bone digger by pretty words

Posted in pretty words with tags on October 8, 2014 by Scot

whilst big spooning

it was then
she thought to
kiss it

the occipital bone
at the back of
his head

that warm trapezoidal protrusion
right there in the hair
above his soap-smelling sexy
shaven nape

she explained in a whisper
that she loves the
skeletal system

all he did was laugh
because she likes

Amid the Silence of Imams by Donal Mahoney

Posted in Donal Mahoney with tags on October 6, 2014 by Scot

Carnage rolls
across the sand
amid the silence
of imams

Women raped,
children killed,
amid the silence
of imams

What will it take
to stop the carnage
amid the silence
of imams

Three Poems by Justin Hyde

Posted in Justin Hyde with tags on October 5, 2014 by Scot

a little truth to tattoo on your wrist for when the water boils

if she leaves you
for another man

it’s not going to be

–because he’s 6’3 instead of 5’8
–swings two handfuls of rope
–has a more poignant physiognomy

–acronyms after his name

–or any other myopic insecurity
conjured by the male mind.

the day she pulls out the scissors
and redacts your world
it’s going to be because

all she ever wanted
was to meet hand in hand
in a field of wildflowers


i just need a little lightness

it feels like i’m always walking on eggshells

she told you
time and again
chance after

but you went ahead and wrung her bone-dry

callused hands

and now she’s out dancing

waist deep

in the wildflowers.

standing in line at the customer service desk of the grocery store to buy a 2 day fishing license

another clerk
opens a window

they split
the line in two

old raw-boned black guy
thin as a broom handle
rolls up
at the back of the second line
leaning on a shopping cart
with one can of soup in it

his turn

calls me over
from the other line
because i’ve been waiting

before i get there
old black guy leans in
says something
to the clerk

i can’t hear
but bundles of white hair
coming out of his nose
are moving fiercely
he points
a finger at her

that gentleman
has been waiting
longer than you,
she says sternly
with a blank face.

i know what this is

i know what you people

is on,
he points his finger again
angrily bumping his shopping cart
into the customer service desk.

i don’t understand
why you’re so upset sir
i was in line before you,
i call out calmly
but firmly.

i know this

i know what

she’s on,
his voice
comes from a place
pushed down
and burning.

let me handle this,
says the off duty cop
stationed behind the
customer service desk.

i mind the law
get my license
and go about my day

he pushes his cart
off to the side
mumbling down
and burn

then he throws
his can of soup
at the clerk


cracks the window
of the manager’s office

and leaves in handcuffs
in the back
of the cop car.


why is that man so angry?

my son
wants to know.

i went to the open mic poetry night in des moines iowa

they came
with their rhymes

pithy rants
societal disses
and playground snaps

they stood there
parroting abstract
bloated commentary

broad sweep
and generalization

all with affectation
and sing-song voices



totally bereft
of soul

there was no blood

no polyps

no bone fragments

no wheeze
and catch of breath
for the reaper’s shadow
standing sentinel

not a one
gambled their heart

they left their
hearts at home
in the bread basket

a hole
where their heart
should be

a stale breeze
through each one

no poets

no poetry

to be found.

Three poems by Michele McDannold

Posted in Michele McDannold with tags on October 2, 2014 by Scot

there’ll be time for that later

she began noticing everything
in her world was manilla-
colored. her skin had turned
manilla, the bare mattress on
sheet-changing days… manilla.
the very air filling that room.
yes, manilla. if her life
resembled anything at all,and
perhaps there are more
appropriate words for colors
seen and unseen, but i tell you–
it was every molecule, manilla.

the grainy
the slick
it all tasted the same

she contemplated gold,
soft light,
water shadows,
there is no sound
to manilla

all the laundry turned this color
all the lids
all the unwashed hands
and corners
and every

the facts and details

at some point
you’ll start to wonder
where i left you
and went with those other men
i start to think
and smoke some more drugs
what is the difference
instructions and directions

you won’t want to know
his arms worked better than yours
in holding me down

your mouth is the lack of,
i dream–


veer right at the curve
if you have to crash
go to your right
if you have to

this highway leads to
this highway
and nothing else

8 horrible ways the universe can destroy us

and they happened without warning

the fade
the cut and run
the never was what you thought in the first place
the dry, sucking ache of just not right
the disconnect
the gray the gray the gray

it’s about
cutting things down
to the quick
something that
without warning
when you think
too much
& hold it in

i apologize in advance
your metaphors
are like
a sandbag
in a desert

is the
of the end

i have already cried enough


Posted in Mather Schneider with tags on October 1, 2014 by Scot

A new Mexican telenovela
started last week
at 6 o’clock
on channel 46.

My wife and I
watch it
every night
while we eat

Some of the characters
in the novela
live in a garbage dump
Mexico City

a huge
seemingly endless
mountain range of refuse
where the poorest of the poor
build their shacks
call it home
pick the garbage daily
for things they can fix
and use or sell or wear or
no place to even wash

My wife is from
and she assures me
this is not
and I can tell by the footage
it is no stage set.

Of course the actors
are not poor
but when the filming stops
real people do live there
in this garbage dump
this basurero
and they do live like
every day
fighting on the very edge
of existence
death is their neighbor
hunger their black butterfly.

They are not saints
and I know they would probably do
almost anything
to give their children
what we have

there is something
not what it is supposed to be
on factory-bought sofas
eating dinner
without real hunger
watching novelas
every night

clicking off the
when the credits

dishes washed
garbage cans pushed
to the curb

going to our soft
clean beds
to ready ourselves
for the coming

lying here in the dark
feeling fat
and filthy

on what would have been my parents’ 68th by Lynne Savitt

Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on September 29, 2014 by Scot

wedding anniversary day as miserable
as their 60 year marriage i had a car
accident in a traffic circle what perfect
symbolism going round & round & round
in wheel of unhappiness i was made
dizzy by chance of lusty escape love
makes us stupid as smashing into
truck driving honda accord melted into
silver metal cake happy anniversary
dead parents from yr idiot daughter
who cannot escape yr legacy of
miserable marriages & death
of unrelenting dreams of joy

Three Poems by Doug Draime

Posted in Doug Draime with tags on September 29, 2014 by Scot

Plant Some Sweet Peas There, Too

Bulldoze the green and lush ivy walls.
Tear down the sanctimonious Ivory Towers.
Plow up the campuses and classrooms.

Plant tulips and roses and lilacs and carnations there,

where blind conformity is sold,

where education is a complacent whore spreading
it’s legs to worship war,

where imperialism and corporate murderers are

where the souls of your children are gutted like
beasts of prey,

where the lies about the American Dream

where tenure is a cover-up for increasing ethical

where corruption is over looked for the sake of
Cronyism and the Empire.

Bulldoze the green and lush ivy walls.
Tear down the sanctimonious Ivory Towers.
Plow up the campuses and classrooms.

And plant redwoods and sycamores and spruce
and oaks.

Plant some tomatoes and onions and carrots
and a peach tree.

Plant some sweet peas there, too.


“With both cute little fists clenched,” she said,
I walked up to the bully of my friend,
who was several inches taller,
as well as 3 years older, and pushed
him backwards hard, telling him that
if he ever bothered my
friend again I would track him down
and kick his ass real bad.

She said, at 5 years old
I already had a reputation
as a scrapper on the streets of Pittsburgh,
and that the bully backed away quickly
and never messed with my friend again.

My aunt told this story often in my presence,
and I would get up and leave the room
when she got to the part about
“with both cute little fists clenched”, which was
always followed by her laughter
and the laughter of whoever she was
telling it to.

I recall she stopped telling the story,
at least when I was around, after I was
arrested and jailed for drunk and disorderly,
and hitting a cop when was 16. But I would like
to think that when I wasn’t around, she
told the story with the same motherly pride, knowing
the cop had hit me first and was just another bully
I stood up to, and I hope that her laughter was loud
and defiant.


The Moment I Want

All concepts and ideas,
thoughts of past
and future, gone.

The bare-ass
conception of art,
that frees everyone
thus everything.

And then is all
undone and falling
from me:

all dreams of
judgment, all lies
of me, and all

lies of you:

a sudden sunrise
in a snoring



Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 281 other followers