8/14/2017 Poetry by Amanda KusekHighways Deer devil eyes running through fog with a heart on fire with winter not far behind. Further in is safe. E. Vill Shattered gin glass and skin taken from my knuckles awake to only memory of your booming voice and mine hollow against it. ![]() Bio: Amanda Kusek is a writer living in New York City with her neurotic Jack Russell Terrier, Ajax. Her poetry was recently featured at the Westmoreland Arts & Heritage Festival. She is also published in Blotterature and across the web. She maintains her own blog at CheapCourage.com. 8/13/2017 The Red Balloon by Mileva AnastasiadouThe Red Balloon It was summer for a while and then came winter. Not like it usually does, gradually, step by step, a few clouds in the beginning, some drops of rain, a bit of cold, but abruptly, a new day dawned and it was suddenly winter. No autumn in between, not time to lay a carpet, to find warm clothes, to warm the house. I then found the balloon. I wore it around my neck, as a talisman. It wasn’t a necklace, but a proper balloon, like those you blow and then they deflate gradually with time. That keep you high, when gravity seems unbeatable. That take you along with them in the sky, the clouds and you watch chaos from above, when entropy is the only flower in bloom. And entropy is the only flower blooming during wintertime. It doesn’t need water. It grows all by itself. Red was the balloon, like fire, to warm me up, when it was cold, within or without me. I painted it red to remind me of blood, poppies, revolution, hope. Red is the color of hope. Hope is neither blue, like the sky, nor green like the leaves. It is red, because hope burns, like fire and warms like fire. Because the sky and the leaves have existed since forever. And fire has always existed, yet I had to discover it. Like hope. In the winter. That keeps you high, even while falling. I blew it with all my might. It didn’t take air, but words, pictures, notes. The words weren’t empty, like they usually are. The words made sense and filled the pages and blew the balloon. Unspoken words are heavy. Empty words are heavy. Heavy like empty notes and empty pictures. They need air, love, dedication, solidarity, to be filled with meaning. Only then do they fill the balloon with air. Fear those who fear exposure, for they are doomed to a life unlived. Dangerous are the creatures whose dreams remain unnoticed. For they seek revenge against those who dared. Fear those who are shirts and pants and skirts, who iron their flaws every day to appear perfect and flawless. For those who take themselves so seriously are the ones to suck the air out of the balloon. Their empty words, notes and pictures keep the balloon colorless and empty. Learn how to avoid pretension. I learned to stay away And the balloon grew so big that it became the airship that took me to Spring. I threw away the weights to go higher. Uncountable weights. Multiplying like weeds, like entropy which blooms in winter. The sons of entropy that pull me down. Multiplying, like the rings of a growing chain. But I blow the balloon and it gets bigger and beats the gravity and flies higher and higher. And the weights disappear, or they might be there, standing weak, watching me as I fly. I blow the balloon and I fly high, yet something happens and I abruptly fall. Fall off the clouds into the coldest winter. It took me long to learn to fly. I don’t need the balloon anymore. I fly on my own, spitting words, notes, pictures that are gathered in my mind to make me heavy. I’ve been swinging like a pendulum in between seasons, since then. I spit, I blow and then I become light, like a red balloon, like hope itself and reach the sky and then I fall again. I then begin from the start. I know now; the secret is to stay up, while falling. And then I left my talisman for someone else to have it. For somebody who might need it. I left it there, dressed in red. I left it in the cold. I left it there, like Prometheus left fire. I left it there for someone in need to wear it. And it became a monument. The iron lung of a generation. A symbol of resistance against entropy and darkness. Against hopelessness and whatever it is that steals air and life. ![]() Bio: Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist, living and working in Athens, Greece. Her work can be found in many journals and anthologies, such as the Molotov Cocktail, Maudlin house, Menacing Hedge, Midnight Circus, Big Echo:Critical SF, Jellyfish Review, Asymmetry Fiction and others. She has published two books in Greek and a collection of short stories in English (Once Upon a Dystopia by Cosmic Teapot Publication). 8/13/2017 Photography by Russell StreurHome Made Calzones Calle Ocho Fire Alarm December Duet Window on the Future The Bass Player The Conversation Fire Escape ![]() Bio: A native of Chicago before defecting to warmer climes, Russell Streur’s poetry has been widely published and is recently included in Negative Capability Press’s anthology of Georgia poetry, Stone, River, Sky. Streur is the founding editor of the world’s original online poetry bar, The Camel Saloon, and is the current editor of Plum Tree Tavern ( http://theplumtreetavern.blogspot.com/ ). He is the author of The Muse of Many Names (Poets Democracy, 2011), The Table of Discontents (Ten Pages Press, 2012), and Fault Zones (Blue Hour Press, 2017). A photographer and painter, Streur is a member of the Atlanta Photography Group, the Artists Atelier and the Johns Creek Art Center. 8/12/2017 Poetry by Howie GoodThe Sayings of Paranoid Doomsday Theorists When I look out over the woods from my window here, we no longer have wolves or panthers or black bears wandering around. Just what the hell are we going to do about it? In my life I’ve worked really hard not to be down, but then a tree bursts through the wall and into the room. This is a big change. Maps will need to be redrawn. Silence is the moment when I see the next step. Anyone can be a cop. And anyone can turn out to be a criminal. * We were just standing there when we heard a tremendous rumbling. The neighbor’s dog was swept away. A child was swept away. I couldn’t get in touch with my parents. You have to think of all the sounds like they’re a symphony, otherwise you go a bit crazy. But, hey, there’s hope. What has a beginning will have an ending, eventually. We’re always ready, washed and clean – at night, during the day, always ready to race there. Because we’re not heartless people. That’s what’s important. We’ve read many times in newspapers of some kind of shooting happening, and our eyes started to burn. * They hustled me into their car. I was like, “Oh my God.” They started beating me. Horrible things occurred. I wanted to burn myself because I was burning inside. The crunching noise, I guess, was teeth scraping against my skull. It lasted a really long time. Suddenly, there were gunshots and everyone started pulling down the shutters of their shops and running for their life. I didn’t think twice. I managed to escape, but when I saw the police station in front of me, it got worse. You’re not sure what you’re going to find there. It’s only water in the teardrop of a stranger. How to Cure Trigger Finger One day I was walking and I saw one of the janitors dressed up in a cheerleader outfit and wearing fairy wings, and I said to him, “Oh, are you going to a costume party tonight?” And he said, “No, I’m going to dodgeball.” This kind of stuff doesn’t usually happen in little towns. If you designed it from scratch, you wouldn’t have designed it the way it is. Close your eyes and just breathe, just breathe. There’s nothing left to steal. Something told me to do pull-ups. Or ram into people in the street. Painkillers didn’t help. It was nonstop, the worst. I lost two fingers. They are completely gone. It’s hard not to see God in that. The Stress Factory Houses had been torn down to make room for a stalled freeway project. I remember the dead grass and how the pink popped against the brownish green as I was putting down the paint. If they board this up, I have to start again. That's just the reality. I'm trapped here now with my worn-out hands. Bureaucracy, weather, roads just get worse and worse. How can a woman out in the street in her pajamas seeking assistance from police be shot like that? The promise of “never again” has proven hard to keep. We’re a lot of people crammed into a very small space. I’ve had two years of absolute violation of my right to peace and quiet. If the condition doesn’t kill you, the stress of having it does. ![]() Bio: Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of The Loser’s Guide to Street Fighting, winner of the 2017 Lorien Prize for Poetry from Thoughtcrime Press, and Dangerous Acts Starring Unstable Elements, winner of the 2015 Press Americana Prize for Poetry. He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely. 8/11/2017 Poetry by Sergio OrtizWords carry shadows that break the voice of stones the loneliness of pens ink's void Men hang their tongues on oil-free streetlights with the knot that tie’s their shoes to extinction Mute words know more than the taciturn? Let’s Sail There are footprints that persist in the fertile land of silence and oblivion capsizes between luminescences sunrise gathering on the skin. It was mine, the dance you denied. There are dreams that should never be tossed into the current or into doubt. Let’s sail together. Our vessel can never be sunk. Bio: Sergio A. Ortiz is a two-time Pushcart nominee, a four-time Best of the Web nominee, and 2016 Best of the Net nominee. 2nd place in the 2016 Ramón Ataz Annual Poetry Competition sponsored by Alaire publishing house. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in FRIGG, Tipton Poetry Journal, Drunk Monkeys, and Bitterzeot Magazine. He is currently working on his first full-length collection of poems, Elephant Graveyard. Boston MA, songwriter Tory Silver approaches music much like a puzzle, the non traditional routes of composing, taking disparate chords and weaving them through the ether till the threads bloom into pattern, offer up ways of challenging song structure while perfectly balancing controlled chaos and melody. Silver's voice seems to be almost at one with her guitar, and the compelling mix of bossa nova, alternative rock, blues and jazz all commingle, diorama like, to dizzying effect, turned one way, hear a mountain, turned another the ocean. By approaching the guitar as if it were a canvas, each song has the integrity of something fought over, decisive musical brush strokes, shading blues and bossa nova reds, spontaneous but methodical. On Observere, the diversity and feel of something highly original comes into view, you may want to dance or wail or both, there are more than a few universes of sound tucked away in this painting of an album. Listen to it from the left, from the right, from the center, each time it feels slightly different. As Tory puts it "a few simple chords can hit deep, and the feeling is almost instant." Observere is the kind of musical trip you'll want to take when surprise, soul and shifting color is the destination you desire most of all. AHC: What has this journey in music, so far, been like for you, the highs and the lows, and what life lessons do you feel you've picked up along the way? Tory: I was small when I started my musical journey, and it has been a party ever since. The greatest moment in my musical career happened at age 12 when someone handed me a guitar. I was at a summer camp and I signed up for a class called School of Rock. I was dying to play drums. I was a drummer at heart. I wanted that sick drum solo that everyone goes nuts over at concerts. First day of class, my teacher handed me a guitar. I was disappointed, but I decided to stick with the class despite having no desire to play the instrument. It ended up being my greatest summer romance. I fell in love with the instrument, and have played nonstop the last decade of my life. This taught me one of the greatest life lessons, embrace opportunities even if you think they're not a good fit for you in that moment. AHC: What first drew you to music and what was your early musical environment like growing up? Were there pivotal songs for you then that just floored you the moment you heard them? Tory: Growing up, my sister and I were homeschooled. In my experience, that meant a lot of field trips almost everyday of the week, so we were in the car a lot. My mom would put on all her favorites-The Beatles, Red Hot Chili Peppers, B-52s, Bob Marley-I think it was during that time I really learned to love music. I never wanted to get out of the car because I just wanted to keep listening. A song in particular that really had a pull on me was The Beatles, "A Day In The Life." The chaos of it really drew me. It's messy and raw, but harmonious all the same. AHC: Do you remember the first song that you ever wrote or played? Or that first moment when you picked up a pen and realized that you could create whole worlds just by putting it to paper? Tory: When I first started playing guitar, I wrote a lot of silly songs. One was titled, "Got Married On a Greyhound Bus." Can't say that'll ever make it on a record, but I think those silly songs were important for me, just in terms of starting somewhere and thinking creatively with music as the medium.The first real song I wrote seriously is called, "I Feel Like." It's the last track of my debut album. I wrote it quickly, it's simple, and it wasn't perfect, but I liked it. I still really like it. It's that song that has made me want to pursue music. AHC: Which musicians have you learned the most from? Or writers, artists, filmmakers, teachers/mentors etc? What are the works you could not possibly live without? Tory: The Norwegian musician Sondre Lerche has had a huge influence on me. First time I saw him in concert I was 16, and it was life changing. The way he plays the guitar, he's all over the fretboard playing all these funky chords, and I couldn't get enough. After that show, I started to think of the guitar more like a canvas. AHC: What do you think makes for a good song, as you're writing and composing, is there a sudden moment when you know you've found the right mix, that perfect angle of light, so to speak? Tory: Like I was talking about with The Beatles's, "A Day In the Life," I love the chaos of it. That's a quality I really love. A cohesive mess. When I write my music, typically, I try to come up with three different parts for the guitar, and then try to make them fit together. Sometimes it's tough, but it gives different directions and feels. When the parts start working together harmoniously, and I can start to see the end, it's a gratifying feeling because I love that it wasn't the simple route to write that song. It took time to create and think through. AHC: Do you consider music to be a type of healing art, a slightly imperfect vehicle through which to translate a feeling, states of rupture/rapture, hope lost and regained? Does the writing and creating of the song save you in the kinds of ways that it saves us, the listener, even if only momentarily? Tory: It's definitely healing, and it's healing for everyone. You don't need to understand music in order to feel it. You don't have to have your doctorate in piano performance. It's as simple as sitting and taking it in with no background knowledge. A few simple chords can hit deep, and the feeling is almost instant. A song can be interpreted in billions of different ways, and I think in this way music becomes healing. Everyone can understand one thing differently, but appreciate it for what it is. AHC: What are your fondest musical memories? In your house? In your neighborhood or town? On-tour, on-the-road? Tory: I really love playing house shows. It's how I've connected with dozens of incredibly talented musicians, and get to share my own work. There's always a child-like spirit at house shows-everyone is just so excited to listen and share. There's usually yummy snacks too. So that's good. AHC: When you set out to write a song, how much does 'where the world is' in its current moment, culturally, politically, otherwise, influence the kinds of stories you set out to tell? Tory: Thinking about the world as a whole does impact my lyrics a bit! I tend to have a positive outlook on life, so I try to incorporate that into my music. I want my songs to convey a sense of, "Life is tough, and extremely unfair sometimes, but there's always something good going on." AHC: Do you have any words of advice or encouragement for other musicians and singer-songwriters out there who are just starting out and trying to find their voice and their way in this world? What are the kinds of things that you tell yourself when you begin to have doubts or are struggling with the creative process? Or what kinds of things have others told you that have helped push you past moments of self doubt/creative blocks? Tory: The biggest thing is so cliche, but it's just don't give up. If you want to be a musician, you can be one anytime. You don't have to have press writing about you or record at state of the art studios in order to be a musician. Just play. Go out and play an open mic. Play another. Keep going and going. Even if a song you're writing sucks, at least you're trying. If you feel passionately about anything, respect that, and respect it enough to give it a chance. AHC: Could you explore for us some of the themes of your new record, Observere, what its message/appeal to the world is, and your hopes for where this record lands? Tory: The title of the album Observere, means observe in Norwegian. I came up with the title because the album is just a lot of observations I've had while walking, or eating breakfast. Trying to get those everyday thoughts going on in your head down. The album also has a running theme of a sense of belonging. The majority of songs were written after moving to a new city, so feeling like I belonged was something I thought about a lot. The title is in Norwegian because I ended up finding a sense of who I was and that belonging I needed celebrating my heritage. My hope for the album is that it reaches the ears that need to hear it. I'm extremely proud the way it tuned out, and hope the world can enjoy it. For more visit www.torysilver.com/ Observere is available now @ torysilvermusic.bandcamp.com/releases 8/11/2017 Equidae by Michelle RealeEquidae Not all theories are prescriptive. Getting through the day is a spiritual act, the blue and yellow lessons it taught me nearly always forgotten by the weekend. I shoved green in the corner and stalked the pink horse all the way to its natural border where it could hang its heavy head and sway on fragile legs. I marked x’s in strategic places. I hoped to find my way back, if only I had memory to begin again. The happiness will come either before or after the sadness leaves me bereft at the falling fence , but I am not taking sides. An accelerant with just the right ignition will catch fire in all the right places because it is in its nature to do so. ![]() Bio: Michelle Reale is an Associate Professor at Arcadia University. She has authored seven poetry collections including the most recent The Marie Curie Sequence (Dancing Girl Press, 2017) and All These Things Were Real: Poems of Delerium Tremens, (West Philly Press, 2017). Confini: Poems of Refugees in Sicily is forthcoming from Cervena Barva Press. One Day Lebron James Will Be Dead I’m smoking on the back porch Of the Merlin Guesthouse in Key West Listening to that new Arcade Fire song “Everything Now” I don’t like it suddenly my smartphone tells me that in California The Warriors are embarrassing the Cavs And on Duvall St I hear all the Ohio snowbirds cleansing their industrial systems With key lime pie laxatives Earlier in the night, the hostess at Sloppy Joe’s told me it’s Martini Mondays That everyone deserves a moment to let loose Sloppy Joe’s is where Hemingway mastered the art of being a bad father Where he sparred with a bipolar prizefighter in the bathroom mirror Where his heart collected kitty litter dust And his brain sought refuge with jubilant pigs in Cuba Where they rolled around in missile-less mud Telling each other dirty jokes about what it means to be a man Then everything changed: good-looking leaders were murdered In mermaid motorcades at the bottom of the sea And the world became so anxious all the time Now there are bearded warheads fishing for newborn fetuses On great urban lakes all over America The Rust Belt is burning One day Lebron James will be dead The Cavs are down by nine at the half So I grab the fire extinguisher that’s mounted on the wall And run toward Duvall St wearing black Calvin Klein boxer briefs These insignificant fires are very off-putting But we have to be more honest with ourselves: That the world breaks everyone That hope is a lost treasure no one can find That we can’t live without each other ![]() 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. 8/10/2017 Dead End Kids by Michael MarrottiDead End Kids We were the dead end kids with matching black eyes The products of an abusive society that would insist on a hard fist when you needed a helping hand We were in search of a place that would accept us for who we are It's like we all had the same notion hanging out down the South Side river the sound of the waves had a tendency to mitigate the turbulence We drank our St. Ides '40s to blur the state of reality after half a bottle the door to belligerency would be blown wide open We were the punching bags of society outsiders who never knew what it felt like to receive an invitation When strangers intruded on our party's down the river we gave back to them what society had given to us Bricks were thrown faces were smashed quilts could've been made out of all those stitches As I reminisce now on how we behaved in the past it was cruel but it made sense in a deplorable way We were building a wall with each and every brick To fortify ourselves from the pain of a world that leaves everyone battered lonely and scarred ![]() Bio: Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His chapbook, F.D.A. Approved Poetry, is available on Amazon. On his free time, he volunteers at the Light Of Life Rescue Mission. He is also the editor of Excavation, a poetry blog. Submissions are open: excavatingtheunderground.wordpress.com/ We are pleased to announce our 2017 Best of the Net Anthology nominations! Poetry: Amanda Ameen: Daddy Julie Rouse: Junk History Kimberly Casey: Alone with Your Heartbeat Michelle Askin: A Soft Opening Hillary Leftwich: The doll i was Robert Walicki: The Tree in the Lake Fiction: Sammie Downing: Still There Alexandria Morales: Muse Creative Non-Fiction: Jon Payne: Rage and Wistful Melancholy Gordana Kokich: Thursday 11-13-16 |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
December 2024
Categories |