabet

– Colin Dodds

editors note:

Such a succinct dialect to grow old and lose it. – mh clay