Inner villanelle of a father-to-be without his Xanax
Father-to-be, you are not a villain.
Hell, black bile does not blackball from mating.
But you know, they’ll be your children
Category: Poetry
A Man Asking for Alms Near My Home.
So full that sort of knowing—
the sudden finality of a truth
as crisp and resonate as Beethoven deaf
ear to the floor of your late thirties.
The cats sleep through the walls
listening for a snap or shuffle or fugue
while the old trees in the yard beg for alms
against the back windows—just redone this summer j
Every Night is a Night of Bombs Somewhere
Most dances are cries. Try to pin them in place.
Look away from ash—a boy and a girl
loving that boy: screams and statues
flash-frozen against a night sky bleached white.
In Hand
Poetry by J. Joseph Kane
The sword fighting was,
like most traditions, ill-advised.
The blades were real,
one a samurai the other a Greek replica,
edges sharpened .
Rough Draft
Poetry by Teresa Chuc Dowell
The word, though spelled incorrectly, is mine. I cross it out in my own time and in its space, the brown earth, I will grow flowers, fruit trees, or lettuce. I am a rough draft, cursive drawn on paper with a pen and my left hand rubs over the ink.
Two Street, January First
poetry by Paul Siegell
football buffs / in Philadelphia’s aviaries vault the beer-can
casualties / of another round of fumbled punt returns.
parking authority tyrants / toy with every block possible
along Philadelphia’s / deliriousness of cobblestone.
such miserable hospital cafeteria coffee in Philadelphia’s
Something My Mother Told Me This Morning on the Phone
If you don’t see the light, don’t stay.
poetry by Nahshon Cook
Bangkok, Thailand
12/26/2010
. test
Membrane or Mechanism
(Poetry by Breean Lowe)
Membrane or mechanism
is the tide, pulled places.
Sea to bay, bay by breezes,
just as we move on land
toward a view of the city .
reasons not to swim at night
Poetry by Giuseppe Infante
in a cardboard box near the beach’s massive stones rests empty bottles of sugar cane soda or 30 cents for the weekly bottle collector with filth ridden dingy fingernails. ruined vacation in malibu
The Produce Aisle
Poetry by Laurel N.
Do not buy the lettuce
those frothy topped leaves
are festering with bugs.
Soft-bodied caterpillars follow
their jaws dragging their bulging
green weight. Imagine
A Skeptic at Night
Poetry by Lia Greenwell, for Tyler Clementi
When there is heaviness at the end of a day, I sometimes catch myself in
accidental prayer. “God–” my mouth will drop, like a pearl rosary bead falling
from my tongue
Dear OKCupid,
I am married to a man,
and while I am looking more
for a girl to kiss than
“just friends”,
I would appreciate it
if you found a way
to discourage
old Oklahoman dudes
from masturbating
to fantasies
of me traveling
to fuck them
like their wives won’t.
-poetry by Katie Moore SplinterGeneration