1/22/2016 0 Comments 2 poems by Shloka Shankar Loneliness i. is a sound proof room is mind chatter is an invisible bird’s chirp is the rustle of a single dry leaf is drawing the curtains at midday is the clink of your favorite spoon is an uninteresting conversation with the wrong person at the wrong time is the muted hum of the television is filling the bath tub is deep breaths ii. is a black and white polka dotted dress is a monochromatic rainbow is a white scrunchie with loose strands of hair is a ketchup stain on the cushion is fingernail dirt is foxed pages is dark chocolate is a red blanket iii. is petrichor is fresh laundry is peppermint candy is a hint of chicory is the last slice of moldy bread is unwashed hair is a musty room First Drafts i remember how quaintly you looked at me and drew me in with all your fine print, exacting details, combing through weeks of disused senses, curiously combining this and (+) that and rendering you into an easily digestible formula: how wrong i was to think i was done with you. About the author: Shloka Shankar is a freelance writer from Bangalore, India. She loves experimenting with Japanese short-forms of poetry like haiku, senryu, and haibun, as well as found/remixed poetry from time to time. Her poem was nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology in 2015. Shloka is the founding editor of the literary & arts journal, Sonic Boom. You can read more of her work here.
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1/21/2016 0 Comments Photography by Kyle HemmingsTitles:
#1- My Old Watering Hole #2- Extreme Subway Car #3- Fenced #4 - True Colors #5 - The Old Store About the artist: Kyle Hemmings has art work in The Stray Branch, Euphenism, Uppagus, The Bitchin' Kitsch, Black Market Lit, Red Bird Press,Snapping Twigs, and Convergence. He loves pre-punk garage bands of the 60s, Manga comics, and urban photography/art. 1/21/2016 0 Comments 2 poems by Mark Antony RossiBerlin (Personal Sketch, 1989) It was the second day of the Wall a beautiful breech birth fifty years in the making I saw the young and the old laugh, cry and drink to freedom and I saw the grim guards beaten by the multitudes and I walked by and remarked “this is the first time Justice has shown its face in East Berlin.” Cult of Capsules What is a cult but organized unhappiness What are drugs but delayed suicide And what is delayed suicide But justice denied For the emotionally impoverished Is this another slap in the face If self extermination is as laborious As self determination. About the author: Mark Antony Rossi's poetry, criticism, fiction and photography have appeared in The Antigonish Review, Another Chicago Review, Bareback Magazine, Black Heart Review, Collages & Bricolages, Death Throes, Ethical Spectacle, Gravel, Flash Fiction, Japanophile, On The Rusk, Purple Patch, Scrivener Creative Review, Sentiment Literary Journal, The Sacrificial ,Wild Quarterly and Yellow Chair Review. http://markantonyrossi.jigsy.com 1/20/2016 3 Comments 2 Poems by Sarah Frances MoranGenius, Me, God and Zoloft Play Hide n Seek I pull the covers over my eyes every time I read a good poem. Cowering behind equal parts awe and inadequacy. I learned about this thing called Genius from reading a lot of Langston Hughes. But Genius is kind of like God. It shows up when it wants to and even when it does I’m not sure that it’s it. I take Zoloft because sadness runs in my family. I take Zoloft to stifle my Genius. I take Zoloft because my search for Genius leaves me singing Prince songs loudly with my headphones on one minute and then crying on the bathroom floor the next. I take Zoloft because I’m seeking out God. This search scares people. Zoloft keeps me from scaring people. I hide behind Zoloft and… I pull the covers over my eyes whenever I read a good poem because it’s easier sometimes to hide with the things that make you smile rather than sharing them. It’s easier sometimes, that no one knows what makes you smile. My chihuahuas make me smile and when they look at me with concern because my moods are extreme. I wonder, if I should hide them… in a poem. I think I’m figuring out I like to hide things. To keep them safe and… my greatest hiding place is poetry. Even with the fastest 30 second countdown you could never really find me. Let’s hope Genius plays more fairly than God and Zoloft finds the way to keep me hidden. Let’s hope that poetry keeps scaring the fuck out of me. Mama Makowski Makowski. This is what my mother calls herself via text after an afternoon of drinking. She means to call herself Bukowski But even sober her texting skills are poor. She loves Bukowski He makes her think of her father which in turn makes me think of my father And then I drift to that thought that lingers always in the back of my head About fathers And drinking And violence It seems we follow a similar stream if even we didn’t mean to. The only difference is my father is still here and I was able to experience him through my teens long enough to hate a part of him. I find that the emptiness is paralleled though. The longing for something not there. In her case, an actual alive being. In mine, someone I can’t make him be. Mama Makowski and I have our fathers flowing through our veins. We adore them. We fantasize about holding their hands and looking up at them with adulation. A piggy back ride. A stroll through the park. A sincere and quaint sobering conversation over coffee. Small desires, Mama Makowski and I share… An understanding of broken childhoods and even further broken men… Bukowski Booze Bullets and bravado. The stuff fathers are made of and destroyed by. About the author: Sarah Frances Moran lives in Waco, Texas. Some people call her Maurice, cause she speaks of the pompitous of love. Her poems have appeared in Rust+Moth, Drunk in a Midnight Choir, Cobalt Review, Star 82 Review and more. She is the founder/editor of Yellow Chair Review. She may be reached at www.sarahfrancesmoran.com 1/19/2016 1 Comment 3 Poems By Chris D'ErricoAquarian Hustle Consider going to the movies. Establish a safe environment. Use the present moment. Simply do some finger-painting. Get some extra zzz’s. You are the party. Come to A long overdue understanding. You might be more tired and cranky. Enjoy being Part of a crowd. Follow through. Share a new interest. Make it easy. You won’t be Able to socialize the whole day away. Enjoy the one you’re with. Ask yourself what You’re trying to avoid. And why. Order in. Visit with a loved one. Be expressive. Go to a favorite place. Invite friends over for a spontaneous get-together. Someone You inspire listens carefully. Catch a ballgame or a concert. Have some important Information. Decide to go along with the program. Make it your treat. In the limelight Tonight. Offer to help. Make plans in the near future. Give your undivided attention. Make a point. Without triggering others. You would like to change. This. Start acting Like a kid again. Lie low for a few days. You might not feel. As if. You have a choice. The Truth Shirt Get yourself a plain white t-shirt and a fat, red, permanent magic marker. Write TRUTH with the marker on the front of the t-shirt. Write it big, sloppy, chemical letters. Don’t wear it out just yet. Invite some friends over (if it’s true you’ve got some friends), the kind of friends you’d call if you need help moving furniture or a ride to or from the airport. Break into groups and discuss… Whoever sells it best—their info as knowledge, their knowledge as truth--wins that t-shirt, that special prize! Advise the winner. “Wear that shirt all week without washing it.” Go out in public immediately. Wear it weeks, months, whenever, why not. Never wash it, don’t bother. If you desire more white, or the gore of red has faded, remember: bleach won’t hurt, but the fibers might fray. Believe it. In fact, leave it to the losers to launder that shirt. Wash the hell out of its red “permanent” letters. That’s your prerogative, never mind the protest. Make it affirmative. You don’t ever have to do your own laundry anymore, at least not with that stinking shirt. I Am Not Socrates Apparently Socrates was shockingly ugly Supposedly he had questionable hygiene I wash up nice and good Socrates was a sharp wit who liked to hang out With the local shopkeepers His work was talking to everyone I like to go to the mall on weekends Socrates would walk up to folks Ask them deep questions about life I don’t care for small talk, either My therapist tells me that’s textbook ADHD Socrates wanted to find out the truth I sometimes make trouble for the hell of it A free spirit, Socrates didn’t wear shoes He enjoyed going barefoot I have a closet full of footwear Me, I like the feel and support Of comfortable soles under my feet About the author: Chris D'Errico is a poet and musician. His writing has appeared in such eclectic publications as Misfitmagazine, Otoliths, CounterPunch, and Blue Collar Review. His books include: "The Meat Game" (Thunder Sandwich), "Debris Of Hearts" (OffCenter Press), "Vegas Implosions & Exterminator Chronicles” (Virgogray Press) and "Ministry of Kybosh" (Virgogray Press). Among other vocational adventures, he has worked as a short order cook, a doorman, a neon sign-maker's helper, and an exterminator. Born in Worcester, Massachusetts, D'Errico lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. For more visit www.clderrico.com. 1/18/2016 0 Comments And So SaidAND SO SAID One self to the other As if the denuded sky in all its cold starkness As if the breathing of or the new verdancy of spring would wash out your winters or the simple act of saying star would beckon a new brilliance would be enough must be enough to engage the small white flowers of your hand. And small branches produce your days the small blue into bigger blue. One stopped day despairing then turning returning as long as it takes. About the author: Marc Lengfield hails from Florida. 1/17/2016 0 Comments Too Cool to StayToo Cool to Stay
bullets fired against fragmented evenings memories of sand. Main Street’s still shuttered empty days dusty clothes and you too cool to stay. About the author: Rollo Nye is a poet living in New York. He has worked in supermarkets, department stores and universities. His poetry has recently appeared in the "Syzygy Poetry Journal, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., and will soon be published in the Avatar Review and The Red River Review. |
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