Mad Swirl Open Mic : 02.05.20

Mad Swirl Open Mic : 02.05.20
Join Mad Swirl Open Mic THE 1st Wednesday of February (aka 02.05.20) at 8:00 SHARP as we swirl it up at once again at Top Ten Records! To kick things off, Swirve (Chris Curiel- trumpet/Tamitha Curiel - vocals) will start us off with some Mad musical grooves. After that, hosts Johnny O & MH Clay will invite[read more]

The Best of Mad Swirl : 01.18.20

The Best of Mad Swirl : 01.18.20
“Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.” Edgar Allan Poe ••• The Mad Gallery ••• The Dog that Didn’t Bark ~ Alan Gann With this one we close out Alan’s feature run in our Mad Gallery. But don’t you fret, we will have a new artist to feature next week! Until[read more]

The Best of Mad Swirl : 01.11.20

The Best of Mad Swirl : 01.11.20
“Art is all in the details.” Christian Marclay ••• The Mad Gallery ••• Fighting for Peace ~ Alan Gann Check out ALL of Alan's social-commentary collages, as well as our other featured artists (46 total!) at our Mad Gallery! ••• The Poetry Forum ••• This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we longed to fill the hollow left by a[read more]


Google and other griefs
chase my working hours.
Nights are cut out for
graphology. In temple of
needs my pelage seeks
your petting. My god
it seems is huffy.

Recently Published

Children of that Ilk

Children of that ilk get shipped to college
With first-aid boxes plus contact information
For emergency rooms and trauma centers.

Frequently, given lawyer-approved accords,
Also modified expectations, they[read more]


Fire at night! Fire
in the coal dark cold
of an ice like desire
that chokes the eyes
like wicked smoke
under shrouded skies
and bilious smog

…and a breathy toke
on a[read more]

The Other Side

The sirens blast
We know that
Means. 15 seconds
To a minute to
Get to a bomb shelter.

We are always in
A state of alert.
Can you imagine
What[read more]

Drifted Away

Drifted Away

Off like a shot, the years just drifted away for two young men. John and Nick grew up together on Harrison Avenue. Their fathers worked at blue collar jobs and the mothers stayed at home. The moms didn’t all bake cookies but they were there to put band-aids on the scrapes and cuts and cooled the bruises with ice cubes from those cold metal trays. In the summer of seventy-one the world was magical and it was theirs to consume. Money was short and the days were long. Desires ran high[read more]


Mother tosses that gold ring down the toilet. It strikes the bottom. Clink. “A metaphor for your father.” She laughs. Laughter cracked. She holds the handle, as if one gesture will unleash something frightening. As if he hasn’t been gone a whole year. “Shall I?” “Go for it.” I remember Dad making the announcement, words so matter-of-fact. Mother’s words, husky, harsh. Betrayal, bastard. When did you stop loving me, asshole? She pulls the handle hard. Once. Twice. “Watch, Nicky.” The ring swirls in a kaleidoscopic dance, swirling, until it’s enveloped. We hold each other, watching the[read more]
An Oral History of the Telephone

An Oral History of the Telephone

“I don’t know what to tell you, Bryan,” Van Harappan said, expressing a minor distaste at having the young man’s name in his mouth. “That’s just business. I don’t judge you for engaging in it. But I might judge you for not having the stomach for it. All I can tell you is to suck it up. And, if you want—we still have a few minutes—I can tell you a story about sucking it up.” “Okay, but the deal?” “We can probably figure something out. You give me the numbers, and I[read more]