Everyone Who Breathes Wants to Live by Michael Kocinski

for Ray Gene Patrick

Angels things don’t wear out,
not their lungs or dicks or stomachs,
never their unbroken hearts.
Never their hearts or guitars. God
keeps them whole for praise
and watches pieces of His human
children fall off until we beg Him
to take us back for good.

The young girls in their church clothes
fall asleep reading the Gospels.
The white crescents of their panties
wink like eyes under pleated skirts.
Great lust that must be fed, hunger
the angels don’t feel or understand.

Aren’t we the most fleeting things of all?
Naked, we are more than naked, and can’t
comprehend the great beauty of it in the
shower, or the dark bedroom, or in the back seat
of a ’57 Buick, getting the leather all wet.

Tastes we love may never touch our
tongues again. The grass won’t
always smell so green, will never fit
so right as it does laying down
under birds and clouds as they pass
like minutes of time allotted by God.

Breathe. One less breath you have to take.
One breath closer to the white light.
Breathe again. I won’t be there to see
God lift you up, smaller than one of His
brown fingernails, folded like a child
in his palm, holier than hands at a prayer meeting

Everyone who breathes wants to live,
and live until they’re old and it’s all
got to be written down. The names we loved
but can’t remember, the white dog
we’d like to have back, blue lights
in the back of a hearse, glowing, and
the young girl, asking you to follow her.
Everything the angels never get
to think about. They get the power
and the glory. We get to breathe.
We get one memory of darkness,
and another one of light. World
with, and without. Amen.

Three poems by Isabel Kestner

When He Comes Home

Take the cup to your lip.
It’s not holy water, I know,
not even wine.  But take a sip.
Slowly.  Something to burn the tongue.
Lift your head, push your back into
the wall, wrap the blanket tighter
around, let your hands out.
Hold the cup, it’s hot, your fingers
can feel again.  Don’t worry about
where you’ve been.  Just lift the cup
up to your lips.  In a little bit,
if you’re doing better, I’ll help
you light a cigarette.  I’m sorry,
but this is the best I have to give.

Center

The center of the earth is not solid;
molten lava, liquid.  I look at the
cherry of my cigarette and think
that must be what it’s like; fire
in the color of orange-red, a color
we have not truly defined yet.

Moment

Continuation
of the game postponed
by visions of the day
light in black hearted
rumors of the
resurrection
and for a moment
you were forgiven.

PICTURE A YOUNG SYDNEY GREENSTREET by Steve Gulvezan

This is my new poetry hat – how
Do you like it?  Red fez – cool –
I saw a great poet at the Old Miami
Wearing one just like it – I put it on my head
When I sit down at my machine to
Spit out the terrible truth about humanity
That is burning up my soul and also
My tender love songs of loss, hope,
Fulfillment, regret, inspiration –
You know, all that stuff poets
Write about – I wore it to mass once
And the priest gave me a dirty look –
I swear – Father Jerry thinks I’m some
Sort of antichrist or something –
Or maybe he just doesn’t like poets –
There are people like that – I learned
My lesson the hard way
At a Detroit Tigers game – that beer
Sure does make a mess when they pour
It all over you – sticky, too – I had to clean
My red fez with kerosene – but I’m going to
Show them – I’m going to wear it next year
To opening god-damned day – no way, no how –
Will they turn this poet into a clown

Dichotomy by Winnie Star

Life is a chemical reaction
between
Good breath
Bad breath
Good pussy
Bad pussy
Big dicks
Little dicks
On time for dates
Late for dates
Marriage forever
Divorce inevitable
Rock and roll
Classic symphony
Rich
Poor
Tall
Short
Big house
Little house
Living in the Hamptons
Living in Port-au-Prince
White skin
Black skin
Political muster
No muster
Time on your side
Time not on your side
Recovery
No recovery

Your choice?

Two Poems by Jason Hardung

DEAR MR. CARVER

I’m not blind
still I don’t know much
about cathedrals.
I do know the
spires twist like knives
into the guilty soul of man,
people in fancy clothes
kneel inside
begging for eternal life

while people out
on the streets
get on their knees
to make it through
one more day.
_______________
I’M GOOD

Its just past seven and the window
no longer frames the cold pink sun.
The trees are props bending
in a starry-eyed background.
Somewhere behind the lighted store front
the mountains rest well in all their dirty history.
I can’t see them but know they’re there-

I’ve got Colorado on my eyes
Los Angeles in my mind.

I had plans for you
you were supposed to become larger than life.
I pulled strings at your baptism, you laid back
to your ears in the mud of the L.A River
and those police helicopters
looked something like confused angels
lost in the sun.

Now you dance on tables in Little Armenia
those five inch heels no longer clicking together
in Judy Garland fashion
but your legs still look strong
almost like telephone poles.
And me, I’m frightened at what the postman brings
frightened another morning will break
without your insecurities keeping you around.
I found one of your hairs
and tied it to my wrist
I can’t remember why.
Sometimes comedies are the worst type of tragedy.

A mother’s intuition is never fleeting,
never like birds fleeing the shotgun echo,
nothing like a man with only four walls and a clock,
the only friend of a broken heart
burns going down and kills in the morning,
all a junkie shoots in the blood
are things he mistook for love,
the clown is only happy
until he finds a shoulder to cry on.

The window is all the way dark now
except for people standing under the street light
the cars, the movement, the hyperion glow.

Remember babe,
the stations of the cross don’t play rock and roll and

I never said I was good for you-
I just said I was good.

Two Poems by Michael Estabrook

Flattered

I’m flattered my wife
told her girlfriends
I was a Renaissance man,
that I would know whether
a black bear or a brown bear
is the more dangerous of the two.
I nod, “It’s the black bear,
the black bear is more dangerous.”
“Why?” she asks, sipping her coffee.
“I thought brown bears were grizzly bears.”

“No, no, they’re two different species.
And because the brown bear
has been closer to people, to humanity,
for so many years, they’ve become
more familiar with people, and subsequently
less aggressive. Whereas
the black bear’s range is higher up
and more secluded in the mountains
of North America, making them much
more dangerous when they do
come into contact with people.”

She smiles and says,
“I also told my friends
you would make something up
if you didn’t know the answer.”

Passion Pink Polish

She drops her sewing box
on her big toe,
turning the nail black,
but it’s not at the nail base
so she won’t lose it,
it’s only turned black.
“I’m going to cover it up
with 2 coats of Passion Pink polish,”
she says. And she does,
leaving only a faint shadow
of black beneath, like a bat
against the night sky.
“Maybe I better use
a darker color,” she says,
“To be sure no one can see
the black color.”
I kneel down
like Lancelot before
the beautiful Guinevere.
“If anyone gets close enough
to actually see
that faint black shadow lurking
beneath your Passion Pink toenail,
I need to know about it,” I respond.

Charles Plymell on Charles Plymell (part 7)

I taught at a Quaker school near Philly and one in Upper Darby on old Highway 1. The English teacher there never quite understood the purpose of the program. He insisted on lionizing me, telling this high school kids now they can meet a real poet in the flesh…ect and made them sit on the floor around me to listen to my poetry. I told him that they were going to write poetry themselves and would be more comfortable at their desk. It was a very posh high school. I saw a T.V. documentary years later about a high school teacher involved in a student/murder wherein the teacher looked all too familiar. I enjoyed the students in all the schools, and in one school far into rural Pennsylvania beyond the Susquehanna Chesapeake watershed, I was moved to write a book of poetry by a third grader. She was playing at recess with our class on a beautiful spring day. The grass was high and the kids were picking clumps of it and throwing it on others and rolling in it. I thought it irresistible poetic play, so I rolled in the grass and put a bunch of it in my hair. When I stood up, the little girl approached me with a puzzled look, eyes squinting in the sunshine and asked in an very inquisitive tone trying to determine a grown-up and asked simply, “Are you a kid?” I titled my book that. I found many poetic phrases and words and sometimes I couldn’t resist “borrowing.” I would use various techniques and materials with kids that other teachers soon adapted. Sometimes with lower grades, Instead of my T4 analogy experiment, I would use a book of Magritte plates I had separated to pass around. These were already visual juxtapositions so any descriptive words came out poetry. The philosophical founder of the program, Kenneth Koch had published his popular book, “Wishes Lies and Dreams” each of those words were used to stimulate the concepts and ideas of children that launched the programs.

Two Poems by David LaBounty

America

America
today
you are
grilled meat
and hand
shakes

today
you are
egalitarian
blue skies
and
cold
forgiving
beer

today
you are
the air-
conditioned
Cadillac
idling
at the
light

today
you are
the middle
aged woman
at the
Laundromat
with varicose
veins and
blue jean
shorts

today
you
are the
man
who lives
at the
corner
of
Clarkston
and
Lapeer
his bike
overloaded
with blankets
and
plastic
bags

today
you are
this and
a thousand
other
tree
and
flag-lined
streets

waiting

for another
forgetful
parade

____________

a concern

please
put
the
mercy
bird
back
in its’
cage

I don’t
want
it to
swallow
the
poems
I’ve been
leaving
behind

poems like
bread crumbs

poems
that I’ve
scattered
along
the
path that
leads to
the
near side
of
heaven

Letter To The American Conservative by Craig Firsdon

I remember the days
when logic superceded
greed and power.

Now, instead of needy children
we adopt the highways
we’ve littered with inattention,
Bury them in freshly printed greens
and watch our printing presses smoke
themselves to an emphazema death
as we all abstain
only as long as the moment lasts.

With the focus of a five year old
high on prescription speed
we soon forget abstinence
and chase the first fox we see.
Its the chase, they say,
that makes the foreplay sweeter.

Chemically induced erections
and silicone inflated breasts
sliding on skin covered in
trans-hydrogenated fat
slowly heating our oceans
and sea-to-shining-seas.

Today the news said maybe
we will or will not
prosecute the murderers
lounging on our blackened beaches
in Versace and Valentino
writing memoirs to their greatness.

I know you understand me,
I can hear you scream “Socialist!”
just fine.

The next time we are out
and your logic asks me to pick up the tab
just remember I voted for
the black guy with a big smile.
This “socialist” is not giving you a dime.

The Punk In Ti Vo, The Punk in Me by Dennis Mahagin

I told
the punk in me
to turn down
the TV,
and he
answered me
so pseudo
insouciantly,
something
about
parallel ID’s
and temporal
fluidity, courtesy
of Discovery
channel and 2
much Ecstasy.
so I locked up
his mercury
eyeballs with
mine,
shoved my
finger down
his throat,
took him back
in Time,
I beat his punk ass
for not listening to
me …
then said
to get ahead,
it’s OK, hock
my TV.