ALL-POETRY 2008

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M. Blake

Nathan Graziano

Steven Kunert

Gotama
By Danny Powell, Aug 12, 2008







Marc Pietrzykowski

Matthew Savoca

Brandi Wells

Flat Tire
By Kurt Remington, May 25, 2008

Having a flat tire
In Nebraska
Is like
Having your foot caught
In a mound of
Stinking cow dung.
And the radio and
The birds are all screaming
The televangelist sales pitch
or
The family planning
doctrine.

I’d rather
the sales pitch
It veils the bullshit a bit less.

Oh, Cleveland!
Where art thou?

Soon,

If my luck turns.
I will be laying
on soggy grass
at Edgewater Park.

Then maybe I’ll walk
down
to the water,
dodging flies
and broken brown glass
and condoms
and groundhogs
and diapers
along the way.
Yes I have
seen them all.

And it all beats the hell
Out of
these hours spent at the
Lincoln PILOT.

Maybe I’ll have a shower...

May 2008
Lincoln, Nebraska

Kurt Remington was born in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1981. With a name like his you are either born rolling in a pile of old money, or the progeny of coal miners and bourbon swiggers. His father sold pot to put him through Montessori school. That’s the extent of his privilege. He won’t deny the chip on his shoulder but he’ll abandon it for now. He’s been writing and working for a long time but has just begun to publish. He’s been a painter, a dishwasher. He’s worked on farms and in warehouses. He learned to write well while in graduate school at Cleveland State University which is to say that he learned how not to write. He owes them a sizeable chunk of his ass despite having quit just before graduating. He has no wife and no child. He is a Midwest writer regardless of where he lives.

carpenter’s hammer
By Jack Henry, May 22, 2008

breath of ancients
whisper through skulls
hammered to walls with
carpenter’s nails

masses fall to their scabby knees
and beg forgiveness and mercy
for images melted to optical
neurons, built atop sins
for which none can atone

we watch, remote on mute,
as revelry plays out, b & w
and backwards, before
children’s shiny eyes

liquid amber hallucinations
father misery as i sit strapped
to the chair, awaiting
the pull

Jack Henry is a writer/poet/publisher living in S/E California. Recent publications include the anthology SCRAWL, a chapbook called CHASING SCREAMING MONKEYS W/O ANY CLOTHES, as well as journal publications in Cause & Effect, CP Journal, Off Beat Pulp and others. He has upcoming pieces in cc&d, Static Movement, Instant Pussy, Winamop, Clockwise Cat, Gloom Cupboard, and Oak Bend Review.


Listed at Duotrope's Digest



Diurnally
By April Michelle Bratten, May 21, 2008

The bells are a’rising
without a ring,
as morning splatters across the grass.

I thirst for an open mouth to speak,
long for a shifting of quiet
across your sleep.

But you do not turn,
              O, terrible stone,
does it not hurt to be thrown?

Even the flowers swoop to reveal
their faces to the sun—
How dare you never do,
                  How dare you never wake for me!

This early light discolors your eyes,
unveils your vague echoes of heat.

Pale and shine into the sun,
I remember,
another hand extending nothing,
and me,
left grasping for air.

Silence,
how it screams of you—my mouth agape with you,
you, and you.

Wider yet, I will open still,
my body a pocket
for all of your small violences.

April Michelle Bratten is an English major at Minot State University in Minot, North Dakota. She will remain there until she hears the sounds of the city once again call her name. April both admires and writes confessional poetry, a style of writing which she feels is (sadly) slowly dwindling in popularity. April co-edits the literary zine Up the Staircase.

Cleavage
By Juliet Cook, May 15, 2008

She tilts it and sweetly scoops it—
a double dip of vanilla ice cream
with maraschino cherries on top.
She glistens it and coquettishly spills it
into so many gaping mouths
desirous to lick that, spoon that
oozing hot butterscotch

(gallivant, slink, pussyfoot).

She pin-up minxes it—
a bullet bra flaunt with peek-a-boo
lace and white satin waist-
high panties. Pearlescent girdle and garter belts.
Ornamental welts. Glazed cherry stems faked
into tiny bows and kinkier formations.
Creamy gams splayed to reveal

(stained fur, sharp burrs, bared teeth)

stiff ruffles. A hot tease of innermost thigh.
Worm moons, counterclockwise tassels,
a tightening corset. She looks good, but she’d look better
in a bukkake party. Pulsing, trussed wrists, black curtain
of saturated bangs. Black flats like patent leather hooves
with coarse hair tufting. Some kind of wild thing.
Some kind of dirty whore’s heaving

(cleavage, cloven, carnage).

Once she is adorned by that rubber sheen
thorax fetish pageant. Once her face is splatter-
painted, an exquisite scene. Torn seams, hook & eye
buttons busted, red-caked lips a soused sheath
cum-guzzling all that throbbing meat.
Once she puts on that slaughtered animal costume,
how long before he wants to drink her blood?

(Heartworm, ringworm, money shot of maggots.)

Juliet Cook is a poet and the editor of Blood Pudding Press. A few of her recent publication credits include DIAGRAM, OCTOPUS, Sein Und Werden, ditch, and Prick of the Spindle. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and currently has a poem representing in Sundress Publications Best of the Net 2007 anthology. Her latest print chapbook, Planchette, can be procured from Blood Pudding Press. Her first e-chapbook, Projectile Vomit, will be published soon by Scantily Clad Press. More chapbooks and a full-length are slinking around, mewling and hissing and seeking peculiar homes.

Beautiful Correspondences
By Suzanne Nielsen, May 06, 2008

Melody removed her earplugs after 30 days
and to her amazement could faintly hear
“Tiny Dancer” play in her mind; it was as if
Humpbacks were humming the lyrics
so she crossed the big divide and dove
into the waters with her pirate smile
to return to scavenging, her most precious pastime.

Suzanne Nielsen, a native of St. Paul, Minnesota, teaches writing at Metropolitan State University. Her poetry, fiction and essays appear in literary journals nationally and internationally; So’ham Books released her first collection of poetry titled East of the River, in December 2005, a collection of short fiction titled The Moon Behind the 8-Ball & Other Stories, in 2007, and will release her new collection of poetry titled I Thought You Should Know in 2008.


Fragile Flower
By Puma Perl, Jun 03, 2008

You, my bad ass macho man
have been disarmed
because I love you
because I want you
you are my fragile flower
vulnerable to every element

You step from your car
trip over a pebble
your head smashes into rock
your brain bleeds
you fight but fall victim to coma

or you walk out your door
there are stones in your path
they boomerang wildly
one hits your left eye
leaves you blinded, brain damaged
unable to see me, hear me

My desire is so potent
it has stripped you of power
sent the gods into turmoil
turned nuggets to deadly weapons
made the most mundane chore
a treacherous adventure

The roads boil with blood
you are lost in cataclysm
I cannot reach you, touch you
You are torn from the world
the horizon is calm
the moon has risen
in your writer’s room
you are safe

Puma Perl is a poet and writer who believes strongly in the transformative power of the creative arts. Her work has been published in Cause & Effect, The Mom Egg, Brain Box, and other journals and online zines, and she has been a featured reader in various New York City venues. She is currently at work on her first book, which will be a series of linked poems about the lower east side in the 1970s.

Dandelion
By Phill Provance, May 17, 2008

It’s just
a weed
that doesn’t need
the flower
it makes
to reproduce.
Sure,
you can
boil its leaves
and ferment the juice
or make
a salad
out of its roots.
Living, though,
it has no use
(except for,
maybe,
to feed the bees)—
It just ignores
all Darwin’s rules
and shoves
its disheveled, yellow head
up through
the fresh-cut
grass

Phill Provance writes poetry when he’s not working on his newest invention: The Universal Syphilitic Cattle Converter (Patent Pending). He also enjoys spending time with his pet eel, Louis, and his three wives, Sally, Tamika and Lin.... Sometimes, sadly, he prefers Louis’s company to his wives’. But, he says, the converter should fix these problems when completed.

A Bird’s Eye View of Man
By Ernest Williamson III, May 25, 2008

branded by the sun
a litter of potential good sustained
lying spliced and red
bleeding for the sake of bleeding
their praise is the unisex of finality
burning smelt
lifting sulfuric vapors to my nose
pinching my putrid breath
annulled is the finch in taxonomies
foolish separations

I’d rather watch the movement of the coffee
black meddling with cream
revealing my delight and your envy
man is a big horn
gifted but loud
slurs in one hemisphere
and compassion in the other

Ernest Williamson III is a 31-year-old polymath who has published poetry and visual art in over 120 online and print journals within a time span of 8 years. His poem “The Jazz of Old Wine” has been nominated for a Best of the Net award by the editors of Thick with Conviction. He holds the B.A. and the M.A. in English/Creative Writing/Literature from the University of Memphis. Ernest is now listed in the prestigious Directory of American Poets and Fiction Writers. Professor Williamson is also a private tutor,and a Ph.D. Candidate at Seton Hall University. Visit him at his website.

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