Twins
if i could watch the sun rise pavement
on your rested pores
if i could meditate on these words instead
of brilliance coming while sitting on a toilet
if i could make sense out of finger waves
and a myriad of choices in the movie aisle
i would dump this life smelling of my
mother's bad, coffee in the morning breath
i would settle in the lush white of
missouri winter's dappling skin in the morning
i would quiet the guilt of spending my life
separating from my reflection's responsibility
(because i know what's good for me)
i'd watch heaven instead
i'd drink less
because i made up a lie
if i could find solace
i would dunk my white lies in horseradish
if i could watch you undress
because of me, on repeat
then i wouldn't wait for the grass to get greener
to grow, to feed the birds in the winter
i'd sit maiming my hair
in born satisfaction to break open
a small, new leaf in this mid-location
of dreams, never fulfilled for normalcy
if my feet touched the ground and my skin
wasn't still contracting hives from this new paper
i'd brush my hair with winter grass instead
(all awful, this trembles me to the bone
as the last of us receive our awards to flood out into a new world
gasping like infants, we pray we receive enough to
even favor someone with a minute of advice)
i would quiet the guilt.
i'd separate from my reflection's responsibility
Friday, January 9, 2009
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Two Pieces by Puma Perl
t shirts
I knew his clothes were still there
It had been almost a year since
I bought him the packs of white t shirts
It was right after I did his laundry and
Threw a navy blue sweater in with the whites
I lowered my head when I told him
So I wouldn't keep laughing
Figured he'd never ask again
But then I felt a little bad, not much
So I bought soft velvety white towels
And the t shirts, size medium
Then I called him and ended it
He never wore the shirts or
Felt how soft the towels were
In the closet there were
Two pair of black socks
Two sets of underwear
A thermal shirt that made me sad
A worn pair of levis that fit me exactly right
He would have hated that they fit
He didn't want me to lose weight
An attractive feature in a man
I held his socks and underwear
Wrapped them in an old blanket
Felt like I was about to drown kittens
The t shirts fit the man I'm waiting for
He'll be happy that the jeans fit me
He never questions
My endless supply of white t shirts
I always give him the soft white towels
At first he didn't want to use them
Said they were too nice
I told him they were just for him
_________________________________________
in the mayor’s house
I planned to leave the
golden man's house at
7:45 He lived
ten blocks and five dimensions
from gracie mansion
He didn't want me to go
He loved my tall walk
down his hallway
I left at 8:15
In the mayor's house
on world AIDS day
there is an open house
by invitation only
guests devour
sandwich triangles
bland, tasteless slivers
served on silver trays
tired red ribbons
wilt fresh pressed shirts
are you anybody?
narrowed eyes wonder
no, they decide
i'm nobody
everyone takes pictures
on the good side
I find new friends quickly
through the common language
of provocative subversion
the mirrors hang high on the walls
we bounce without reflection
irrelevant as promises
the line creeps listlessly
little mayor mike b poses
looking only into camera=2 0eyes
as he shakes my hand
hot gold morning cum
runs down my leg
staining my appropriate
black suit
Puma Perl lives and writes in NYC. Her work has been published in cause & effect, MadSwirl, Trespass, Red Fez, Gloom Cupboard, the Oak Bend Review, and other publications and anthologies. She has been a featured reader in various New York City area venues. Her first chapbook, Belinda and Her Friends, was recently published by Erbacce Press. She is a firm believer in the transformative power of the creative arts.
I knew his clothes were still there
It had been almost a year since
I bought him the packs of white t shirts
It was right after I did his laundry and
Threw a navy blue sweater in with the whites
I lowered my head when I told him
So I wouldn't keep laughing
Figured he'd never ask again
But then I felt a little bad, not much
So I bought soft velvety white towels
And the t shirts, size medium
Then I called him and ended it
He never wore the shirts or
Felt how soft the towels were
In the closet there were
Two pair of black socks
Two sets of underwear
A thermal shirt that made me sad
A worn pair of levis that fit me exactly right
He would have hated that they fit
He didn't want me to lose weight
An attractive feature in a man
I held his socks and underwear
Wrapped them in an old blanket
Felt like I was about to drown kittens
The t shirts fit the man I'm waiting for
He'll be happy that the jeans fit me
He never questions
My endless supply of white t shirts
I always give him the soft white towels
At first he didn't want to use them
Said they were too nice
I told him they were just for him
_________________________________________
in the mayor’s house
I planned to leave the
golden man's house at
7:45 He lived
ten blocks and five dimensions
from gracie mansion
He didn't want me to go
He loved my tall walk
down his hallway
I left at 8:15
In the mayor's house
on world AIDS day
there is an open house
by invitation only
guests devour
sandwich triangles
bland, tasteless slivers
served on silver trays
tired red ribbons
wilt fresh pressed shirts
are you anybody?
narrowed eyes wonder
no, they decide
i'm nobody
everyone takes pictures
on the good side
I find new friends quickly
through the common language
of provocative subversion
the mirrors hang high on the walls
we bounce without reflection
irrelevant as promises
the line creeps listlessly
little mayor mike b poses
looking only into camera=2 0eyes
as he shakes my hand
hot gold morning cum
runs down my leg
staining my appropriate
black suit
Puma Perl lives and writes in NYC. Her work has been published in cause & effect, MadSwirl, Trespass, Red Fez, Gloom Cupboard, the Oak Bend Review, and other publications and anthologies. She has been a featured reader in various New York City area venues. Her first chapbook, Belinda and Her Friends, was recently published by Erbacce Press. She is a firm believer in the transformative power of the creative arts.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Three Pieces by Joseph Goosey
EVERYTHING SHAMEFUL
There are holes in the walls
of my mouth. I get nervous, well,
not nervous but frightened
of conversation sometimes
as though the other person
will immediately, without warning,
begin to list in chronological
order everything shameful
I have done or
will do and it is night and
cold and a good time
to observe cars passing
and old deteriorating women
stealing the companies' petunias
from the pots. The wind sounds
a bell and I might not be around
to bury my two cats,
Oscar and Katy.
__________________________
Bookstore Credit
It is 9:20AM
and I am scurrying along
the walls
of downtown.
There is a crate in my hand.
The crate is filled with hardbound books.
Some books were purchased
for one dollar, others for thirty.
Some books were found,
others stolen.
I am going to see
if maybe I can sell
any of them
back to a used
bookstore
from which I take
free beer
in exchange
for reading poems
monthly.
It is raining.
I don't think I have ever seen
so much fucking rain
on a Florida
street.
I am shielding the books
from the rain with the shirt
off of my back.
I might be crying but
I wouldn't know
one way or another
because
of the rain.
There passes a lawyer,
here a doctor,
a gallery owner,
a maker of sandwiches.
Some look in my direction,
others pretend
not to.
I walk into the bookstore.
A bell sounds
to signal
my arrival.
The man, the dry man,
puts most of the books back
into my crate.
He says
we have
these
titles.
He asks
cash or book-
store
credit?
I want the credit
so badly but
I need the cash.
Without it,
I may not make it
home and
my girl might go
feral.
He says
9 dollars
cash.
I say OK but
it really is not
OK at all.
My crate and I
venture back out
into the rain.
There is nothing, really,
that can be written
in response
to such
circumstances.
________________________________
No Family
Cars go streaming by
with Church
cut Christmas
trees
tied firmly
to their
roofs.
There is a hole
in my lip
from
holiday
nervousness.
I spit pink upon the bricks.
Hello.
Yes. You do the same.
No. No family coming in.
Yes. It will be
quiet.
Joseph Goosey recently discovered how little joy can be found in the
fruits of literary labors. Also, he has a chapbook available via
Poptritus Press.He thanks you for reading.
There are holes in the walls
of my mouth. I get nervous, well,
not nervous but frightened
of conversation sometimes
as though the other person
will immediately, without warning,
begin to list in chronological
order everything shameful
I have done or
will do and it is night and
cold and a good time
to observe cars passing
and old deteriorating women
stealing the companies' petunias
from the pots. The wind sounds
a bell and I might not be around
to bury my two cats,
Oscar and Katy.
__________________________
Bookstore Credit
It is 9:20AM
and I am scurrying along
the walls
of downtown.
There is a crate in my hand.
The crate is filled with hardbound books.
Some books were purchased
for one dollar, others for thirty.
Some books were found,
others stolen.
I am going to see
if maybe I can sell
any of them
back to a used
bookstore
from which I take
free beer
in exchange
for reading poems
monthly.
It is raining.
I don't think I have ever seen
so much fucking rain
on a Florida
street.
I am shielding the books
from the rain with the shirt
off of my back.
I might be crying but
I wouldn't know
one way or another
because
of the rain.
There passes a lawyer,
here a doctor,
a gallery owner,
a maker of sandwiches.
Some look in my direction,
others pretend
not to.
I walk into the bookstore.
A bell sounds
to signal
my arrival.
The man, the dry man,
puts most of the books back
into my crate.
He says
we have
these
titles.
He asks
cash or book-
store
credit?
I want the credit
so badly but
I need the cash.
Without it,
I may not make it
home and
my girl might go
feral.
He says
9 dollars
cash.
I say OK but
it really is not
OK at all.
My crate and I
venture back out
into the rain.
There is nothing, really,
that can be written
in response
to such
circumstances.
________________________________
No Family
Cars go streaming by
with Church
cut Christmas
trees
tied firmly
to their
roofs.
There is a hole
in my lip
from
holiday
nervousness.
I spit pink upon the bricks.
Hello.
Yes. You do the same.
No. No family coming in.
Yes. It will be
quiet.
Joseph Goosey recently discovered how little joy can be found in the
fruits of literary labors. Also, he has a chapbook available via
Poptritus Press.He thanks you for reading.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Might? by Felino Soriano
Might?
If the garden could tongue a
circle around the human, the
specific one who too often yanks
without conscience
roses for the cliché symbolic
photographic embrace,
might the vernacular be
a begging to conjure newly formed
gifts, a manmade devotional plan, a finding
elsewhere without scented thorn or without
burgeon meant to dangle loosely
within the wind's altering direction?
Felino Soriano (California) is a case manager working with developmentally and physically disabled adults. He is the author of two chapbooks "Exhibits Require Understanding Open Eyes" (Trainwreck Press, 2008) and "Feeling Through Mirages" (Shadow Archer Press, 2008), an e-book "Among the Interrogated" (BlazeVOX [books], 2008), and has a chapbook forthcoming "Abstract Appearance Reaching Toward the Absolute" (Trainwreck Press, 2008). The juxtaposition of his philosophical studies with his love of classic and avant-garde jazz explains his poetic motivation. Website: felinosoriano
If the garden could tongue a
circle around the human, the
specific one who too often yanks
without conscience
roses for the cliché symbolic
photographic embrace,
might the vernacular be
a begging to conjure newly formed
gifts, a manmade devotional plan, a finding
elsewhere without scented thorn or without
burgeon meant to dangle loosely
within the wind's altering direction?
Felino Soriano (California) is a case manager working with developmentally and physically disabled adults. He is the author of two chapbooks "Exhibits Require Understanding Open Eyes" (Trainwreck Press, 2008) and "Feeling Through Mirages" (Shadow Archer Press, 2008), an e-book "Among the Interrogated" (BlazeVOX [books], 2008), and has a chapbook forthcoming "Abstract Appearance Reaching Toward the Absolute" (Trainwreck Press, 2008). The juxtaposition of his philosophical studies with his love of classic and avant-garde jazz explains his poetic motivation. Website: felinosoriano
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Featured Writer: Matt Finney Day 3
miles end
the streets are leaking blood and i'm here waving goodbye. a cage in a forest or an amputee camp. the television is on in an empty room and i all i dream about is your skin. winter fading and some endless war covering this town. the days are thick with fear and i've forgotten my father's face. all i'm trying to do is explain who i am. what i want is for it to matter.
_______________________________________
details
you're here or somewhere else. these dark houses and the way the clocks run backwards. how long it's been since you were immortal. your face pressed hard into the ass of a god you never believed in. the windows break but not the fever. any faith in the future is steadily diminishing.
the streets are leaking blood and i'm here waving goodbye. a cage in a forest or an amputee camp. the television is on in an empty room and i all i dream about is your skin. winter fading and some endless war covering this town. the days are thick with fear and i've forgotten my father's face. all i'm trying to do is explain who i am. what i want is for it to matter.
_______________________________________
details
you're here or somewhere else. these dark houses and the way the clocks run backwards. how long it's been since you were immortal. your face pressed hard into the ass of a god you never believed in. the windows break but not the fever. any faith in the future is steadily diminishing.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Featured Writer: Matt Finney Day 2
coda
contrails hanging as the skyline and the walls are burned black. misshapen crosses and the streets have lost direction. the pills have wore off and we've reached a point where nothing is beautiful. where we hate no one more than ourselves. the truth is what we've always been afraid of.
___________________________________
efrim
rumors of war hanging and everything you know has turned to dust. these moments that never come. dead flags and moving cars. breathing poison and trying to understand emptiness. waiting for an ending while i get married, mortgaged, and divorced. the lights are sucked from every room. the walls are collapsing. the weight of these words and how i'm ready to give into silence.
contrails hanging as the skyline and the walls are burned black. misshapen crosses and the streets have lost direction. the pills have wore off and we've reached a point where nothing is beautiful. where we hate no one more than ourselves. the truth is what we've always been afraid of.
___________________________________
efrim
rumors of war hanging and everything you know has turned to dust. these moments that never come. dead flags and moving cars. breathing poison and trying to understand emptiness. waiting for an ending while i get married, mortgaged, and divorced. the lights are sucked from every room. the walls are collapsing. the weight of these words and how i'm ready to give into silence.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
