Ira Glass Wants to Hit Me
By Rebecca Jacoby, Jun 30, 2008
The Tiny Doll Wife
fragments whispered to a pretty girl in spring
By John Dorsey, Apr 06, 2008
yesterday i told a
girl that what i
hate most about april
is having to pray
to t.s. eliot
i said my stomach speaks 16 different languages
then i told her
politely that love is
the language of blood
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
once again it is
april and death is
my snuggle bunny in
the melting snow
i pray that in
time she will become
a beautiful woman
a flower that will
bloom in any season
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
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
and the coffin song
of secondhand gods
who put words in
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.
YANG CHU’S POEMS 184
By Duane Locke, Mar 30, 2008
Grapefruit, a few, a few grapefruit
Like Christmas ornaments on a spreading backyard
Aesthetically, dark golden specks
The yellow globular shape that changes
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
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
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.
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.
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.