Four Short Poems

by Michael Prihoda

tenements

what unmatched
nightmares
Le Corbusier

might acquire 

upon entering
these empty
tenements

 

no retreat

the sky broke
like a book opening to page 1
and I read the day
like tea leaves
in the evaporating dregs
of a pitchy howling night
while the orchestral colors
swooped and locked their
claws on the horizon,
unwilling to retreat

 

too much?

the facial features of a wall socket
sexual overtones in the bedroom

who has seen too much?

 

permission

is
the
$31.50
monthly
phone bill
my permission to live?

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Three Poems

by Low Man

UNTITLED

Destruction is temporary
but,
how big?
Pull it apart
       take it on a tour

UPDATE TIME
       Tourism arises from popularity 
       perhaps,
it is a double edged sword
       perhaps
it has no edge

Silence
offers to teach you
to think without words.
Pass it around
keep it under control.
Consider it beautiful.
Live among the many
dedicated to a lie
       Stronger and bolder
              in a bright pink folder
Labled: 2013

Some say
worth the price of admission:
Some say
excessive:
Some say
Underdeveloped:
but,
none the less,
it sets you on the edge of your seat
it makes your teeth
sharper.


NEW POEM (UNTITLED)

A hard nose
with a good eye for details.
Some depressive soul
who just stopped
late one day
alone
Taking care of others 
who should be taking care
of them.

Live up to full potential
Toss it in the gutter
Sleep in your armchair
Blind and bedridden
Looking so angry.
A man made disaster
Loaded up on the blues
Somewhere in between
       Difference    and    Attention

In some city 
200 miles away
you drift away
from being able
to take care of 
yourself.

Time for this to end

A late night pilgrimage

The early morning rescue

to set one free
of valid characteristics
and petty problems
that are usually kept
in drawers.

To spin and spin
again & again
the wheel of sanction

only to find:

contradiction
contradiction
all we have is
contradiction

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Coworkers

by Jahnavi Delmonico

 

 

 

Pam


My imagination furnishes

The plastic stroke on iron hair

In the mornings

Tying knots alone

Smoke styling a bracelet for each wrist;

Now painting the bathroom Lyndhurst Celestial Blue

Dripping fingers noxious and smooth
Painting  the bags of your eyes

Almost to match
The skin of your face

Hanging there like wisdom

 

Greg

shu-shu-shu

ridiculous gait of a clown-bowling pin

teetering on the edge of

thinking something really nasty

solid beacon of irreal goof

calmly with the smudgy children

wearing down to dull edges

shoes and sharp ideas

it’s as if

the clean logic of sadness

never occurred to you,

making offerings to life and taste

of all your unintelligible admiration




Natasha

 

You showed me he’d written you a love poem

laughing and embarrassed, proud, derisive

the way he liked your tiny neck

miniscule feet

and everyone knows

the brown as if purple eyes

 

I think about

how you used to misspelled aisle,

(until someone must’ve corrected you

because I never would)

as though our own aisle 42,

with the leather gloves, tool boxes, sawhorses lankily grazing

were a stretch of sunny ocean sand

where you and I are sisters

 



Jody

 

dollop of mother-candy

round, industrious

send away the bashful dirt

sail home in a hard boat of pain like masts shattering

on waves as loving as a husband

and the two of you unwrap chocolate bars together

sitting in bed

 



Alex

 

tangled composition

of virile walking

and soft baby confusion

just as clever as a blade

of grass bending with a dewdrop load

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Hiking

by Keenan Schott

As I sauntered through the field
She walked a few steps ahead
Knowing exactly where to go
Even though we weren't going anywhere in particular.

When we arrived at the woods

She found a clearing
With a henge of logs for us to sit on.

I took a slug from my pint of cheap whiskey

And offered it to her, but she refused.
She dipped her one-hitter into her partially-full grinder
And smoked it down in three hits.

“It's gorgeous out today,”

I lied, my ass a swamp of sweat.
She didn't say anything,
Just smiled and lit a menthol cigarette.
I puffed away at my e-cig
And watched the trees' shadows
Flicker like a Brakhage film.

Back in the field

We flumped into the grass.
I asked her to hold my hand.
She said 'no'.
I drank the rest of my whiskey.

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Selected Poems

by Harrison Parks

204

remnants of marriage

she played amateur esthetician
and pain like migraines
danced on my nose

the sacrifice of nerves
for her aesthetic
nonchalance and disregard

watching tyra banks
for schadenfreude and
models' sakes

i don't know how else to
put it, other than that i
found her, bought a ring

and moved away
so that i could make a life
for us.

we made tender little lies
and uncommunicable pain
is still there on the bad days.

you can dress it up in all the
rhetoric we want. our bond
was a disgusting knot.

koshka, catty brat, 'my man'
and every pet name that
leaves me gagging

my sympathies are with her,
notwithstanding.
attacked for not

delineating her attractions.
her father's love of life
finished by a pistol --

when i revisit this
wretching decade past,
my bouts of never leaving

my house, my disinterest in
anything but books of
beautiful ideas, picking

blueberries all day with her,
making bread, tasting her
incredible borsch,

her present of armagnac,
hiding her polyamory,
the ugly contradictions,

loss and disbelief,
solace, orgasms, and sleep--
i still believe

in human nature and
the kindness of strangers,
charlie chaplin dropping

his tramp and telling
soldiers to fight for
freedom; the choice of love,

its vict'ry march,
the overwhelming sweet
solace that so many

gave me freely --
for now my scar tissue
looks nothing like scars,

through no restorative
but human grace,
human will &

human faith.
human wisdom,
human love --

human dreams and
human fun.
cynicism died

the slowest, bitterest
end. all that's left
remains unfurled.

my doors are open,
step inside, there'll
be fresh work and

fresher lines, there'll
be memories of sunflowers
bought in d.c. from street

vendors, deejays with
parodies of jay-z's
"black republican"

ressurection from melly,
trees on fire, her love
over three gelato scoops,

women on stilts parading the
cobblestone streets of quebec city,
and there, claire & i & a blue whale.

it is jumping into a pool
with clothes on & harvest
moon on a hot night.

i love haunting melodies
inspired by anne frank,
shoes of thousands piled

upon each other from the
rubble of german concentration
camps, the knowledge that

my heritage served the usaaf,
safely navigated the skies,
escaped to the french underground,

restored studebakers and tulsa life.
i return and steep in echoes,
celebrate and caterwaul,

meet south koreans, kiwi zealands,
english faces, geoje women.
pronounce another country's tongue --

i create. i don't appease.
none of this was she and i.
remnants scatter and belie.

i wish you well, i wish you breath --
find, once more, a honeyed mouth.
breathe in

our tranquil shock: our bold, bright light.

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