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AUGUST 2008 | |
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Narok
fruit red and bruise black
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By Kim Frieders, Jul 28, 2008  |
A Review of Wilson’s Blankety Blank: A Memoir of Vulgaria (2008)
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Witness
By Carla Criscuolo, Apr 30, 2008 The night she wore that small stuffed toy llama on her head to dinner, front legs framing her face, muzzle flopped forward kissing her hairline, an embarrassed friend asked “Why?” She said, “Because I want to.” In those words I heard the sound of a spark jumping from the fire place to the Persian rug, of water boiling over the side of a kettle, the last Redbird subway car pulling out of Flushing. I wanted to be her, all kinetic and unfettered. I cannot imagine her in bridal white, marching down an aisle of mahogany pews that end with “Because I want to” becoming “Do you think we should?” That day, I will stand front and center in a throng of bustling girls aching for union. When she tosses life in the singular over her shoulder, I will reach, hoping the bouquet that lands in my palm is still warm from her grip. After His Suicide By Carla Criscuolo, Apr 30, 2008 for Kirk N. I There is something delicate in the way others speak to me now. Hesitant in their choice of words, a cavernous fear rolling beneath, as though sound itself can cause death. II Wishing to touch your motionless wax lips, I am cold with the memory of your tongue in my ear. III I find myself talking to bookshelves, telling each spine of your ability to converse with any person in any language, of the endless smile that pulled my lips every time you opened yours. I hope for osmosis, to see my words absorbed by creamy pages written by famous authors so others can flip through them and know you were here. Carla Criscuolo was born and raised in Manhattan and claims the experience has spoiled her so badly she is not fit to live anywhere else. Her poetry has appeared in The Orange Room Review and is forthcoming in The Blue Jew Yorker. She works at Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, NY. MORNING IS NOT KINDBy Wayne Mason, May 03, 2008 before the sunrise frailty of life hiding in shadows and cracks the only thing visible is headlights slicing through the darkness Phantom drivers pressing steel toes to accelerators whirring past yellow lights and lamp posts like giant candles melting to the ground In the distance smoke stacks burp plumes of smoke made from bone flesh, hair, and teeth sacrifices for the industrial machine Just another morning racing with the dead Wayne Mason is a writer and factory worker from central Florida. When he grows up he wants to be Kannon. His work has been published throughout the small press and he is the author of three chapbooks.You can visit him at his website. |
a poem about faith and tomorrow
By David LaBounty, May 03, 2008 the letter said the power would be shut off tomorrow but tomorrow has no bearing on tonight as the TV is still on and the beer is still cold and your sons play peacefully at your feet and you tilt not one but three beers back and think about something Jesus said, something about tomorrow, how tomorrow will always take care of itself. David LaBounty lives in suburban Detroit with his wife and two young sons. His poems have appeared in several print and online journals and he has two novels under his belt, The Perfect Revolution and The Trinity, both barely read but out there just the same. Waiting for Happy Pills in my TruckBy Dan Provost, Apr 15, 2008 I am clouded...alone in a maze of disengaged actors who portray life in shopping malls, liquor stores and college campuses. Role Play: “Hello”...“How are you?” “How was your Thanksgiving?” “Well”...says the sad speaker, “I had an imaginary gun to my head and pondered the meaning of life.” “Oh, bye...” And lyrics are sung by obnoxious pop-stars Rappers brag about their fuck technique. I await my Klonipin...parked in front of a typical New England stream, Leaves scattered along the shore...assuring all life’s patrons that the fall season is quickly coming to a close... And tears well up... Always well up... With thoughts of approaching old age and lonely death. Winter’s pardon of life is secured... Dan Provost’s poetry is harsh and crude. Some like it while others hate it. He lives alone in Worcester, Massachusetts, and loves Lynyrd Skynyrd. PinkBy Anthony Liccione, May 02, 2008 I don’t think pink looks natural on a guy, but I do think pink looks casual on a gay with that said, red shares a whole different story, to see a straight man with blood on his hands a pink rose withering low in his back pocket. Anthony Liccione lives in Texas, but his heart resides in NY. He enjoys reading the likes of underground poets as John Grey, Corey Mesler, John Sweet, Justin Hyde, Rob Plath, and Karl Koweski. 
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the minotaur remembers
John Sweet, b. 1968, single father of two. Believer in writing as catharsis. Opposed to a great many things, including organized religion and all formal schools of poetry. Collections include Human Cathedrals and the insanely obscure Ash Wilderness. He exists mainly on Pepsi, mexican food and the blood of unicorns. It’s the Coldest Day of the YearBy James Babbs, May 16, 2008 it’s the coldest day of the year and I have to get up and go to work after she told me last night she doesn’t want to see me anymore and I’m trying to eat my breakfast but it doesn’t have any flavor I’m looking out the window hoping to find some answers but I just keep seeing the same barren field and all the trees without leaves the emptiness in my stomach and something lodged in my throat that I can’t get out James Babbs still lives and dies a little each day in the same small town where he grew up. He works for the government but doesn’t like to talk about it. He likes getting drunk and writing and sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference because both of them can be very intoxicating. Some recent poems have appeared in Abbey, Barbaric Yawp, Free Verse, Indite Circle, Main Street Rag, and Zygote in My Coffee. |
