Una Hamburguesa en la Cabeza
Rob Donald, Jul 24, 2007
In order to graduate from the College of Arts at Vanderbilt University, I had to satisfy a number of required core classes, including a foreign language component. I neglected to take a foreign language my first three years, busying myself instead taking ecstasy and engendering resentment with various co-eds, among other things...(more)
Seth Miller, Jun 5, 2007
Security Officer Charles Gilmore studied himself in a public bathroom mirror. The way the dim light filled in his sunken features on his pale face and lanky body reminded him of a skeleton trying to look alive. After a brief once over Charles broke down and cried for reasons he could not even explain. He had a tendency not to show any emotion or talk about his troubled past... (more)
Mar 1, 2007
Review of Murakami's After Dark (2007)
Jun 29, 2007
To anyone unfamiliar with Japanese fiction author Haruki Murakami, you’re missing out – his library includes some real gems. However, one must concede that his writing isn’t the most accessible due to the surrealism found therein, so his books aren’t for everyone. Plus, the characters’ names are always Japanese, and furthermore, his releases must be translated in order for English speakers to be able to read them. Needless to say, with a dozen novels and a few short story collections to his name, Murakami is quite prolific. After Dark (Knopf, 2007) is 191 pages, yet is shorter than his last few titles The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles and Kafka on the Shore, but in spite of the length, AD is another solid entry from the famed novelist, even if it doesn’t match the splendor of his prior installments... (more)
Sitting at a Bar in Plainfield
Feb 25, 2007
and four beer
getting my fuzz on
when this guy
busts a pool cue
he was a dumb black
not the ones you
trade rounds with
the kind that you
and need one hand
for their pants
and one to give
you the finger
if you nod or dare
fuck, there's white
folks like that too
so he busts the cue
the unofficial bouncer
taps him on the shoulder
but the guy wasn't
trying to start anything
he just had a bad
scratched the eight ball
i can't blame him
but he's still a fuckup
Alan performs poetry workshops for the Maryland State Arts Council. He occasionally publishes the international literary journal, Black Moon, from Reisterstown, Maryland, where he lives with his wife, daughter, two Bouviers des Flandres and two formerly feral cats.
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It Starts Raining at the Signal
Mar 21, 2007
and i look outside the window of my car and see her extend
a knobbly hand as her palm faces the sky while big drops splatter all around her
she squats there with one arm holding a sack that carries
a little of herself while the other is still outstretched towards me
i stare at her and she stares at me with her arms curled and reaching
like some haunting statue left with its nails undone; it's pelting
now and i imagine the water swirling, gurgling and mixing in the crack
between her finger and the nail like sludge in my drain
and then the sack convulses in a gentle fit but she ignores that and keeps
looking at me as everything she wears clings to her like a bad name
then her mouth rounds like she's gorging on a roll
and now she is calling out to me in the name of her lord
her eyes remain locked within mine when the light goes
green and i blink twice to notice my windshield explode
rain drops that run down to the hood in jagged bunches
and as i accelerate away, the sack remains still
as she calls out from the rear-view that says
objects in the mirror are closer than they appear
22-year-old Rohith Sundararaman lives in Bombay, India. His work has appeared in eclectica, elimae, GUD, right hand pointing, tom's voice and other journals.
Ode to a Rainbow
Alan Britt, Mar 10, 2007
I haven't seen a rainbow like this one
in a long time.
Nearly ten ultraviolet ribs,
quivering against the overcast sky.
Know any good poems about rainbows?
Submissions are closed until 2008. We will continue to update each month as always and we look forward to receiving all new submissions again when the New Year arrives!
Box of Dreams
Jul 9, 2007
Baseball cards, a rubber band,
an 1894 Indian head penny,
the aroma of cheap tobacco
filled the bottom of an old cigar box;
my box of dreams where no one else could go.
When I was grown the box became a distant memory,
I had forgotten the magic of dreams, cynical adulthood.
In Hollywood I was sure that I was home,
only to find a pink slip and a plane ticket.
Black as coal or blacker,
I lived inside this tube of insanity
where nothing made sense —
I felt like I was dying.
Snorting coke and drinking Buds
to take away the pain, growing thin,
I lost control of my life once again.
Gazing through teary eyes I saw it...
my box of dreams.
When I opened it, I found a time capsule:
a rubber band
and that 1894 Indian head penny;
the box still wafting old tobacco
from 30 years ago filled my nostrils.
My life was not full of hope anymore,
just the agony of knowing;
how I wished that I could start over...
one more feeble attempt at life.
Eventually, I fell asleep
clutching my box of hope.
I had a dream that it was all a terrible mistake —
my war wounds,
my drug addiction all passed away
in my unconscious mind.
When I awoke
I felt a moment of peace... of hope.
Through blood shot eyes I looked around the room,
stacks of empty beer bottles,
an ashtray full of death ,
the residue of cocaine
and a dirty rolled up dollar bill,
still on my mothers’ antique mirror;
And I knew that I was back —
back in the pit of hell.
Ron Cervero resides in New Haven, CT. He began writing poetry in the late 80’s when he worked in the TV & film industry in Los Angeles, CA. Ron has been published in American Writers Poetry League, Other Voices International, Scream of the Buddha Magazine, Poetry Life & Times-Sheffield, Flask Review, and more. Ron is also the
editor of Lost Beat Poetry. His first book is called Cranial Speedway.