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JULY 2008 | |
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Star-Spangled Enterprise
Ira Glass Wants to Hit Me
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By Rebecca Jacoby, Jun 30, 2008  |
The Tiny Doll Wife
Propping Frisco
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fragments whispered to a pretty girl in spring
By John Dorsey, Apr 06, 2008 i. yesterday i told a girl that what i hate most about april is having to pray to t.s. eliot ii. i said my stomach speaks 16 different languages then i told her politely that love is the language of blood iii. as we made love i rubbed her wisdom teeth together for luck like a pair of fuzzy dice after all these yrs of waiting around for angels i’ve learned nothing iv. once again it is april and death is my snuggle bunny in the melting snow v. i pray that in time she will become a beautiful woman a flower that will bloom in any season the poem By John Dorsey, Apr 06, 2008 stares out at desire a washed out sunset built upon the lost temples of the pilgrim’s last known stanza a love poem to the new world oh history the child i prayed i’d never have the ghosts tell me that i am a lot less likely to fuck it up than you you’re good with words they whisper my grandfather always used to remind me to treat sonnets like a lady even though they are my dead selves peering out at my words with the grace of hamlet’s deaf tongue they obviously don’t know me very well everything gets fucked up in time even time itself sometimes i feel like the grandfather clock of death and the coffin song of secondhand gods who put words in my mouth John Dorsey currently resides in Toledo, OH. He is the author of several collections including harvey keitel, harvey keitel, harvey keitel with S.A. Griffin and Scott Wannberg (Butcher Shop Press/Rose of Sharon Press/Temple of Man, 2005) and The Ghost of Helen Keller (Covert Press, 2008). He may be reached via email. 
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YANG CHU’S POEMS 184
By Duane Locke, Mar 30, 2008 Grapefruit, a few, a few grapefruit Hang Like Christmas ornaments on a spreading backyard Tree. Aesthetically, dark golden specks And smears Spot The yellow globular shape that changes Shapes As an appearance in perspective as one moves from A pepper bush with red pods toward a rust and pine-needle Covered tin roof of a small garage. I as a child am hungry. No food in house. The situation Is designated with a strange word, “Depression.” I did not dress. Still wearing my department store cheap Pajamas That from much washing are losing the boldness Of their assertive blue strips. No food. No fat-back bacon. No biscuits with harlequin hairdos. No. My father. The failure, hid to sleep in a neighbors’ kicked-out-the Door, Tropical island wicker chair in the back room where bed springs Leaned Over the picture of General Lee on the wall. Shall I pull a grapefruit, bite through the thick skin to taste the juice. (In our postmodern world is this glimpse of a narrative a trap door.) Should I depart from memory, call it an unsuccessful attempt, or was It A successful attempt. But I am blind and deaf to critics. But there is a Subversion of the sanctioned social order and late capitalism in a Closed couplet of Shakespeare. My mother brings a piece of bread torn in half by a hand. A spoonful Of Peanut spread over the surface. Is this “I am” poem in which the “I” refuses to disappear. Who was I. Where Was I. Make it new. Make it a gap-toothed smile. Make it a roll In the aisle. Making it Hadrain’s beautiful boy lover drowning In the Nile. “Make it New,” Pound’s foolish words. Listen to what is being said about the goat through the tire Of Robert Rauschenberg, or Keats’ Chapman Homer, or The pets of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, or the Diaspora, or The sound poems of the Four Horsemen, or the priest’s Sexual abuse of choir boys who carry candles, or a Nuyorican Grand Slam Chapionship. In the schoolroom, one of the elite, he bought rather than bringing His lunch, had candies to pass around as payment for someone who Did his mathematics assignment, sits as a dark-haired Irishman With pale blue eyes as an Iroquois in a Southern gentlemen frock Coat, Whispers to himself: “Mon cher Belzébuth je t’adore.” Je t’aime The Devil, the Satan of Job before the interpolations and change from the truth to The falsity of the happy ending. He sung: “I’m in Hell, and my heart Beats so that I can hardly speak.” He tells the beauty queen that sits To him and rubs her leg against him, “A shipment came in, and crack Is selling a discount on the streets.” Ain’t this a display of the procedural nature of language. A real risk. There are a lot of mobile meanings inhabiting these cheek to cheek Associations. If the ethical life of Kierkegaard is implemented is there an Estrangement In the visceral. It is Glossolalia that prevent domestic violence. Horace says all poetry should be sweet and useful. Duane Locke lives in rural Lakeland, Florida, a few feet from an osprey nest, and has a Ph.D. in Metaphysical Poetry. As of January 2008, he has had 5,935 poems published in print magazines and e-zines, 17 print and e-books published, and 209 photos published in magazines and e-zines. For more information, Google him. 
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the early mangoes
Iftekhar Sayeed teaches English and economics. He was born and lives in Dhaka, Bangladesh. He has contributed to The Danforth Review, Axis of Logic, Enter Text, Postcolonial Text, Southern Cross Review, Opednews.com, Left Curve, Mobius, Erbacce, The Journal and other publications. He is also a freelance journalist. He and his wife love to tour Bangladesh.
Red Light
Zack Moll has released two self-published titles at lulu.com—Deliberations and 8. His work’s been featured in Covert Poetics, and he’s currently working on a chapbook that includes both his artwork and poetry.
ON DRUNK STREET
John Grey has been published recently in Agni, Worcester Review, South Carolina Review and The Pedestal, with work upcoming in Poetry East and Cape Rock. |
