Featured Writer: Tim Morris Day 3

it's happening


somewhere,
in a sedated florescent glow,
rows and rows of pornography
are being molested
by curious hands...

somewhere,
between guilt-ridden tiles,
a boy fondles himself
in the mirror over a sink...

somewhere,
in the aromatic light of dawn,
a woman fingers the delicate labia
of her entranced lover...

somewhere,
in the drone of tomorrow,
a man on his knees sweats
at an altar, asking for his wife's
quick and painless demise...

somewhere,
in the overwhelming shadow of a cross,
a woman sucks at a bottle of gin
while spinning a razor blade
between her teeth...

all the while
carousel horses dance
to their happy, happy song.

Featured Writer: Tim Morris Day 2

The Prisoner


twilight.

in the rain.

twelve rupees sit heavily
in my pocket
and i can finally
walk the garden
with my head held high,

but still...
i find it necessary
to peel flesh
from around my fingernails
and suck at the blood.

the moon...
ah, the moon,
her virgin hole not yet
pricked by indiscretion,
stretches lazily from
around the corner,
uncertain of her true conviction.

the air,
anesthetized,
lays like lead on my skin
and a hunger swells
in my veins.

fingering the coins in my pocket,
one for each of the twelve pairs
of blood-stained lips,
i find myself at a table,
twisted and tired,
eager to be of use,

but i see the chains,
rusted and sanguinary,
and am afraid,
because the promise
has proven to be fraud...

in the shadows,
soothed by night's lithe fingers,
children dance to kalimba music,
the beauty of their laughter
an atrocity.

Featured Writer: Tim Morris Day 1

It's That Time


the time has come to roll the bones.

nero's ghost is perched on the hill
sawing at an archaic smile.

morphine drips from the moon.

go on ahead and roll them bones,
let's just see what the future's got
before jesus laughs himself silly
watching the preachers play drag-ass
to the grave.

roll the bones and watch them grow
important in the public eye.

we find ourselves wanting to eat the stars.

machiavelli's prince takes center stage
illuminated in a glow of our desire;
a man-beast twisted in a maelstrom
of poetry and lies.

roll the bones...
roll the bones...
place your bets and roll them bones,
dance on the devil's grave.

the war machine grows fond of your face.

the sad old sage plucks his komun'go
in the belly of this gluttonous day.

so roll the bones.
see what you get.
the sun is about to lose its race.

Two Pieces by David Oprava

ITCH

he licks
the superego
wounds
wondering
what his seed
tastes like,
some salty drops
sticky like want,

rolling in tongues
over the barely
fallow bed,
he whispers
to the rough
wooliness
of her words,

are your prickly-
pains
just for me,
or anybody?

Fucking the smell
of the blanket he groans,
shallow bitch,
left him blue-balled
and itching.


TEACHER


I fuck a first grade teacher,

because

if a first grade teacher's
apple pie smile, butter cream hands
and need to care for the infantile
can't make me feel good about myself,

who the fuck can?

davidoprava.com

Ballad of a Rich Man by Tim Murray

If you stay up late enough
(say 4am)
You'll know the answer to everything
Yes
Everything
Because (it seems) the Western mind
Is trained to believe
That knowledge is a mere
Compendium of memorized
Tidbits, dates, names
With the occasional anecdote
Tossed in for a bit of intellectual spice
That being said
Your noggin full of
Categorized Pitfall scores
From Intellivision II tournaments
Should come in handy
In the event that you
Find yourself strolling along
The gray October sidewalks
Of Indiana where
You are sure to come across
A small cigarette smoke filled bakery
Named Sue's
At which time you'll be unable to fight the
Urge to order
A large slice of double chocolate cake
Simply because it is
A large slice of double chocolate cake
And the lady behind the counter
Will seem annoyed that
You actually wish to purchase something
But thru her grimace
She will neatly package
Your freshly baked
Slice of double chocolate cake
In a nifty little plastic container
And she'll slip it into a
Convenient brown paper sack
And she'll drop your
13 cents change
And receipt in behind it
And the belt of
Real live Reindeer bells tied
To the door handle
Will clang and jangle
As you exit
Returning to the
Leafy brown afternoon
One large slice of
Double chocolate cake
Richer
In the Earth


Tim Murray, b. 1977, is a lifelong resident of Northwest Indiana. His poetry blog can be found at www.myspace.com/kidmonk

Alleys are the Footnotes of the Avenues by Peter Anderson

The old man paused, his brimming shopping cart rattling to a stop. A window just above stood a few inches open, the apartment’s inhabitants tentatively seeking spring’s first warm wisps of breeze. The man himself had more than enough breezes, along with the bitter winds of the preceding winter just passed, none of it impeded by any window’s barrier.

The long alley he had traversed, veering slowly side to side to peek into trash cans and dumpsters for things of interest and maybe of value, ended in a T which he followed toward the street. There was no dumpster to be picked through here - nicer buildings kept their trash in chain-linked pens to discourage men like him from lingering, silently imploring him to take his business elsewhere.
He stopped, not ready to return to the street. Low sounds emanating from the window drew his attention, but he listened with eyes cast downward, the pose of a tired man merely pausing to rest. He knew that looking up at the window might mark him as a peeper, drawing the ire of neighbors and bringing the police.

He already had enough hassles in his humble life without bringing another upon himself.

~

The television murmured, excited putdowns and canned laughter occasionally rising through the living room’s slumbering lull. Bluish light flickered through the shadows, illuminating a middle-aged man who slumped in an easy chair, stockinged feet propped up, a half-empty highball glass within his reach. He dozed, having lost interest in the sitcom’s inanities, its forced mirth.
Before sleep came the old familiar words eased through his mind, the words of the essay he had pondered for so long, the treatise which would finally put television, and everything it represented about our culture, in its place. Down where it belonged, far down.

The medium numbs the senses, lulling us into dull complacency, cheapening our discourse down to a blather of catchphrases. Laugh tracks have taught us how to respond—uproariously at the more outrageous stunts, chucklingly at rare instances of subtlety. But laugh tracks teach us nothing about how to respond to seriousness, to sadness, and thus we have become immune, no longer caring, no longer sympathizing. If we can’t laugh we don’t respond at all. We have become disconnected from the world outside…

But the words, so often thought but still unwritten, soon gave way to the whiskey’s strength. He slid into heavy-lidded torpor, then finally into sleep. The words would remain unwritten for another day, another month, year, perhaps forever.

~

Outside the window, the sounds from within no longer held the old man’s interest. He reached into his cart, again securing a bag of soda cans, obsessively tightening the handles as he had done repeatedly throughout the long clockless day. Satisfied, he grunted quietly and leaned into the shopping cart, moving slowly toward the street.

As he cleared the building he felt a jolt of wind on his weathered face, the air turning colder as night fell steadily around him.

Peter Anderson's stories have been published in many fine venues besides this one, including Storyglossia, THE2NDHAND, Wheelhouse and RAGAD. He also has three novels-in-progress that may or may not ever be finished, depending on his whims, and a completed story chapbook that is desperately in need of a home. He lives in Joliet, Illinois, with his lovely wife Julie, charming daughter Madeleine and two literature-averse cats.

Revival, reunion when I think of you by Audrey Victoria

I drop down fifty flights of stairs and the moon beckons me nowhere except
where a sight-seeing tourist from the inside is exploiting my garnered limp.
His gullet is adorned with crumpled skin and mole colored jewels.

Inside my nose is stinging and I take it as a sign that the
scorpion has just crawled inside. And my tongue will speak words
of models drawing out my past vision of vernacular suicide.

I crawl to the coffee shop and order shots of espresso until my chest explodes.
I wait for you by the front window but you're nowhere to be seen.
I assume it's because I gained weight again and I feel fat again.
Since I quit mind surfing I don't ride as smooth anymore.
I must confess, back when abyssinian hands stroked my laden back
I used to mind fuck you in the alley and you didn't know it.

Limping and leaving, my heart stops and I am clutched to a street light.
The fat gullet trumpet vine has wrapped around my bronchial tubes again.
Manipulation is a tired tactic and I prefer pure fucking instead
I will wait for you half past five next weekend if I am not dead by then

I will merge into you but not frighten you.
I will sing to you gently but there will be no song even if you ask for one.
There will be no moment for images because you will be blindfolded
I will leave you one foot to find in the garbage. Most importantly
I don't know how to love. It's your crumbled clutch, displacement
with boring sentiment. Yeah, it's that role I play.

Inside I know that flash you want of that woman standing sprawled
dripping clean with wet and glitter all over your mommy's blanket.
What a coward you've become. God, all gracious, the women
The women just want to screw you all over. The vision of their
Robert Plant Fantasy. Go on, bro, grunt and give them your disease.

My skin is still smooth and I still flutter like a pixie
all over your jewels, stealing them. The yawn of the guitar still runs down my leg
and as the new moon raises the energy depletes from your
soul merging with mine accordingly.

Most likely you will have a nightmare about me tonight.
a hallway will rise up in magenta and run like a trumpet vine,
run from your toes to your abdomen to down your trachea
where then you will blossom orange, finally spreading
something half beautiful, even if you're still a weed.