Tremendous Power of Concentration
A Review of Boyle's Dollhouse (2007)
Penelope's Fluttering Heart
By Alison Eastley, Apr 30, 2007
They drank wine with the stereo
blasting Like A Virgin
from Madonna's favourite hits
at each other when Penelope
flashed her ankles,
the shape of her knees,
those brilliant teeth, that dazzling
smile even though gossip
on page three her husband
was busy enjoying multiple affairs
on exotic islands
known for drug trafficking
and better cosmetic surgery
than exclusive clinics.
Penelope heard so many things
her head spun in the star
lit room of daring suitors.
Do you think she didn't sleep
with at least one after years
hidden in the silence
of her room where her heart
fluttered and sweat dripped
between her breasts,
when there is only one chance
to throw caution to the wind?
Alison lives in Tasmania, Australia with her two teenage sons and on a good weekend, her lover Larry. Previous work has been published in Mannequin Envy, Double Dare Press, Words On Walls, Mastodon Dentist, LilyLit, and Tryst.
Blowing Tiny Bubbles In The American Dream
By Doug Draime, Apr 30, 2007
Mummies are speaking through
cat scans and x-rays, blowing
rivers of ether. The ozone
layer blows holes of
poisonous gas thru you and
me. The government blows up men and women
and their children, because the feds
don’t like the way they think. Tonight,
a 15 year old starving
her first trick,
for a hamburger and milk shake
in the parking lot
Trying To Read Poetry At A Redneck Bar
By Doug Draime, Jun 1, 2007
when the fight started, a woman
screamed, read 'em a poem!
but i was the only
“poet“ there & i was getting kicked
in the face & was trying to
get up to fight ... not read poems,
but some drunk & ignorant soul
got brave &
started to read some Dylan Thomas, but was
cut across the ball sack by
the same woman,
before he got to, do not go gentle into
the good night
My friends in this Town
By F.D. Marcél, May 2, 2007
I worry for them
for their sanity and their lives,
they won't have me anymore
when I leave town.
Like when what's-his-name loses his job again
and moves back with his father
and I take him out for steak
with my I-didn't-buy-liquor-this-week money.
Like when what's-his-face can't stand his wife
or his crying babies and calls
screaming "This is it!"
and I come by with cheap beer and a good movie.
Like when whoever-he-is can't stomach the world
and walks the streets with a knife in hand
and he and I drive around,
smoking weed until he puts the knife away.
But the farewell party never happens
even though they know I'd never want one
and they're busy with careers
with families, with lives while I
stand in front of the labor office,
sit inside the plasma center,
walk out of the pawn shop
to fund vagrancy, alone,
I realize they realize they may never see me again,
my friends in this town,
and goodbyes don't last like how we used to shake hands,
so who gives a shit.
F.D. Marcél began his career as a staff correspondent for the Reading Eagle newspaper. His work has been in various publications both online and in print, including The Centrifugal Eye, Getgo Magazine, Zygote In My Coffee, Alighted E-Zine and Juked. When not wandering aimlessly, he can be found sleeping comfortably somewhere in or around Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
Comes a Push-Cart Down a Long-Ass Ghazal
By Bob Boston, Aug 5, 2007
There are way too many people writing poetry,
and not nearly enough people reading it.
Poets write for the publication credits,
collect them like rare stamps. Each of them,
Aims to be the next Charles Bukowski,
or the next Langston Hughes, or the next Mary Jo
Bang ... or, the next - Lynn Lyfshin. They all want
to be nominated for that damn Push-Cart.
I already have one of those. It's the metal basket
I wheel down the avenue with my bottles in. I write
my poems on discarded newspapers. On yesterday's
papers, I write my own news. I steal pens from the staff
at the shelter I live in when they're not
looking. When I'm not at the shelter,
or meeting with the doctor, I'm at the library;
the nice woman who works there in her spare time
sends poems of mine out to people who publish poetry
on the library computer. I've never used ... one of those
either. I drop by the library once a day to see what's
doing. Me and my cart sometimes
make our way to the city green where I sit on a park
bench - befriending the pigeons and squirrels. I've had a
lot of poems published here and there, but I have never
won a Push-Cart. I'm not even sure what a Push-Cart for
poems is. Is it anything like mine? Why wouldn't they just give
us poets what we need more of? Some paper? A few pens?
Envelopes? Stamps?! Instead, they aim to give us ... cart?
I have to remind myself for the blessings I have. I have the
nice lady in the library who believes in my odes, I get all
the entertainment and friendship I need from the pigeons
and squirrels. Believe it or not, the number of people
who bring their bottles back to the grocery store, is just
about the same as the amount of people in the world
who read poetry. A Push-Cart. The wheels on mine work
just fine. However, If the Push-Cart
is indeed, an actual cart ... depending on what it's made of -
it might make ... a nice box.
E-mail to Damniso Lopez (Road Sign)