Boxing Year By Michael Verderber My heart has been rung dry. My steam all but fizzled and my drive crashed. I feel like every time I turn around, another fist is waiting to land – a collision course trajectory. I am strained, drained, and up against the ropes. Left hook, quick jabs. Rabbit punch. These ropes hold me up and keep me from falling. I wake, no time to train. I wake, the bell rings. Jab, jab, uppercut. Jab to the job. Uppercut to the theatrical. Must keep my head up, can’t drop fists. Can’t leave an opening. Here comes a right hook right to the heart. I brace for more. Side step, quick step back. Bell rings, men to your corner. I breathe for a few hours. I don’t hear a bell but it is back to work. Water bottle full of coffee rejuvenates. Get back up. Get back up! Life goes in for the kill. Hook, hook. He’s got the wingspan. Tears away my feathers. Leaves me flightless and gloveless. This fight is a juggling contest, but I am the pins. In any given second, I will fall. Knees are starting to buckle. Right knee caves under the pressure of the gauntlet. It has got to let up soon, right? Right? About the author: Michael Verderber is a Texas playwright who specializes in writing plays and disjointed poetry. He has three books - “[nonspace]: theatre off the stage” (Fountainhead P), “Twas the FLOP Before Xmas” and “Still Standing Still” (both Sarah Book P) and has been published by VAO Press, The Thing Itself Journal, tNY Press, and others. His plays Libertad and The Problem with Robot Dogs were both staged Off Broadway in New York City and he was the Aug 2014 winner of Playwright’s Express’s "Best Comedy" for his play "GPS" (tie for first) in LA. He may be reached at [email protected]
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2/8/2016 0 Comments 3 poems by Janet CrawfordHope over Fear By Janet Crawford Silent Cold Fear Dripping Imagination Gripping Caress Cajole Embrace Distress Evoke Calm Nightmare Over Eyes Stay Firmly Shut Avoiding Memories Preparing Resilient Thoughts Again. (Author note) This is a take on the idea of a six word story theme as a poem remembering therapy sessions, during a process known as EMDR which re organises memory to take away the instantaneous impact which it can have even years after trauma. Peace was established and memory no longer controlled thinking. This may not be a technically accurate explanation for the therapy but it is the one I can live with day to day . Quiet Moments Listen to the sound around the space you stand in Hear the way it swirls and echoes through the air It transcends your meaning as it invites others in With a sense of belonging it envelopes every being Wrapping them in a protective embrace with a deep understanding of them in that instance Welcoming newcomers and old friends alike The sound is still, yet slowly changing Silence, a peace of mind Or A peace of heart You decide... As you embrace the space that the Quiet surrounding you creates A Look At Love Love isn't cuddly, and squidgy and warm It isn't all gooey, or bright like the dawn It isn't something which you can poke with a stick Without fear of the crumbling effect of each hit. Love is a fluid, fragile, evolving oasis Which we can look for and not find, Even when the view appears perfect in its arrangement Love is answering my questions, especially those I daren't ask, When I let you into the chink in my armour, and you still wish to share my path When I squeeze your hand, with an intensity in my fear, which sharpens your breath before it wipes away my tears Love is the knowledge that my best days and worst nights Will be viewed in equal measure, with sadness or delight By a look or a smile, or a shrug of the shoulder We can tell each other so much, without a word appearing bolder Would you go beyond your comfort zone, if I led you on a mystery? Would you trust me to protect your heart, because of our shared history? Would you be aware that in every situation, and in every instance I'd put our shared opinions ahead of my own existence, To be a part of something bigger, without fear or resistance This to me is Love, my Love, a notion of devotion To be part of a shared, complex situation ahead of my own emotions About the author: Janet Crawford 47 year old Scottish writer, Falkirk based ( the home of the Kelpies ), writes from her heart and hopes her sometimes stirred emotions show clearly through her work making for an enjoyable, thought provoking read . Photo taken By Eddie McEleney Autumn 2015. Whilst reading at a local event. 2/7/2016 1 Comment 3 poems by PW CovingtonLaundromat Blues By PW Covington Friday night 7 or so Washing T-shirts and boxer-briefs Coin operated Clink, Clink, Clink Fat, young, mothers So Beat and beautiful they don’t even know it So blessed, so magic Universal They tell their only babies To “Leave the man alone” As they scoot on the floor Before The Dr. Pepper machine I am the only man in this place And so, I must be danger I must be Lethal I must be washing the cat pee from my yellowing white under-shirts Then, Into the dryer Whoosh, Whoosh, Whoosh I’m sorry, young mothers For defiling this cleaning place This sacred space with my dirty laundry with my searching smile So, I cross the street For some Thunderbird wine And bide my time Outside behind The Laundromat Glug, Glug, Glug Removing stains is never easy I thought I saw Herbert Huncke’s reflection Behind the big, silver, clothes dryer In sheet metal sheen But, it was only me And angelic Beat toddlers And coin operated redemption And Thunderbird wine Value Menu Sometimes, I get too big for the world My problems Worries Fears Grow so large That I must go out Down the street To the fast food shop I will choose an item or two Of some value menu, fried food Just before noon When the line is full With hurried diners On lunch breaks From jobs they hate “2 dollars and 98 cents, please” The counter clerk will say And I will riffle in my pocket To produce quarters, dimes, and nickels, Down to the last three pennies Exact change is the only way this will work It takes a while So, I begin sharing All about the troubles of my day The fears I can exorcize no other way Padding the tale with back-story I mention peoples’ names that no one here knows The “I do not give a fuck” look on the worker’s face Is a god-send, as I lay coins on the counter Line-standers behind me exhaling and shuffling feet Impatiently, unwillingly, receiving my confession Then, instantly, tossing it into the rubbage bins behind them Perspective attained for less than three dollars Less than 400 calories, if I order right Less than two minutes…too long, really, for my fears and minor miseries The fast food workers let me know The line behind me, lets me know And as I lay the last few coins on the counter I smile at the refreshment That comes from no longer Carrying All that Loose change Around I walk away with a paper sack, full of reconciliation My sacrament complete For the Birds I hold no deep Affinity For the small, brown, birds That gather At my red feeder, Hanging by a wire From my front yard pecan But, I spend a portion Of my Air Force pension Every week At the market To buy packaged seed I would miss them, I suppose If I could not hear Their peeps and trills From my sunny, winter, morning Coffee porch About the author: PW Covington's work is inspired by the Beat tradition of the American highway. His short fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart prize, and his poetry has been published by academic journals and underground 'zines. Covington has been invited to read across the Western US, including by the Rio Grande Valley International Poetry Festival and at The Beat Museum in San Francisco. Covington's latest collection of poetry "Sacred Wounds" is published by Slough Press. www.PWCovington.com 2/6/2016 1 Comment Hurt by Jazmen BishopHurt By Jazmen Bishop Every choke got a little harder, his grip felt like he was a pro at this. So silly of me to think it would stop after the first I’m sorry. His words are what made me stay, words that can now be called lies. The hands loosened, and for a while there were smiles but behind the smiles were hurt pain and anguish. Soon the words tightened up and soon they hurt worse than the sweaty hands on my throat. The tearstains turned into permanent bruises. Bruises turned into bad memories and there is no erasing those the bad memories turn into hateful filled holidays. Still I stayed, praying that things would get better. And now what do the kids have to remember their once close-knit family? Silence, silence kills all. About the author: Jazmen Who is 25, has been writing for ten years now. Her favorites are short stories and poetry. All based on life experiences. She hopes that others can learn through her trials and tribulations. She hopes to have her short story collection out by 2017. She currently resides with her children in Virginia and spends every free moment she can get writing and improving her gift. She also runs her own Facebook page called Jaz-Mania. Stop by sometimes she loves to make people laugh. THE PTSD BLUES IN 3 Parts new job less than 6 months back from Afghanistan and I’m losing money fast so when the prison job came along I took it even though my psychiatrist said he could not imagine how I could get better working in that environment I did not understand what he meant the first time I went into an inmate extraction the guards removed a convict in hand and leg cuffs while I treated a young inmate unconscious bloody and swollen with 4 teeth scattered across the concrete floor I remember feeling at home for the first time in months. NOSC Erie I had blown my cool one day at drill and the officer in charge referred me to mental health counseling after that I would get phone calls from chiefs and officers just to check on me and how am I doing and was I OK I was working a third shift job in the County jail and I was only sleeping about 3 hours a day and there was a ringing in my ears that sounded like a telephone and every 4th inmate was a vet who blamed the military or the war for their drug habits and drinking for the assaults or beating their wives after awhile I stopped even pretending to listen it's hard to hear that shit with the sounds of helicopters and wounded soldiers screaming in my ears. bed the cots we slept on in Afghanistan were no wider than your shoulders so I would sleep with my hand on the rail to remind myself not to turn over or I would fall out of my rack 5 years later in a king sized bed I hold onto my wife’s hip at night the bed is bigger but their is so much farther to fall. About the Author: Matthew Borczon is a writer and nurse from Erie, Pa he writes about his experience at camp Bastion, the busiest combat hospital in Afghanistan from 2010-11 and all the problems he has had coming home. His work has been printed in Big Hammer, Rasputin, Dissident voice as well as many other journals and his chap book A clock of Human Bones will be published by the Yellow Chair review in Early 2016. The Years Go On For Years By Marc Lengfield Then in the beginning something fell was fallen like low rain on the forehead, droplets of diminutive bees the release of a hum of wishing for one last game in the end times one last game lasting of elbows and parts. Then in the beginning when the midnighter called when on the scales the wind weighed out its syllogisms, payment for old debts of Saturday afternoons. Then it was the beginning time before the terror dollars rolled up the farmlands before the teleprompter’s secret orders droned the desert. Then it was the beginning yet again an extinction of autumnal stars and one more destiny isolated and purified walking alone along deep highway sheltered in snow flurry. Then it was the time called onset when the gloaming went further, looking sideways to ask "Where are you now my friend and what company do you keep? Whose name lights upon your lips like a small bird closing its wings one simple act of detached faith driving back the last century?" Like you I’ve bet hard at the grasshopper races posed delicately in my declensions given ill to the futures market. One day for me and for you on the skyline an ovate sun blinks its scattered gold down on the valley villagers stroking the necks of black swans and clutching lapis lazuli. In the streets the new people pocketing the implicate order, smoothing out the discrete. When yourself the split bird and one side mute. Everyday breathing slowly at last. In the beginning the timing of a pearled dialectic. And finally the quotidian reprieve. Dead spaces lay themselves down sleeping. One day your heart beating and more intensely The evolution of your shining. About the Author: Marc Lengfield lives in Florida where he teaches Mathematics at a local University. Another Poor Bus Soul By Sinead McKeever The street is still The air is biting My frozen finger tips and nose Causing it to wrinkle The lights on the trees twinkle And you are caught in a small wrinkle Of time A fleeting moment Pause Rewind A red man turns green A small man crosses the street And wonders where the rain went Cracked lips And cracked pavement Cracking open so slowly That no one notices Eventually cracking so wide it will cause a black hole and swallow the whole city inside A smile on the face of a small child Is as beautiful as all the seven wonders The sunset over the city I stand upon hope street And wait for the bus My only hope and wish would be to see you again Maybe if there was a dream street I could meet you there and stand under the stars Like before The stars, they shine But your eyes would have the brightest twinkle Caught in a wrinkle Of time Pause. Rewind You turned a light on in me And I can't switch it off It's a sunny part of my mind Of the daily grind A little star to the planet of my heart But it's becoming too heavy in orbit Great heavy space rubble and star dust Let go I must The streets are dirty and old and bruised Yet somehow brand new and glowing too Buses sail along these streets Holding a host of souls and hopes and dreams In its' seats and overhead compartments and Overheard conversations Mind your head, watch your step on the rickety bumpy ride Careful, don't stare, Or make eye contact with anyone God forbid you connect with another human being Another Poor Bus Soul, We're all tired and old inside, Don't you know? Tired and tied to the bus lanes Don't break any social norms This place is already so forlorn, Take it easy, Sail along The bus knows where to go Watch the world whiz by your window Ding We grind to a halt Don't forget to thank the driver As you step out into the world The cruel world and its' liars We're all freezing cold Shivering in our souls. How strange, To connect with another strange human, In this strange world Walk down this road alone And get on the bus alone One small soul amidst a host of ghosts Sit in the shadowy corner and watch the faces The local, the foreigner All united in the bumpy ride The bus moves swiftly The city sailing by your eyes Get off the bus and go about your life Then get on another bus Maybe number five Drive into the night Deep and black And go somewhere else And never come back About the author: Sinead McKeever is from Northern Ireland, started writing poetry as a young child but hid it very well from teasing siblings. Inspired to write by: walking around Glasgow, especially at night, the beautiful and wild Irish/ Scottish countryside and people, funny things friends and random people say, bad breakups, dodgy student living situations, such as: ceilings collapsing etc. Loves spooky things, maybe because born on halloween. Thinks Glasgow is one of the greatest places on earth. A Misunderstanding By Aria Riding After I left your house I went to a new house. I burned down that house. And the house next to it. And I burned the nine guitars and three organs and keyboards and an antique accordion and a banjo and all the instruments you used to play for me, because I was sick of when you didn't play them for me and they just stood there or hung on the walls or took up all the space I could've used to fill up with my things instead…. And I burned the record collection because I'd spent two weeks alphabetizing it and I'd probably got a couple of them out of order and you wouldn't care enough to double-check if I'd screwed up.... I burned up all the things you didn't notice I'd cleaned, so I wouldn't be resentful that you hadn't noticed.... And the three hundred dollars you'd just taken out of the bank, because you were probably going to spend it mostly on vodka and I would drink slightly less of the vodka than you would…. And I burned up all your computer stuff so you wouldn't have to worry about those fifteen years of music you'd made and just hoarded, you could just take a look at what happens when people don't do something with their work, you know, have ambition to really get it out there. I burned up your procrastination.... And I burnt the cream-colored 1970 Mercedes that had broken on the way home from you buying it for me from a Swedish guy named Malcolm and we just kept it in the yard and had a few picnics in it, and you were going to fix it so I could have a car to drive, and then you didn't fix it and it just sat and sat in the yard and this was such a waste and so I burned it up. Also I burned up the cremated remains of your aunt who had died of breast cancer, who your family had divvied up and given you a little of her and you were keeping her in an Altoids tin, and I was getting addicted to her, smoking her, and she was burnt up anyway, and is again. And I burnt up the mummified cat you found under the housebecause seriously, the way you had it hanging in a frame, it really wasn't all that symmetrical. I made sure to burn up everything any of your ex's might have given you..... I made sure to burn up all the unicorns because the unicorn thing was never going to stop otherwise. I made sure to burn up your collection of identical red suitcases, because really, what you do, I'm just stopping you from hoarding. Same thing with that collection of identical brown button-up shirts, and the Switched On Bach record, you had twelve of those, how am I supposed to alphabetize twelve of the same thing. With F: for fire. I burned down our house so we could have fun thinking of songs with the word Fire or Burn in them, but there are none, and I was going to reference every single one of them here but instead: I burnt them. I burned down our house and our bed. I burned down the house so all the songs about fire could have special meaning for you and me, but I burnt all the meanings along with the house and the songs. And I made sure we could spend a lot of time in thrift shops getting identical suitcases in a color you liked better than red. I know you didn't like red very much. I made sure to burn up all my red clothes, actually I burned up all of my clothes, every single stitch, in case maybe you thought some of it wasn't that flattering and you weren't telling me. You always said you liked me better without a bra. I burned up your clothes too because it is really superficial, how much you care about having a particular unique style. And I burned up fifteen years’ worth of journals I'd kept, notebooks I'd filled up, because I didn't want you to read them, even though I don't think you would ever read them, I could have left them all open for you on the floor and you wouldn't have peeked, but just in case you wouldn't be able to keep my family from reading them after I died, I made sure to burn them up. Because I'm not always sure you can protect me from other people getting to my secrets, so I burned up that unrealistic expectation. And I burned all the photos of my dead grandma I had loved so much, and the photos of me as a child, and the photos of happy times I may have had once, so you wouldn't be hurt because I'd loved people other than you and had happy times with people other than you. I burned up the little blue plastic bunny-face ring from a vending machine, that I'd given to my grandma and she'd worn it until the day she died, and then I got it back but I didn't want you to be hurt because I might have liked this ring just as much as any wedding ring you might have picked out. Look, I even burned up the porch where we'd put out the bowl of food for the stray kitty to eat but then the raccoons would come up on the porch with their big pink rat noses and eat all the food, and so now there isn't a porch so we don't have to chase off the raccoons so the stray kitty can have her food. The stray kitty is out in the bushes, the scorched black bushes, I burned them up too, I'm sorry I didn't burn up the stray kitty, but she wasn't really yours, and she'll be stronger now that she has to find her own food somewhere, and just deal with this and adapt. I burned down your house to help you adapt. But it was still all a misunderstanding. About the author/artist: Aria Riding is a name once used by my sister. I started using it, to change how people thought of the stories when I performed them. Then several people began to perform stories, saying they were Aria Riding. I then started using the name to help publish the stories of friends of mine who have various forms of madness, who cannot handle the horrible grind of submitting stories themselves. Aria Riding is now being used by several writers of different genders, persuasions, mental health states, and ethnic backgrounds as a solidarity project. Through this experiment, she is trying to write a more complete author. Recent publications include Gargoyle Magazine, Atticus Books, The Adirondack Review, etc. A. Riding is the author of "The Exhibitionists," a series of interconnected triggers, or stories about the unspeakable present: the things we suppress, and continue to do while denying that we do them. Riding never goes out, is never seen, but her emissaries run Psychomachia Theater, a fringe space showcasing underrepresented/innovative arts/performance/letters (Seattle) and the dissident art/performance/butoh group Danse Perdue: website: www.lostdance.com. Seething In a mornings misty gloom filled with a violet haze and a hateful, violent phrase. Walking reviled hallowed grounds of this faceless waste of a town, a graveyard bench, seething of stench, in the winter's hush, enraged bristling brow as the fairies dance. A demure romance, in the winter's flush, cascading downy boughs by the graveyard bench, the ruby lips grimace while my teeth clench; muted swans chaste. About the author: Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet/Author/Digital Artist originally from Hampton New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He has been writing for many years and enjoys hiking, playing guitar and spending time with his cats Merlin and Willa. His published work can be found at numerous print venues including: http://whispersinthewind333.blogspot.com/ https://leastbitternbooks.wordpress.com/ http://promomanusa.wix.com/ http://www.indianavoicejournal.com/ http://tuckmagazine.com/ 2/1/2016 1 Comment 4 poems by Nick RomeoBattery The alarm detonates In my skull Spurring sunlight To punch my face I crawl out Into the bathroom Into the kitchen Slithering into the clothes I laid out the night before Near the coffee maker I calibrated To erupt simultaneously Within this disaster area Supercharged jet fuel With color & consistency Of the La Brea Tar Pits An attempt to reverse the Benadryl Melatonin Warm milk Mixed with ZzzQuil Compensating for bed sheets of Poisoned Ivy Pillow stuffed with broken glass Dreams of gremlins gnawing my face I down my breakfast: Cardboard-flavored power shake I pack up my lunch: Overripe cold cuts on stale bread With a moldy apple I’m ready to go I’m already late To the windowless dungeon So I can be put in stocks And flogged for nine hours Keys, wallet, cell phone, Along with yesterday’s mail And several poems I’m reworking Thrown into my backpack Thrown onto my back Thrown into the car Along with myself I turn the key I try again Battery is dead Nanotech Rug Cutting Mister McAfee spent endless hours in his lab, studying nanotechnology, and training interns. He always felt stuck inside an infinite time loop entanglement. One day he took a cab, holding one suitcase, wearing goggles and lab coat. He traveled a strait line to the goth club, “The Crusty Tomb.” The girls with the corsets and fishnets loved his costume. The music pulsed DYM and Diverje. The crowd bounced around like photoelectric particle waves as he was their nucleus. “Don’t worry – I’m a scientist!” he said at a high frequency. The power surged. Silence, Darkness. He now lives under a new name, Professor Paradox. He is their DJ, and manager. You're Boring, Your Friends are Annoying, and it's Cold Outside No, I’m not going to your Super Bowl party. Cradle friends of mine said “we’re going to play some baseball” I believed them I didn’t notice the shovels I can’t see, can’t move my skin burns, bones throb phone, shoes, wallet are gone vital liquids drench my clothes I try to slow my pulse saving the air in my lungs I writhe, bend, shake dirt spills into the gaps formed worms burrow in my nose drinking fluids for survival they slide across my face preparing their home I feel vibrations - a pounding they jump up and down I open my mouth to scream more earth seals the space I hear their laughter my friends stand above having their fun while I'm here still here About the Author: Nick Romeo is a multidisciplinary artist, musician and writer. His writings have been published in “The Brentwood Anthology, by Pittsburgh Poetry Exchange,” Uppagus, Rune, StreetCake Magazine, Eye Contact, Syzygy, and others. He was interviewed for Pankhearst's Fresh Featured poet of December 2015. Nick lives in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania with his wife and cat, Megatron. www.pittsburghartistregistry.org/accounts/view/nickromeo |
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