 If You're Thinking About Shoveling the Collagen off Your Bones, Don't Another night, another midnight walk. Tonight the snow in Buffalo feels like collagen, Big and beautiful flakes holding my body together. It's bulk garbage day on Richmond Ave. And there are a bunch of dirty mattresses on the side of the street. I smoke a cigarette and watch one mattress Become slowly covered up by the snow. It makes me think of intimacy, How sometimes it grows cold. I'm half-tempted to drag it into the middle of the street And brush it off, show the world that it's still a good mattress, That you can still make love on it. Suddenly I hear crying and a language I don't understand. Across the street, in front of a church, There's this old man talking on the phone. I stare at him in silence until I feel rude. I start kicking the mattress and don't know why. Maybe it's the distance between all of us. Later on, in front of Milkie's, I run into Mike Sentman Who hosts the open mic there. He introduces me as a great poet to his brother And asks if I want to read. It feels nice to be complimented, but I decline, Tell him I'm thinking, that I'll read next week. I light up another cigarette and walk home. The snow still feels like collagen, But the wind's blowing harder now.  Bio: Justin Karcher is the author of Tailgating at the Gates of Hell from Ghost City Press, http://ghostcitypress.tumblr.com/gcp003, the chapbook When Severed Ears Sing You Songs from CWP Collective Press, https://www.cwp-press.com/#/when-severed-ears-sing-you-songs/ and the micro-chapbook Just Because You've Been Hospitalized for Depression Doesn't Mean You're Kanye West from Ghost City Press, https://gumroad.com/l/karcher2017, as part of their 2017 summer micro-chapbook series. His recent work has appeared in Foundlings, Cease,Cows, Thought Catalog, varsity goth, Occulum and more. He is the Editor-in-Chief of Ghost City Review. His one act play When Blizzard Babies Turn to Stone premiered in February at Alleyway Theatre in Buffalo, NY. He tweets @Justin_Karcher.
8/31/2017 The Art of Leaving by A.D. Hurley The Art of Leaving Suddenly, words seemed inadequate. All the rehearsed speeches, agonizing over every utterance, where the inflection was placed, how the tone could be perceived, countless hours in front of the mirror practicing facial expressions-it was all for nothing. Now, the words spun around in my head like tumbleweed across a barren desert landscape. I tried to lock on something solid from my scripted monologue, but nothing seemed concrete enough to stop the words from spinning recklessly and bumping into one another in a jumbled mess. Pieces of it would float by, “It’s not you, it’s me,” or “I think we should see other people.” But each time the words drifted by, I’d fail to grasp them and throw them out there. The words seemed so pale. So used. I was acutely conscious of the precious moments ticking by. Moments wasted on incoherent thought and inaction. I opened my mouth and closed it again; the words I planned to speak choked off by your angry expression and reddened face. I’d seen the look so many times before it was hard to imagine your face looking any other way. The anger had made a permanent scar; it had left its mark- not only on you, but on me. There was a secret place inside me that loved it. Not in the moment, but after. Your face would redden, and fists would fly, and I would retreat into a shell until the storm had passed. And it always would. My retreat would be short lived and every second after would be blissful. Tender kisses would caress fresh bruises and grand gestures would sweep me off my feet once again. I’d convince myself that the moments between were worth every blow. For, in those moments I felt like a queen. You’d lay the world at my feet on a platter of immeasurable intimacy and steal my breath away like the day I first met you, over and over again. But things became different. The blows were harder, more severe. When it was over I would wait for the kisses that never came. I found myself staring in the mirror more frequently at a black and blue, unrecognizable face. Even then, I relished the beatings. The anticipation of love still lingered, even though it never came. With every strike of your fist I expected your passion to reemerge in some way new. It was the nurse who convinced me to end it. There was something about her- a sweet soul with liquid painkillers and a light touch. “You deserve better, honey,” the nurse said. Then she shot my line with morphine and stroked me gently. The world tilted and swayed and the fringes of my vision were fuzzy white. The nurse kissed my broken place. The doctor called it an orbital lobe. She kissed it harder, harder, until the weight of her lips hurt beneath my morphine haze. “Why would you want to be treated that way?” She whispered fiercely. Then her healing fingers snaked beneath the blankets, under my gown, and between my lips, the drugs coursing through my veins, and the nurse loving me, then hurting me, then loving you as she rode your cock right there in the hospital room with consciousness playing a game of tug of war over my mind. That’s when I saw. When I planned. When I knew. I left the hospital and my bruises healed. I looked in the mirror and saw a whole face. Unblemished, unbruised. I missed the bruises. I missed the nurse with the healing hands. I missed your reddened face and your fists of fury. But they were busy with the nurse. I could hear your moans coming from the other room and would watch with a torture only I could enjoy and loathe at the same time. The nurse was right. I deserved better. So, I practiced my speech. I practiced all the right words. Inflection and tone were rehearsed in the mirror. “I can’t be with you anymore.” Once I said the words, there was no turning back. I would never again see your beet-red face of anger or a battered face looking back at me in the mirror. I wouldn’t have to batten down the hatches and prepare for your perfect storm of anger. Your kisses and apologies would never come. This would be your last grand gesture. When I handed you my house keys, and you saw my packed bags, no words were needed. I wanted to say them still. I needed to say them. But your face mottled and your fists flew and the words I practiced wouldn’t come. Minutes ticked by as I felt your fists pummel my cheek, head, ear, and neck. The words fell in my head like shattered fragments of glass and I felt myself hit the floor. Your feet pounded my ribs, back, and stomach, bones crunched and tissue bruised and blood pooled inside my belly. I heard the shriek of the nurse, “You’re killing her!” And your persistent, farewell blows. Finally, you stopped. As darkness closed in, I smiled. I smiled at your discolored and worried face, and exhaled my last breath to the nurse’s painful kisses.  Bio: A.D. Hurley lives in the scenic mountains of North Georgia, with her large brood of children, a fantastically domesticated husband, and two dogs. She is a poet, writer, associate editor for Ariel Chart Literary Journal, and artistic photographer. Her poetry, prose, and photography can be found in a number of literary journals and anthologies published across the globe.
8/30/2017 Poetry by Kristin Garth Pensacola/Houston What makes me wet kills three small states away. The same atmospheric release of waste that escalates against my roof and plays a rhythm damp inside that I can taste can turn a living room into a tomb. Desire and death in drizzled droplets from the same gray sky. Trickle tickle that blooms my lust entombs and traps in Texas. Drums against my sundress in a shower, peeled off, naked nipples amidst some trees while people pray for boats of men who yield their path to food and light. The unheard pleas of those in chairs on counters that still drown. While I am wet with pleasure, won't be denied, some float inside their houses that have died. The Weed You spot me from a distance, tender's eyes. A thistly, thirsty thing, petals perfect just so sadly small, stem too thin to rely on for support. You save because you must. To nurture, collect petaled pretties your purview. My gardener transplants, at best, a project to his box amidst "les fleurs" you watch then whisper to in French and bless. Experiment you hope to elevate and educate. Exotic window mates, the bitter beauties I bask between, berate the common sprout your eyes appreciate. A weed once watered, hoped to make a bloom, you pluck, without guilt, when you need the room.  Bio: Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola, Florida. In addition to Anti-Heroin Chic, her sonnets and other writing have been featured in Quail Bell Magazine, Occulum, Mookychick, Infernal Ink, Digging Through the Fat, SCAB, Society for Classical Poets, Moonchild Magazine and more. She’s currently working on a poetry chapbook project entitled Pink Plastic House: Three Stories of Sonnets.
8/30/2017 Poetry by Peter Marra she detests the side of caution (the tattooed vulva complex) they are growing things in the garden behind her house. so beautiful. they hide angry faces constantly judging me. i first noticed them in July. the black night heat stuck to me and wrapped itself around me. obscene yet thrilling. so beautiful. She’s so beautiful. Black crippled fingers of the evening forced their way down my throat. She had her dreams stolen. One more confession, tales of neurotic love affairs: we exchanged dialogues. no one was sure of the identity of the narrator. we had our dreams stolen. that’s why we fell in love. hard crash. rising, spitting out ashes. sometimes we can’t explain our own wants and/or cravings. she felt ashamed and couldn’t speak of past actions. her fingers trembled every time her favorite thought resurfaced. her mouth was dry and the shadow behind her laughed when it appeared in front of her. “aim slowly and touch me. Wiggle your ass and they’ll tongue it,” she said. “the bullets missed by a hair but they still missed and i’m here to watch the assailants die slowly. laughter is my favorite thing. interior monologues of the unbalanced. damaged goods. guilty parents.” Magick words or faces were imprinted deep inside her. they transmitted messages of unknown origin and hateful consequences. our pain was perfect. it’s strange to hold something like that. rapid shots. darts of pain. sexy specific. she pushed his head through the windshield. in this forest, no one knows. my sexual fantasy is her mouth, her soul and her shoes. we exchanged knowing looks but his eyes were blank. under my eyelids, cracked mirrors appeared. glass reflects in double negative. a blur of speed puncturing the brain. She fondled Time as she dangled it in front of her eyes. “get the purpose of her touch,” she said. Raised Skirts: She Adored the Famine Caused by her Return she took an oath: “tomorrow night we’ll kiss during the ceremony derived from the ancient religions, so old that no one knows their origin.” pierce the flesh of the heroin soaked sky did you know she died from a broken heart? she needed Bipolar Disorder everyone watched the movies of me and her erotic eyes blank vomit please open the cell door. I want to leave No one believes her the acid is burning through my head Another inauguration of a pleasure dome she spoke again: “please bless me later the sand dune harbors pools of gore upside down chalices black in nature plodding puddling clotted read the news on the teleprompter we’re staring at the Holy Land” she stopped talking sequestered by the benevolent shade of the monastery she licked the leather figurines that we will worship tomorrow next life unknown until now after the mirror was shredded she compared a mosaic of her own face to mine she kissed the visage 7 times (magickal) she saved one shard to contact god she painted her fury with accents of gore self-immolation was the only way out to be free of possessions and people a slight reward for so much pain (she earned it, she thought) random acts of kindness recorded digitally: scarab beetles fuck in raw moonlight then carry the sun away before they enter the vaginas of origin faces of rage smiles of death atropism dilated pupils kiss the belladonna Vegas showgirls slowly fading no messages. this time. our home is pain. the silent enlargement of previously defined organs was the delirium and delusion that she felt growing under her leather skirt a rustle of vengeance between her legs she adored watching pornographic images or taking photos of the others until her fever pitch resulted in self-fucking or the creation of unknown artistic works a fractured violin suspended from the ceiling resonated from her panting and moaning when she woke up she sensed something under her fingernails: some raw flesh and the love she had gouged out of his chest keep quiet she told herself. just another disappointment. no one must know about the miscellaneous twining plants and tendrils the rotating odors that emanated from revolving orifices. the things she felt guilty about. the loss of self. I don’t have friends but that’s ok She executed the rites of Ablution- symptoms: a difficulty. have no conscience. the ceremonial act was performed – she washed all parts of her body. locked herself in a sacred container. while inside. she. ran her fingers, freshly cleansed, through pubic hair freshly trimmed. the wings of the lightning bugs were illuminated the thick air caressed her face -relentless meditation – she let forth a golden shower from her urethra then kissed the rings of lunar sores her urine – a cold light of golden ecstasy- was used to create new palettes of color she sat between a wrecked auto and a slaughtered television set licking her fingers, she lied to the magician as he engaged in self-surgery – trepanning is a difficult task- she made razor thin slices of his face paper thin deli-meat suddenly he was no longer alive suddenly she felt alive as she never had before please open the doors to the slaughterhouse. I want to see them inside. No one understands me. Victims whine too much. pangs awoke the crown of thorns was snug dancing warmth of blood droplets a single scream of 3 minutes’ duration bounced off distant trees finally becoming embedded in brick walls a cat-o-nine-tails that she carried lacerated a quantity of skin this caused many orgasms. 90% were her own. afterwards each flagellant attempted suicide. all failed. bacteria were donated to a local church. the penitents removed their loin cloths and kissed the footprints of the nameless women he removed his mask (it tasted almost human) and deposited it in the nearest open grave. fluid burning. smells like semen. vaginal machines running overtime were heard in the distance. another death in the toy factory. urethral manic mutterings. a study in depravity. orifice panic. open the door and here are the people! Chuck Berry finally died. his harvest was smuggled in. sequestered under her flaming leather mini-skirt and deposited in front of the eyeless gods panting for the taste of fresh grapes raped by piss how good is the sex? when you have nothing else to say we’ll tear up the newspapers and brand ourselves with the headlines i know i’ll die alone as the burning orchestra eats itself and the patrons of the arts retch at the stink of their own cum she viewed more explicit crimes or took photos of the others until her fever pitch resulted in self-fucking or the creation of unknown artistic works a limbless torso suspended from the ceiling resonated from her panting and moaning there was a rustle of vengeance between her legs we’ll visit the graves of the fascists and shit on their monuments and slit the throats of their descendants we’ll perform necromancy on their crucified victims just another worthy cause: the paraplegics will amputate their legs and walk once more walk once more no. not always. the faces of the cliff served as a home for the mortal brides who were laughing because they got fucked without their husbands’ knowledge the sacrament of cuckoldry caused their exile. now they’ll fuck unknown figures of random shapes and sizes the peacock was raped next to the marble statue that was holding an iron rose used later to pierce the flesh of the heroin soaked sky she felt her female face and caressed dilated full lips and tasted mascara she felt her male face and detected dancing lice and parched lips she lay down in the oasis next to the chanting hookers she eviscerated the card sharks in the casino royal flush of blood and cum. if anyone moved she twisted the knives until she heard the sickly squish this will be our night this will be our love did you know she died from a broken heart? in the backyard one could hear monochrome words describing her passions she was mummified and the moon was hurt she closed her legs carefully under a photographic negative of a dog panting under the sun insects made a slow journey along a trail of embryos the buzzing was lovely and incessant echoing voices my sounds of my mother frozen mouths in agony she removed more flesh each slice paper thin alarming witnesses and an alarming wetness between her legs it was obvious esoteric intricacies of sexual intimacies the monkey gods dictated a rhyme of pleasure voices silence voices broken glass mounds of flesh kneaded by blind ancient languages veil of touch ebony haired bloodless flesh red lizard red lipped spurts woven into walls of pain skin wails stop fighting lay down to please her she said “i’ll nail your hands to the wall if that helps.” good people die slowly under parental guidance (in the landscape) paralyzed eyes all. sins are counted. then distributed equally. we went too far for any solace. kiss me quick. they all have that disease we spoke about when we were hanging out in the park behind the church it’s the familiar odor once more. the one that makes her drool. she ran off to play among the trees. she limped back all smiles, all red-wet. tresses all damp sour smelly “they have that disease. you know the one we whispered about behind the peepshow. the priests were watching. but they’re silent now. fitful slumber.” the raw meat of her visions cooled into a black rainbow. she began to oscillate. I need Bipolar Disorder. I need Schizophrenia. I need her paraphilias. A serial killer will seek enlightenment any way she can. did you know she died from a broken heart? “Please open the cell door. Bring me the heads of the jailers, Make sure their eyes are removed so they can’t see me as I fondle them.” did you know she died from a broken heart? there is nothing unusual: post traumatic shock and the benefits of its aftermath a slip of the tongue or of knives of love and some objects that are misplaced. this latest estimate suggests that’s just how the world feels at the onset of schizophrenia. her sensuality condemned: just inject some more pharmaceutical preparations, that fixes the problem with (beneficial catatonia). neat and tidy. try not to gag, my lovely. it’s coming back up. kick started. the rooms breathe, then walls whisper to each other. they speak of the woman who cast no shadows. her eyes are scarred, then scared. then removed by her own hands. she will describe herself without sound as an entity apart from ourselves. she will live a life of pleasantries, being held in the wet jaws of a synthetic mongrel. “let’s do it now” the clocks stopped. “please join her in the attic” up the stairs. “watch your head.” she felt her hands delighting in humiliating, cruel, and objectifying behaviors, avoiding trauma-related cues as she gave a poor performance in the war zones. they say it’s a little bizarre and to take it slow, slowly, but it will go away. the cancerous hurdy-gurdy will convulse as we mate. this will be the culmination this will be the mutation of our elements of love that will have come to pass, taking up residence in the mausoleum of a diagnosis. /a cell of diagonals with broken circles break my mind with the slash of the mirror/ break our circles crash our cycles generate a prototype of decaying style: 2 figures in opposite corners of a room that disappears. latest symptoms of a pattern: people exacerbated the psychotic motivations, as sexual aromas aroused her dopamine. the fear latched into screaming flesh. nails digging deep as the body walked away, abandoned the reward and pleasure centers. the numerous appendages were clawing at iron gates, leaving the soul bare, leaving the soul nailed to a pane of glass. iron piercing air, tasting guilt. go to sleep. cover it up. go away. screams from the back of the throat are mixed with the remnants of last evening’s saliva. the surgery didn’t help. the trance didn’t heal. these generations will die and the edging of her behavior just taunts her purity. neon nightingales carry our hearts away breaking the chains of restraint never to return. the vixen screams before initiating the chase, while porcelain mannequins lick themselves furiously, under the watchful eyes of the theoretical nymphomaniacs who hover over the moths aflame. (Sensations, Unsteady Hands: Multiple Episodes of Shock-O-Rama)
a trip on the bad ship lollipop (a child’s introduction to Charles Manson) hiding in a ‘68 Oldsmobile that obscene gas pig just like my dad owned the shit-car he constantly bitched about a product of the Detroit auto industry at its finest in the front seat while speaking to females seductively situated in the back seat the father next to me disappeared. Sweet thrills shooting up the spines As she and I celebrated our delusions of grandeur (3 women, disappearing. left me…left the car… i passed out tattooed as abandoned… white medicinal… caused clear liquid puke projectile i left…my body for an undetermined period of mucous flex-time came to i punched the accelerator with my left hand and in the process, fractured a couple of digits) Alpha 60 satisfied its reproductive urges: cold wires of computer circuitry LED’s flickering rising in a convulsion as lovers often do rising up to massage heterosexual flesh remnants becoming a hoarse voice declaring its love for the unmistakable smell of female the final Strange Adventure of Lemmy Caution we went in reverse tearing through leaves squishy noises felt soft bodies crushing underneath car stopping with a thud she was peering up through the windshield heavenly creatures rising from the last apocalypse they used pussy juice and other excretions to coat my face and eyelids “you are so sweet baby baby” me intact glass intact a whirly noise from flames in the distance through an obverse puncture in a failing picture window we can see the driveway chain-link gate off its hinges those figures are coming towards me again their purpose was not to help but to hurt “your pain is so sweet baby baby” neighbors buzzing their wings were pulled off fire now low in between the flight patterns of masturbating bees they were speaking and telling me to hide lonely people go to live in huts in the snow now there’s an audible touch of snowflakes but she can't feel them because there are no windows we cannot fabricate both stories in a weird garden touch the black irises of words and the emotions that strangle the peeping toms attach a wire and please hoist me towards the plastic blank moon (chemical teens redux) savages fucked and spit out children in suburbia behind the expressway and near the department stores they created their destiny of the knives while parents sipped wine laced with iron filings the amoebas stood up and became her new cunt fur as it approached the magnetic zone wrap yourself in the American flag with added gun hole ventilation better than a Fedder’s Air-Conditioner spend time screaming at the cenotaphs Uncle Sugar crashed into the L.A. trip Lady Liberty drew her tongue slowly through the fields of dead grass August 10 1969 NYC Daily news headline: “ACTRESS AND 4 SLAIN IN RITUAL” These words terrified a 10-year-old in Brooklyn, New York mommies shook their heads in disbelief daddies sucked off .44 calibers because it was the day the American paradigm shifted Satanico Pandemonium Go-Go girl crucifixions were becoming popular entertainment while Cielo and Waverly Drives panted and writhed run your nails through it: sperm-shot-cunt prime victims for prime pinups became apparent lining the landscape etched into a skyline that was turning paler by the minute true desert getting further away under the acid-morphed glare of the leader of the garbage people the fabricator of a family for those abandoned “The Love and Terror Cult The man who was their leader The charge of multiple murder The dark side of hippie life” Life magazine panted and drooled. split it. Spit it. Bring it down slow we’ll take it better than you the red stuff on the walls and the words misspelt accusing existence neurotransmitters that have been spinning or swaying for this fractured moment of a delirious movement jacked vertigo into position licking the remnants of the My Lai massacre with their secondhand tongues trembling news footage B&W and color push it up and in and twist for a self-fulfilling prophecy "now baby" became Satanic on the home stereo system, just like me or you. love comes toward me. delusions of grandeur just simple switchblades walking through the brain’s thin rivulets creating moments of pain or pleasure incidental madwomen licking their lips and sharing translucence under the drop of the methedrine snowflakes this is how it will be after the cameras start to roll and the performers flagellate themselves for the motley pleasures of a condemning public felicity burning under a mesh of black nylon napalm dancing caged women Shindig Sunset A: becomes Sunset B: lose the clothes and lose the keys do not disturb beats beating beaten She holds light under her tongue She holds the sweat in the back of her throat Thank you, darkness for hiding me  Bio: Peter Marra’s writings explore alienation, addiction, the misuse of love, the curse of secrets, the pain of victimization and the impact of multi-obsessions. He is in love with the Three Mothers that sprung from the hallucinations of Suspiria de Profundis by Thomas de Quincey. He has been scarred by his past quests and he has been manipulated by trash culture and fine art. He is a byproduct of the films of Roger Corman and Russ Meyer. Peter has had over 300 poems published either in print or online in over 25 journals. His published works include approximate lovers (downtown materialaktion) (Bone Orchard Press) and an e-chapbook, peep-o-rama (Hammer & Anvil Books available through Amazon – soon to be re-issued in hardcover). Peter’s latest work is the poetry collection Vanished Faces (a performance of occult infections) published by Writing Knights Press.
 Loneliness Turned Britney Spears into a Saint Yesterday morning I ignored my libido And instead ate a bowl of generic cheerios The banana I cut up into little pieces and put on top was bruised Like the boxer who goes up against Mayweather And it all made sense to me Celibacy is like giving anorexia to your dick Does saying that make me misogynistic? I can't tell sun from moon anymore Does saying that make me a vampire? Nevertheless, my depression is evolving in strange and interesting ways Now every bar I go to feels like the Galapagos And every person I talk to is a giant sea tortoise Some of them really get me going Some of them have brunette hair Some of them have eyes that burn islands into my throat So that every time I speak it's never whole Never a landmass of language and thought Just a scattering of green in a silo of blue Evolution is being honest with yourself I'm okay being alone, I'm happy about it I've been seeing this girl for a while I'm a blimp who likes being grounded But I miss going up in flames Last night Aidan recalled the smell of factories And how the stars looked way back when We laughed, told him he was born in the 90s That he's full of shit He laughed too But there was an empty glass in front of him So maybe it wasn't that funny after all I kept trying to lock eyes with this girl Who has pinwheels for feet Who was wearing a dress of old Vogue covers Sometimes she looks like a garden Who has transformed into a human We all have our issues and some of us wear them well Another night of waiting for America to burn to the ground Another night of watching bouncers drink coffee Another night of watching them build bird baths outta fake IDs Another night of binoculars getting drunk and vomiting on street corners Another night of us sifting through the muck And getting a closer look at our endangered parts Another night of going home blind, putting on the news And trying to fall asleep And sometimes while you're shaking You'll hear your next door neighbors coming home drunker than you are And loudly singing Britney Spears "My loneliness is killing me" The Catholic in you is still going strong Sometimes you'll wake up in the middle of the night And build crosses outta q-tips Sometimes there's this voice begging you to come back home The voice will tell you that you need to evolve by any means necessary Or you will be killed  Bio: Justin Karcher is the author of Tailgating at the Gates of Hell from Ghost City Press, http://ghostcitypress.tumblr.com/gcp003, the chapbook When Severed Ears Sing You Songs from CWP Collective Press, https://www.cwp-press.com/#/when-severed-ears-sing-you-songs/ and the micro-chapbook Just Because You've Been Hospitalized for Depression Doesn't Mean You're Kanye West from Ghost City Press, https://gumroad.com/l/karcher2017, as part of their 2017 summer micro-chapbook series. His recent work has appeared in Foundlings, Cease,Cows, Thought Catalog, varsity goth, Occulum and more. He is the Editor-in-Chief of Ghost City Review. His one act play When Blizzard Babies Turn to Stone premiered in February at Alleyway Theatre in Buffalo, NY. He tweets @Justin_Karcher.
8/29/2017 Poetry by Joshua Mcgarry Waiting on Explosions The mortar shell crash- landed on the couch nestled in the moldy green velvet, between your sprawled legs. Did not explode. We stared the way we stared at the television, the room was quiet, the room will continue to be quiet even as a light drizzle comes through the hole taps its way into our rotten foundation. I will pour us more margaritas, Salt or sugar? Salt, always salt as you collect small things, a soft blanket, your smallest shirt, a wig off a costume. assemble these things and the bomb into a thing you can cradle in this room where Wheel of Fortune’s always on, and I pour us martinis. Maybe You hope it will begin to cry. We will stay quiet, as you paint eyes, as I pour More neat shots, make it triple as you draw a small face In lipstick, a crack in the steel makes a mouth you spoon full of tender mashed fruit, you will look up, I will pour more drinks , we will stay quiet, we will stare at each other, we are waiting for someone to blink, maybe the bomb, we are waiting as we light Tarrytans, we are waiting, waiting as we watch the lighter Strike sparks. Night in the Slaughterhouse District Tenement Apartment Complex: 3am In a top floor studio the painter licks the blood off his knuckles, the painting of a non-reflective mirror is wrong again, there is another fresh hole in the wall another fist shaped hole of frustration and the canvas is black. Brush scratchings catch the dim bulb. His boyfriend sleeps on the futon, the painter too wants to sleep, knows he can’t as he wraps his hand in a layer of gauze. Then he stretches a fresh canvas, and gathers himself for another leap. A drop of blood rolls across the palette. The vibrations of a passing train form ripples in the paint * The roof is full of dance steps and spilled beer. The lovers fuck. They tangle their bodies into unfamiliar shapes, trying to make this pretend real then unwind into the lighting of cigarettes, smolder springing from one to the other in an ashmouthed kiss. Quietly, smoke and sightlines drift over the edge. On its side one can reads Nonalcoholic. Duke Ellington jazz strolls out of an open window two floors down. * The needle catches in the pitted slab, the only light is the moon reflected off of the wax, but the piano keeps casting its shadow over the young woman her body pressed tight against the plaster, shrinking. A frozen steak over an eye hides everything the music doesn’t. There’s an airless moment between tracks, then the tender brass announces Star Crossed Lovers. * Through the glass thin walls someone stirs to the fanfare, but stays asleep. In his dream he makes a phone call and gets an answer Yes, Yes I’m here and it’s okay. I’m long gone. He hangs up and lingers for a moment, the honeyed memory of dark skin hangs in the air, before the scene snuffs out. * like the Rosemary candle that lights a letter one floor up. Dear…. I should say father, I can’t say father, I don’t think I ever will. I need help, What is the price of help? A small doodle of Sputnik orbits the words, caught in the gravity of broken connections * Preparing to leave before light, someone slaps eggs and toast into a pan. The fire off the range illuminates wrinkles that she swears weren’t there yesterday, but she whistles anyway, carrying on the night’s score where Duke left off. On her plate the yolks run like slow dawn. Deterrence Theory She stands there, naked in the open window, in the after- math. back to me as I fill two glasses, cold like the wind in the bare branches outside, the wind on her bare nipples. In a minute she will turn, behind her eyes there are silos, screens showing not love movies but launch codes. she knows what lies behind my gaze. In a minute the light will flare plutonium oranges growing in the branches their peels blooming into mushroom clouds, and against the white world we will clink our glasses as our Geiger counters gargle, click chirp, like crickets worshiping the blast. A Lebkuchen* Split in half smells of ginger and cloves, of holidays fills the small living room like the delicate light from the open winter windows. I do not know that is this the first sweet bite my grandfather has touched in four months, have not yet heard of the cancer and chemotherapy the stories, that don’t drip through The receiver, him on morphine bedbound, writhing with hallucinations. Hair is only now returning moth thin to his head. Right now this does not matter as we share the, warmth and ginger that fill the soft brown corners of the room. *A type of German cookie eaten around Christmas time. Bio: Joshua Mcgarry is a poet working on his MFA at Old Dominion University. Originally from Wetzlar, Germany, he now lives in Norfolk where he writes, reads, and collects too many records. He has been published both online and in print with: Ekphrastic Review, DoveTales, and Boston Accent Lit. 8/28/2017 Artwork by Jennifer Martelli Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board  She Has Always Been With Me  Spirit Photo  Outside a Small Circle of Friends  Bio: Jennifer Martelli’s debut poetry collection, The Uncanny Valley, was published in 2016 by Big Table Publishing Company. She is also the author of the chapbook, Apostrophe and the chapbook, After Bird, from Grey Book Press. Her work has appeared in Thrush, [Pank], Glass Poetry Journal, The Heavy Feather Review, and Tinderbox Poetry Journal. Jennifer Martelli has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net Prizes and is the recipient of the Massachusetts Cultural Council Grant in Poetry. She is a book reviewer for Up the Staircase Quarterly, as well as a co-curator for The Mom Egg VOX Blog Folio.
 Justin Karcher gives Buffalo another masterpiece of poetry By Abby Wojcik Buffalo can officially welcome Justin Karcher’s newest poetry chapbook, “Just Because You’ve Been Hospitalized For Depression Doesn’t Mean You’re Kanye West.” Unlike his previous chapbooks, “Tailgating at the Gates of Hell” and “When Severed Ears Sing Songs”, this is one single twenty page poem instead of several short ones joined together. It is similar to his past works in that Karcher has created a work of art to capture and explain aspects of life that are difficult to put into words. On the surface, this poem is about personal and public problems, the struggles of depression and expectations, and the passion for creativity and understanding, all within the setting of beloved Buffalo. Each stanza and line contains a complex mashup of personal anecdotes, symbolism, cultural allusions, and much more. Reading this chapbook is comparable to reading the mind of Karcher and seeing what he really feels about art, mental health, and himself. Karcher explains, “I felt like my writing needed to cut deeper into me, to really expose my insecurities, struggles with depression and failures as a friend, lover, and son. Considering that at the time I was writing this, I was also getting sober, [it] was a huge influence (pun intended) on the work. I needed to be as real as possible - and sometimes real-ness comes off as something utterly and totally bizarre.” At points, this poem can seem choppy and unexpected, as he mentions, but the twists and turns of the mood make it interesting and enjoyable. Karcher writes in the poem, “But the only dungeon you’ve ever been lost in / Is one of your own creation.” Here he creates a self-criticizing tone only to then turn the page and reveal a profound conclusion, “That the things you do for beauty, of poetry, are really just a reflection of your own / insecurities, of not knowing who the hell you are as a person.” The role of art and beauty in his writing are extremely intertwined and connected to his thoughts on social media in today’s world. He references modern popular media(??) such as I Am Legend, Twilight Zone, A Christmas Story, and Siri. He says, “I think poetry is a huge part of pop culture; it's just that a lot of people don't realize it. Pop culture gets its juice from social media. Whether or not you like social media doesn't really matter, because it's a huge barometer of how we gauge what is ‘cool’ and ‘good’ these days. The foundation on which social media like Twitter stands on is quick lines that grab your attention and uses language in interesting ways. Poetry is not dead; it has just evolved. Using these pop culture references allows me to build an obvious bridge between poetry and pop culture, forcing metaphors to flex their muscles in something that we all have in common.” Another method Karcher uses to convey this message is through utilizing the iconic Kanye West in his title and throughout the poem itself. It is Karcher’s opinion that titles are an art themselves and he takes great time and thought into crafting them for this reason. “A good title is that interesting-vibing person you see across the room at a party,” Karcher says. “Deep down you know they'll probably have something riveting they'll rant about. It's almost like they have these bear traps full of honey for eyes and you know your hunger will get caught sooner or later - it's weird to think that way, isn't it? That your hunger is something that someone else has to eat. A good title is the opening of the mouth.” Kanye West plays an important part in Karcher’s poem for several reasons. For one, he is used as a transition tool to move the thoughts in the poem along. He is first mentioned four pages into the work when Karcher reminisces of times when West’s songs would play over and over at parties, making him feel electric, fearless, and immortal. The music would interrupt a thought or memory, bringing Karcher either back to reality or further into the abstract. All powerful and overwhelming feelings are what Kacher associates with Kanye West’s music. The next mention of him comes shortly after, revealing a second reason for writing Kanye West into the chapbook. West is written to act like a holy figure for worship and praise. He writes, “Kayne be with me tonight, I say to myself as I walk through the darkest valley.” It is read like a prayer to the rapper. There are many biblical and religious allusions in the work that contribute to its message. For instance, he writes “Like God Chinese finger trapping Adam into life. / The Chapel roofs we build above our heads on a daily basis are no less magical / Than what geniuses did centuries ago.” The combination of lines like this one, and the times Kanye West is treated like a guardian angel, fashion a message that peace and safety can be found in a variety of places or people. They can be replaced, intertwined, or demolished because nothing is permanent and love is not an exception. Lastly, Justin Karcher explains another reason for incorporating West, which is his own personal love and fascination with the star. “I absolutely adore Kanye and have loved his music for years,” he says. “There's something beautiful about someone using the spotlight as a surgical knife to cut deeper into themselves, which is something we should all strive to do if given the opportunity to shine. The way he has used social media is the same way a poet uses literary devices. For me, he's the patron saint of an evolved form of poetry, a form that specializes in straddling that line between self-indulgence and beaten-down sincerity, a line that I feel all young people straddle.” Karcher explores so much in this poem it is amazing that it is only twenty pages. This latest work of his is only one pebble from the mountain of Karcher’s endeavor to contribute to and innovate the Buffalo literary scene. He is a great and inspiring artist that the public is lucky to have. In addition to reading what Justin Karcher publishes, any interested individuals can encourage his and others’ artistic talents at several poetry readings throughout the city of Buffalo. On Wednesday November 15, there will be a stage presentation of “Just Because You've Been Hospitalized for Depression Doesn't Mean You're Kanye West” at Road Less Traveled, Buffalo, NY. Underneath self-loathing and public violence, Justin Karcher’s poetry reminds us that “Between likes, non-likes, comments, silences, etc., we are constantly self-evaluating ourselves every time we post something online,” as he said. “It is a self-inflicted lobotomy without truth and genuineness. Art corrects this. For poetry to evolve, it must reflect our constant criticism of ourselves and turn it into beauty, into revelation.”  Bio: Abby Wojcik is a current student at Canisius College majoring in English and creative writing. She is the assistant features editor for The Griffin Newspaper. Her hobbies include, reading, writing, painting, drawing, and thinking of ways to make others happy.
8/27/2017 Poetry by Sophie App-Singer Light light; a process you are nothing more than a cell in the ocean a single drop makes you a canyon so fuck the schizophrenic gods after you've been deprived for so long your brain starts to make things up because once the nothingness becomes tangible it ceases to exist grl pwr your new york street cat-calls will never touch me because i am woman, and you will fucking hear me roar, loud enough to shake the earth and sky people always said to me "you're too young to be a feminist" but what does that even mean? are you ever to young to fight? i swear on the bible girls with dreams and big ideas are scarier than monsters and her eyes are not oceans, she is not a tsunami she is beautiful she is god she is woke she is queen the black girl, the white girl the brown girl all make a rainbow and I want to savor every goddamn moment  Bio: Sophie, AKA Sparkle Jumprope Queen of Hello Poetry loves rap music and hails from the pacific northwest. She loves slam poetry, and is influenced by music and by other poets.
8/25/2017 Poetry by Marieta Maglas Senbon Zakura Mirror Dance I had closed the cracked window. The gust of the first born wind disappeared into the coming rain together with the flute, the drums, and the fleeting nature of the movements- explosions, distortions. 'Twas like dancing slowly with the image in the mirror or like fragmenting the memories of love to empty the minds- emotions that were eaten by the heat of the summer. I took a seat near my neighbor whose husband had been a soldier fighting in Asia until having his half of the head removed by a bullet. He had always been one of the best. Suddenly, the movement became very fast while continuing without music like in a sequence of movie frames that builds tension to enhance the consciousness- euphoria, chills. The dancers were, in fact, impair numbers having their white sashes wrapped around their heads while pirouetting at a heightened tempo to give this motion a sense of living. The window opened to bring the noise of the metropolis and the smell of the twisting wind. Well, it was not a killing one like those coming from the polls and being filled with some tiny bacteria that had been left by the meteors or by the lost civilizations. 'Twas only a rainy wind. These bacteria are not fictions; they warm up to become real weapons, not Disney animations. Life itself is not an illusion. When life becomes hallucination, then, something else must be actual. The hail hit the roof of silence. The dancers were waving their arms above their heads while clapping wildly their swaying bodies to express the words- numbers of God. I would say that 'twas not a previously choreographed dance. Ancestral emotions moved all the things of the mind out of the free space. Crawled swiftly within the suffering souls from which have started to disappear peacefully. The White City I'm in the white city. A dense fog Disintegrates all my hopes. There are people dreaming Of nonexistent worlds, There are disoriented people Walking on the terminal's sidewalk. There are lights turning on and off so erratically In this white city. There are hidden screams in the night Covered by the heavy rain sounds, That rain falling continuously And monotonously. In this white city, The victims Don't understand that they are victims yet. There are flowers, There are fast food kiosks, There are botanical gardens, With beautiful exotic trees, And there are horror movies in the theaters. As shadows emerging from the fog Are the last steps. There are steps searching each other, And there are steps that are separated forever. The rain's sounds Vibrate the eye of the windows, Vibrate the burial stones, Vibrate the dreams, Those dreams About better days. Apparently, Someone screams In the white mist of the night. Maybe he's the victim of an aggression, Or maybe, he's someone who has lost his love. Maybe it's just an echo... I'm in the white city And I'm searching for you in the darkness... The Last Cicada The sadness scattered over the walls resonating with what was in the heart of the mountain. No sound could be heard. A myriad of eyes belonging to cicadas were shrouded in mist. A somewhat long-winded like a speech surrounded the sky. Maybe it was an echo, a sesquipedalian one. It wasn't breathless at all. Nothing could have saved nature around. Neither of the forests, neither of the birds, and neither of the bears could survive..... Nothing more could have been done. All the moving peaks became small stones, as solitary as the moon, at the fugitive horizon. The last cicada disappeared. Everything became motionless. There were only the shadows of the trees to follow the sunbeams. The nature game turned detrimentally into a disaster. In an illuminated city, a man bought a lovely bouquet of red roses wanting to bestow what it is considered to be a symbol of romance. This man needed to express his love and to let his woman know how he feels about her. This man disappeared. He was the last one. Nothing could have saved him. Nothing more could have been done.  Bio: Ardus Publications, Sybaritic Press, Prolific Press, Silver Birch Press, HerEthics Books, and some others published the poems of Marieta Maglas in anthologies like Tanka Journal , Three Line Poetry #25, Three Line Poetry #39 edited by Glenn Lyvers, The Aquillrelle Wall of Poetry edited by Yossi Faybish, A Divine Madness edited by John Patrick Boutilier, Near Kin edited by Marie Lecrivain, ENCHANTED - Love Poems and Abstract Art edited by Gabrielle de la Fair, Intercontinental Anthology edited by Madan Gandhi, and Nancy Drew Anthology edited by Melanie Villines. Her poems have been also published in journals like Poeticdiversity, I Am not a Silent Poet, Our Poetry Corner, and Antarctica Journal.
|
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
August 2024
Categories |
RSS Feed
