WHAT’S NEW

Mad Swirl Open Mic : 07.06.22

Mad Swirl Open Mic : 07.06.22
Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of July (aka 07.06.22) when we'll once again be doin' the open mic voodoo that we do do at our OC home, BARBARA'S PAVILLION and from our Mad Zoom Room (broadcasted via FB Live)! Starting at 7:30pm, we will kick off these open mic’n Mad Swirl’n festivities with some musical[read more]

The Best of Mad Swirl : 06.25.22

The Best of Mad Swirl : 06.25.22
"Truth is always exciting. Speak it, then; life is dull without it." Pearl S. Buck ••• The Mad Gallery ••• untitled ~ Eric Suhem To see all of Eric's trippy illustrations, as well as our other resident artists (50+ and counting!) take a virtual stroll thru Mad Swirl’s Mad Gallery! ••• The Poetry Forum ••• This past week on Mad Swirl’s Poetry[read more]

The Best of Mad Swirl : 06.18.22

The Best of Mad Swirl : 06.18.22
"Men are so necessarily mad, that not to be mad would amount to another form of madness." Blaise Pascal ••• The Mad Gallery ••• untitled ~ Eric Suhem To see all of Eric's trippy illustrations, as well as our other resident artists (50+ and counting!) take a virtual stroll thru Mad Swirl’s Mad Gallery! ••• The Poetry Forum ••• This past week on Mad[read more]

POETRY FORUM

The Enemy of My Enemy Is Probably Also My Enemy, Just Without a Goatee.

by Guest Poet
For example, no man can wear beige
and remember the taste of the sun. Look,
Jim, just because you went to private

school doesn’t excuse you from a responsibility
to understand physics. It doesn’t matter how
good you look in lacrosse shorts when they

come to reclaim the fields. Sweat soured
on skin like a father’s gaze. A bell that never
stops ringing. I want to laugh like we used

to, talking shit about the pines. Maybe
you’re right, Jim. Maybe there’s nothing
but quiet cars. The flimsy logic of regret.

There’s a certain way of forgetting
that happens every night when you try
to catalogue what remains. It has to do

with never going into the kitchen,
which is the best way of keeping
the floor clean.

– CL Bledsoe

Recently Published

Contemplation

by Susie Gharib
As I was reading a witty treatise on artists and high critics
in which Oscar Wilde extolls contemplative existence
I looked at the protruding figures of The[read more]

Ode to Gynecology

by Guest Poet
There’s the office waiting room, mostly women,
some full-bellied, some dewy. There’s a sisterhood
of vaginas sitting there wishing for good checkups. And me,
my[read more]

Bronx Hall of Fame

by Pete Mladinic
I was there, she took me there
and it was a long line of columns.
I recall liking it. I liked that it
was a long line[read more]

SHORT STORIES

In Distress

In Distress

by Susie Gharib
What is so special about grass? I ask myself. Is it their presence among our urban mess? Yet it no longer embalms a concept and many people do not believe in its aesthetic, medicinal, or magical essence in this age of malls and plastic magnificence. My dog eagerly rushes to any patch of vegetation on our concrete pavements. She lingers sniffing grass and tiny plants, reconnecting herself with ancestral instinct. I patiently tarry watching her nose exploring so many realms of scent, her body trembling as she satiates her quivering[read more]
The Haint Tree

The Haint Tree

by Janice C. Carter
It was the kind of night that made you wonder what lurked in the shadows. The wind howled through the trees and leaves swayed from its bluster. The sun should have set for the evening, but a thick layer of blackening clouds extended as far as my eyes could see, making the time seem closer to midnight. The marsh smelled heavy with pluff mud while the winds whipped across the emergent soft-stemmed vegetation. The grassy stalks shimmered with beads of mist, like dew kissing a morning lawn. Suddenly, bright streaks[read more]
The Scar

The Scar

by Roopa Menon
I met Mr. Pereira one foggy morning. The building where he stayed was a long walk from mine; the icy wind constantly brushed against my cheeks and chest as I walked down the dimly lit pavement. When I finally reached the building, I couldn’t see it as it had slipped behind a thick blanket of fog. I hesitated for a second before slicing through the blinding white curtains. A staircase, polished and winding, awaited me on the other side. It led me to the first floor, which had one large flat[read more]