ORGASMS by Hugh Fox

OS ORGASMOS

Um picole de cocó, um colher de Nutella chocolate
casado com avelá, ovinhos de codorniz, cocinando
com queso branco, guarana e pedaços de goiaba,
colheres cheias de Nescafe chocolate embalsimado
com azucar, esquece os olhos, as cavernas pelúcias e as
facas exploradores, os corpos deitados nos camas
celestias…so a lingua fala, trufas, brigadeiros, camifeos,
cajuzwaha, tempo tudo em um orgasmo que não termina

__________________

ORGASMS
A coconut icecream stick, a spoonful of Nutella chocolate
married to hazelnuts, quail eggs, cooking with white
cheese, guarana and pieces of guava, spoons full of
Nescafe chocolate embalmed with sugar, forget your
eyes, the plush caverns and the exploratory knives, the
bodies stretched out on celestial beds….only the tongue
talks, trufas, brigadeiros, camifeos, cajuwaha, full time
having an orgasm that doesn’t stop.

ORGASMS by Hugh Fox

OS ORGASMOS

Um picole de cocó, um colher de Nutella chocolate
casado com avelá, ovinhos de codorniz, cocinando
com queso branco, guarana e pedaços de goiaba,
colheres cheias de Nescafe chocolate embalsimado
com azucar, esquece os olhos, as cavernas pelúcias e as
facas exploradores, os corpos deitados nos camas
celestias…so a lingua fala, trufas, brigadeiros, camifeos,
cajuzwaha, tempo tudo em um orgasmo que não termina

__________________

ORGASMS
A coconut icecream stick, a spoonful of Nutella chocolate
married to hazelnuts, quail eggs, cooking with white
cheese, guarana and pieces of guava, spoons full of
Nescafe chocolate embalmed with sugar, forget your
eyes, the plush caverns and the exploratory knives, the
bodies stretched out on celestial beds….only the tongue
talks, trufas, brigadeiros, camifeos, cajuwaha, full time
having an orgasm that doesn’t stop.

Be Proud Your Son’s A Man by Zach King-Smith

i
saw
her

struggling
with just a few
bags

of
groceries

one
in
each
arm

her
back
was
bent

i
imagine
that

the days
she’s lived

rolled over
her like thousands
of cars over an old
highway

her
face
was
cracked

she
didn’t
say it

but
that
bastard
she called

her
husband

gave it
to her good

a few
too many
times

with
his
meaty
fists

she told
me that

i was
a good man

i
nodded and
walked off

truth
is that

there
are no
good men

anywhere

it’s
not
that

black &
white.

On Those Nights by Mike Meraz

on those nights
when you feel
you have already lived
a thousand lives

the clubs,

the bars,

the women,

the sex,

all seem useless

like a dirty rag
you can’t wipe
your hands on,

or a wrecked car
you can’t drive,

or an old plane ticket
that will no longer take you
where you want to go.

Next Time by Ernie Culver

–next time–

dad calls

8:24 am

his voice
heavy
like a gray wind

says
mom’s doing good

chemo’s going well

left breast
removed

been at st. josephs all
weekend

hardly any shut eye

asks if I want to grab a
cup of coffee
with him

maybe a reuben

get some guy time in
shoot the shit

would love to
but I have an interview
in a few

friend got me one over
at intel

thought I would give it a shot
he says

next time though
for sure
I say

yup

next time

both of us
too chickenshit
to do
what naturally comes next:

say goodbye
&
hang up

the day the music died by DB Cox

i’ve sat through
wagner’s “tristan & isolde”
i’ve heard schoenberg
try to out-wagner wagner
in “transfigured night”
i’ve listened to webern’s
“symphony for chamber orchestra”
in which sound
is pulverized
into luminous dust—
one enlightening evening
i watched john cage
cram enough junk into
the back of a grand piano
to make a pontiac bonneville
just so he could explore
the outer frontiers
of musical pointlessness
but my symphony tickets
went on ebay
the night a well-dressed
piano soloist
walked on stage & executed
a piece entitled 4’ 33”

the audience
watched & waited
as the virtuoso
sat silently
at the keyboard
for 4 minutes & 33 seconds
then stood up
bowed & departed
creating the first ever
musical vacuum
in the local concert hall

leaving me wondering—
if a concert pianist
is seated at a steinway
alone
in the middle of a forest
& a giant oak tree
crashes down
on his hollow crown
does it make a sound?
& if it does
could you
would you
have the balls
to call it music?

–Poet’s Bio

Two Poems by Doug Draime

Thoreau And The Indians

Thoreau called them
savages  from
the English and
French. They
say he didn’t
really mean
anything by it. That
that was just a
common term used to identify
the indigenous people
of this continent,
implemented by the
Europeans who had
invaded it.

But I wonder if anyone back then
ever called a spade a spade
Did anyone ever challenge
this and other white supremacy
thinking written in his
masterpiece, Walden.
Did anyone ever get up in
Henry David’s hairy mug
and lecture him on the ignorance
of such a terminology expressed
toward an entire race of people
Did Ralph Waldo Emerson
love him enough as a friend
to ever point out
this obvious
blind spot
in Thoreau’s pristine contemplation
of  justice
and social disobedience?

________________________

Notes On A Project

a painting
of a lone
rose

blossoming
on a
snowy
peak

in
the
dead
of
winter

painted
on
a
dried
animal
skin

of
an
animal
made
extinct

by the
murderous
lack of
wonder

WONDER WHO CARES by F.N. Wright

today
thursday may 18th
the year 2010
davy crockett
& daniel boone
both kicked the
bucket
bought the farm
cashed in the last
of their chips
finally died
after rumors of
davy’s death
many moons ago
at the alamo
& danny boy
well
died right along side
of good ol’ davy
coonskin hat long
forgotten
’cause fess parker
took ’em both with him
dying at the age of 85
the uncaring bastard
did it on his wife
of 50 fucking years
(marcella is her name)
84th birthday
some kind of shitty present
if you ask me & I’ll
give you 10 to 1 odds
she’s one pissed off woman
at the moment
well, fess
I must care or I wouldn’t
be writing this shitty
fucking poem
that
or I must be bored out
of my fucking gourd
at any rate, marcella
happy birthday.

William Taylor Jr.

Two Poems by ave jeanne

PORTRAIT: in the mirror

this fragile vegan
attempting
to alter, amend people
one by one
two by two
who saunter saturday
hand in hand
into the meat store
bright lites above
saying open open
where hangs
abundant dead bodies
these animals who once
with sun on back
freely walked under sky
earth under hoof
larger then life
voices great & might

in mirror dirty
i remain
diminutive

_____________
PORTRAIT: watching sunlight in philadelphia

this grass and tree
resilient sit
to our assembly
but the sun
a sire strong
knows a method
to command
attention all

how jealous
are we
mere spectators
who daily abuse,
spit out trash to earth
absorb air & cloud
eat animals
away toss money

they seldom hear
voices stir
in places foreign
forgotten from tv
or a recent blog

this grass and tree
resilient sit
as faces burn,
children eat hungry
while we walk
under the same sun