by Harrison Parks

she wears black tees emblazoned with slogans--
'lie down i think i love you,' and other
callings for our lips to tease and play-- 
coy expressions; one is a challenge to hurry up &

get in her past. bright minds like hers inevitably
burn through people to find truth in flame.
gladly, i am kindling for her fire's mise en place.
no regrets--save that we don't trick ourselves

as many can to prolong it. though i am no
stranger to cynics, somehow i cannot yet
relegate her and me to that quick inferno;
we burn through a city; through sister cities;

fuck, we consume nations.

all the tricks one needs to be led to
paradise are in her repertoire. it has been a day
or two and she already is a second sight.
unlike most, she masters every sense.

we both need little affirmation. obviously,
this time-frame speaks to foolishness but
instinct quickly knows where it ought,
needs to be led. forces of nature fall into place

without dawdling. the words marked here
i can postpone so she won't know of them
until marks of time or bruises she leaves ebb
away fear. we incubate. soon is soon enough.

soon is eternally far away; soon is the future
that has become our muse. we are consumed by soon
and burn sacrifices from her admirers; though i am
her chief admirer and i shall always burn brighter.

someday, men may topple her monuments.
these words remain eternal.

Read more from Harrison in his ongoing project The Banter Ship

Write comment (0 Comments)

Two Poems

by John Lowther

from Correspondences


I can't resist a magnanimous offer like that.
It ain't easy, but you have to work with the material.
It's really really horrible.
The very fact that we disagree brings warmth to my heart.
My philosophy professor recommended that I learn about sports so that I would
     have something to talk about with normal people.
What this taxonomy means, I don't know.
All that is left to do is bury my head under my knee and wait for the end.
Reading rosicrucial shit.
I don't know why you would come to that opinion.
Anyhow –I’m out of it– really dumbed down by the desert.
If it was intended only as verbatim reportage then in a sense it's even funnier.
The name comes out of thin air, but seems to fit.
A belt on the car is screeching like the proverbial banshee.
Your rude trimming is in fact terrific.


Asking about summer stock and choice cuts of botany.
It all started after I decided it was time for a return to the body.
Where have all the flowers gone?
That's where I think discussions actually operate.
It adds invisible exclamation points.
I have done nothing but write and translate, and when I finish what I have to do
     for the day, the last thing I feel like doing is writing or translating.
Sense of what, or why, is a different issue.
I go at it entirely in the dark.
Whitefish and kipper snacks with too much treble on off-balanced headphones.
And my friend and I looked at each other and went pale.
Please do.
Enough, this is not really pertinent, but it's an interesting periphery.
Nor am I trying to win.
I can sort of see your comment about that taking some of the fun out of it.

Read more from John here

Write comment (1 Comment)

In Memory of Roger Ebert (1942-2013)

(A found poem based on his last blog post, written the day before he died)

by Josh Medsker

Through articles, books, 
I admired film.

Now, I am the universal film,
Some part critic,
some… part of a...
separate entity.
Some 1967...'77
some now.

Now I will be able to 
be me, or you…
or a film, brilliant and

Thank you all,

Write comment (0 Comments)

Two Poems

by George Zamalea

The Eyestone

In a burning hell my shell
Broken free and with it 
The parade of gashed angels moving in step
By the edge of the enormous
Galaxies starting to sing:
          I'm the sexier one you hate, you fool!
          I'm the uglier one you kill at last, freaky seer!
          I'm the seamier one you need to feed, you pervert!
          I'm the freakier heart you kiss at last, you bimbo!
So under the obscure curvaceous paths,
Where I am unfinished like a beast,
I am everywhere I am the real explorer
And if you do not believe me,
Go! Go! Go! To the hottest valley
And find underneath any rocks
The virgin snake and squeeze her to death.
Could you feel the strange sensation of emptiness?
Could you feel the fenestration of my fingers?
Could you feel the decontamination of my pain? 
Could you feel the warm blood running heavily through your large fingernails and palms? 
          Can you like it? 
          Can you feel it?
          Do you believe me now that I am a dangerous animal?
          Do you?
          Well, welcome to hell, my dear!
          Welcome to the same ghostly hour, 
Because there are few men who like it
And who love it...
          Just a few of them, my dear hawk!
          Now you will see you are going to vanish
Into you the veins of the sweetness of this flesh 
Explosion of your mind, like a rebirth circle, alone against
The black wall of your desire, not the limitless 
Thoughts of being your haymaker and the final deliverer,
          It will make you see a hibernal angel;
          The plotter, you are strong and sick and unique;
And again, and again the sound of Evil rebounds freely:
          I'm the sexier one you hate, you fool!
          I'm the uglier one you kill at last, freaky seer!
          I'm the seamier one you need to feed, you pervert!
          I'm the freakier heart you kiss at last, you bimbo!

          Ha! Ha! Ha!
          And the sky closes in.
          Ha! Ha! Ha!


The Black Spell Magic

At the foot of the Wichita Mountains
Where wolves and coyotes and foxes
Grew fat from human fleshes and hearts

          A Savannah’s eye reproduced an enormous

Screen of tropical meadow; a face
Lit up like gold underneath a bright shadow

          Fascinated by the comical unborn sigh


          Or the affection of an equal line:

Iodine lips totally visible come to me
Dancing in multiple but unusual fingernails


          This isn't God I am talking about.

          It's the Mind.

          The Beauty of Being Humans!

          As they turned fastest without faces

          Less weight than a body with a throne of cloud

          Detesting the picture filled with Wonders

          Their hands then hoof along their bodies

And shake them with large tongue and cracked heads.


          I think they're ghosts or pieces of dead flesh

          Coming with it! But wait!  

          The finite winter emerged from the emptied holes

Of their faces, looking around, as I was asking:

          "Are you Isis's maiden goddess from Egypt?

          "We're the Black Cloud...!

          The Spell!"

          We are the mutation

          We are the salutation

          We are the dilatation.

          We are the sickened love as tooth-like projections!!!!!!


          What do they want? Or have they just arrived

From vacations to visit the tribe of Azteca:

          Non-human here nor yellow toque or white

Snake who wished to gallop beside me. I'll not allow it.


          "Oh, no," they said. "We're the possessive snake!

The underworld journey and the breathing Grief

          Eventually it will bind you!"


And when they kiss my lips (hundreds of them!) these inflaming lips

          Under the cold water of this fallen afternoon,

In a reverberating wave below my kindling tunic

          I saw the transparencies of the stone

I received all the embraced ashes as an absolute

Night shifting into memory...

          The racing Mind!


A memory for a day or so

          Filled with passion in its possession

By the rumble glitter tits

          Tits of Velvet ants

          Tits of my own shadows.

Write comment (0 Comments)

Three Poems

by George Zamalea





I saw the eyes of 'Ever-Again' as I was

          Passing in front of C.'s house,

Colorless and deep, against the morning of May

          Looking left and right, with unwished waves,

A dog named 'Ever-Again', his woeful

          Task remains, who runs away.


Arousing at length my curiosities, innocently

          Of course, while at the same time,

My heart designed to live, learning

          He was dying, and 'Ever-Again', who went

To C.'s house, and who starts dying there,

          And the people from C.'s house have known him

As 'Ever-Again'.


For none of these gentlemen dared,

          Or, busy as they were, took time to think

For a moment about 'Ever-Again', who went back and forth

          To C.'s house, and who was already

Dead; everybody was astonished at

          How this happened to ‘Ever-Again'.





I did what the regular

          Jupiter has done with the rat

And the monkey, said the useless

          Brawnier under the stigmatic era, eaten them by tail,

Where the men and women are just unbreastless

          In the growing whirl of useless love.


He brings the rat to the lab

          And the monkey to the cage.

Rat looks at him: "Miserable! Bizarre sin!

          I'm the monkey when beauty's genius

And the carnality of the franks does not have

          The vigor of fire and of the night caravan.

I'm supposed to be there, where the fragrance

          Of the lustful hole whose darkness

Has no respect for living, the shape

          Of the moon with windowless witches!"


"You are, beast! You must be there.

          And you will find it easier

Between anxious coition and the odorous

          Crepitation of such wedding sense

Of being smart with lovely thing, that each

          Coffin will send the same belly of such answer."


Monkey, jumping over stove and stove,

          Then with the high gas behind him and passion

Written against the wall, finds his words

          At last, “I’m the rat! The oozing blaze

Where the public decomposition beats down

          My grass that voluptuous lips kiss

Whose freak sounds grimace along their pleasure.

          I’m the rat, tomorrow or ever, and I’m supposed

To be here.”


          “You are not! You must be there.”

And between the liquid of living and thirsty love,

          The honey-bee sweeps over and the quaver

Madness dredged from his eyes strangely. “If you

          Ought to be there, then beat it! Bring me

The reason sculpted by rapturous heart

          And push then the peaceful misgiving of this last call

Made from hell!”





They killed him running

          Naked down the street

When a man next to me asked what



I thought to answer until

          The sun obscured me without slashing

The last words, and I thought

          I was still sleeping

With joined hands and muscles

          In front of a leading mass.


I am still thinking. Can I answer

          Him as a teacher to a student

In a restless room with the dreamy dreams

          That were once a part

Of the hunting? Of course I should.


          I closed my broken mouth

And put a hand on his shoulder:

          Can you feel me? The whole body

Shaken and I know he got the message.

Write comment (4 Comments)