Guest Poet

A monotonous crack
Is the vision
In my mind

Plaster
Filling the gaps
That can and cannot be
Sustained-
Depend on
The proportion
Of sand and cement.

No cut,
No grass,
No war
On my wall
Only two divergent colours-
Real and unreal
Merged and
Sprayed

Like an array
Of striped jeans
Or sometimes
Crisscrossed by
The sewing machines.

My nerves-
Rising and
Yawning
Till the dots spread
From an incarcerous spell
To tell its plot-
My wall: A polyglot.

– Monobina Nath

He can,
Get it,
All back,
Has gotten,
A lot of it,
Back,
Most of it,
Back,
Things aren’t
The same,
Of course,
He wouldn’t
Want that,
In a lot,
Of ways,
They’re different,
And better,
An unforeseen,
Improvement,
Of sorts,
But there are,
Some things,
That he can’t,
Get back,
That won’t,
Come back,
And that’s
Given him,
Quite a bit,
To think,
About,
And,
Of course,
There’s no,
Going back,
So,
He won’t,
Call it a funeral,
Because,
It’s not about,
Focusing on,
What’s gone,
It’s about looking,
Understanding,
Searching,
For what’s next,
A celebration,
Might be,
More apt,
A celebration,
And a quiet,
Realization,
A celebration,
Of,
Well,
Innocence,
Above all else,
No other way,
To say it,
Is it,
The crown,
Of youth,
He’s not sure,
And probably,
Won’t ever be sure,
He just knows,
That,
When love dies,
Some things,
Don’t ever,
Come back.

– Taylor Dibbert

out beyond the field of dead ferns
where the silent river flows,
lies a valley of dead dreams
where the soil observes no lives.

sunshine blooms between vegetation
where darkness sheds no death.

someday when the icebergs melt
and man destroys man
there will be the sweetest sound
heard by none
observed by none
and felt by none.

– Tohm Bakelas

Gods throw lumps of ice cream
onto the roofs of freight cars.
Books on the library shelves
teem with emptiness.
Tattered maps of the world
hide empathetic walls.
Maudlin pedophiles roam the streets
under the frozen lips of the statues
and invisible stars.
You have never been here.
Your burning heels are the proof.

– Ivan Peledov

When snorkeling with
threshers the cage is purely
a formality

– Jerome Berglund

So, there was this butterfly
caught in a tree,
looking so sad.
He had that abandoned look in his eyes that I recognized,
so much like my own
on those days when I nearly overcome
my addiction to hope –

And then there were all the clowns
from all the circuses
in all the world
packing themselves into suitcases
and traveling coach on Flying Fuck Airlines
and checking into Motel 6’s under assumed names
because angry elephants
were looking for their asses –

And there was a woman
sitting at the bus stop
eating tacos filled with shredded dollar bills and cilantro.
Her hair was a complication of black flames,
wicked in the wind.
She did not smile, but told herself and everyone else,
“I am happy. I am.” –

There was an old man
with the posture of a question mark
and teeth like the tombstones in an abandoned cemetery.
He held a baby doll covered in voodoo symbols
and rocked it out beside a Honolulu 7-Eleven
singing to gods and devils and pedestrians
as they passed by –

And there is a dead baby rabbit
outside my window at work.
Or at least I THINK
it was a baby rabbit.
It’s become a scattering of tiny fur tumbleweeds
caught between blades of unnatural winter grass
kept green by corporate conspiracy lawn keepers –

And no matter how hard I try to avoid thinking about it,
there is a demon twitching in my pocket.
It’s moldy adhesive skin sticks
to the inner lining like an unwanted memory –

And grackles assemble
on every rooftop and power line,
ominous, contemplating a riot,
or a rock concert,
or a bloodless coup,
or a peaceful protest,
or a goddamn muthafuckin tupperware party –

And I see you there, reflecting,
considering the mystifying contents
of abandoned suitcases of insane asylum patients.
Harold’s suitcase contained nothing but brushes and spoons,
all of various sizes and shapes,
and the Bible in French.
Harold could not speak a word of French,
but scribbled hieroglyphics on pages and pages,
and circled passages of scripture –

And all the colors are fucking each other
in the sunlight,
right out in the open where everyone can see –

And that demon twitches in my pocket –

And the tumbleweeds are hopping –

And I see YOU
lit up like a neon cocktail sign,
twitching –

And my attorney has advised me
that I should jump in the hotel pool at 2am
with a dude who looks like a
young Filippino Hunter S. Thompson –

And you all look so pretty.
You all look so pretty.
It gives me hope…
SO STOP THAT –

I have wandered in circles –
I am lost and found –
found guilty –
found negligent –
found incompetent –
unfounded accusations, assumptions and worries –
I have wandered and wondered –

And it is still there –
that tree –
choking on a sad butterfly.

– Victory

I put you on the spot
one limelight pulling through
a set of new teeth
new eyes with new tongues
and “if only it were true!” she said
if only we were new
wrapped with ribbons
passed the point of breaking glass
made of rubber
and plastic private parts
“crack’em like shells,” she said
“we’ll find another spare pair somewhere,” he said
smiling, chicken coriander stuck
in his teeth, a brilliant light
calling on them from beneath.

– Nadja Moore

Cries in the night
Same words
Over and over
Different sounds
Drama
I try to soothe you with my voice
No success
You keep pleading
Over and over
This is what you wanted
Have you changed your mind?
Are bad memories haunting you?
Be patient sweet one
Now you can touch me
I was never far away
Your voice changes
All is now well
As if this never happened
Sigh
Such is life
When your cat wants out of the room

– L.E. Douglas

looking for a bold addition
to your drab and soulless menu?
give our jack-a-lope nachos a try.

ooey-gooey imitation cheese infused into
the steamed and shredded haunches
of a cornball hybrid dreamed up
to sucker tourists into a dying town.

listen to the rave reviews.
“they set up in the gut like concrete and rebar.”
“a Grand Coulee Dam for your duodenum.”

jack-a-lope nachos, baby.
all the zest and zing of coronary distress.
all the heartiness of a capitalist deception.
the finest of unbelievable American cuisine.

a word of warning
the lawyers require us to add.
consume at your own risk.

new customer discount on the MEGA PLATTER.
dig in and discover what you’re made of.

– Preacher Allgood

Upheld in all beliefs
And traditions, scarce,

But widely transmuted.
I know, a Scheherazade

Of shipwrecks; bet upon
The first child, they say.

And you, you were difficult
To hold, every broken pane

In the house talked to you;
In March, you knew

The rain before it came;
You adored that sodden

Terrain where old souls
Rise smoking through

The leaves; you were
Crying with happiness

In the deepest shade of love,
You seemed to be emerging

In chains of wildflowers;
One day we shall experience

True history in the long-
Hand of the sun.

– Marc Vincenz