Archive for February, 2011

FOR BEN HIATT by A.D. Winans

Posted in A.D. Winans with tags on February 27, 2011 by Scot

Like a hummingbird feasting on
the pollen of life
You walked the streets like a Samurai
With words sharp as a sword

You lived your life like a chess master
Found peace in the mountains
But never forgot the life blood
Of the city

Ravaged by illness, you cut through
The pain with the precision
Of a surgeon’s scalpel
Your spirit left behind
In the grass in the leaves
In the sky

Your words soft as feathers
Rode life to the end of the line
With metaphors that serenaded
The mind
Your memory dances with the wind
Becomes one with the stars
In a new place a new terrain

In the Buddha temple of life
All things die
But only the flesh expires
The spirit cannot be killed
Lives on in the heartbeat of the sun
In the words and friends who wait
To become one

The Pipeline – a sonnet by R L Raymond

Posted in R L Raymond with tags on February 27, 2011 by Scot

he ground the filthy ephemera
into powder fine enough for snorting
the pitted heel of his oxblood oxfords
a pestle to the sidewalk’s rough mortar

flyers for resurrected punk rock bands
trash tabloids with inscrutable headlines
translucent fast-food wrappers discarded
garbage bits blown into piles at his feet

it was a dry day
it would carry far
it would reach them all

the stoners
the ignorant
the obese

Insufferable Music Critic by Chris Middleman

Posted in Chris Middleman with tags on February 27, 2011 by Scot


 

 

I’m not a terrible son
because I don’t answer the phone
at the pinched moments she calls 

 

and I feel even less guilt
when i hear that leitmotif
play out in the voicemail 

 

Resplendent with pangs of Catholic guilt
and smoldering Philadelphian resignation 

 

This composition for sad trombone
is too familiar to be affecting;
it comes off instead like a slide whistle

Popcorn by Neila Mezynski

Posted in Neila Mezynski with tags on February 27, 2011 by Scot

The pot bellied lady pointed, laughed at the tongue wagging nut.  She did her usual shuffle ball heel with looks could kill. Exuberance sway backed lady, act your age. Rolling eyeballs at the beach, in the gallery, at the top of the stairs. He stared in disbelief, trying to read lips. These lips ain’t talkin’. Loud.

Unravel by Peter LaBerge

Posted in Peter LaBerge with tags on February 27, 2011 by Scot

Thoughts sewn together
like the scratchy fibers
of Papa’s overcoat.

Gleaming like crocheted
raven-feathers left outside
like abandoned violets
trudging through an ivory

coat of snow. His light
snoring unravels each
thought one at a time,
until nothing but snores
& snow remain.

AKA Jam Hands appears with the Rusty Truck Bitchez Brew Event in SF on Friday

Posted in Uncategorized on February 24, 2011 by Scot

Our Silver-Plated American Dream by Maureen Kingston

Posted in Maureen Kingston with tags on February 23, 2011 by Scot

Gran’s
polished bowl
holding
Thanksgiving
rolls

my birth
spoon
hanging
on the wall

daddy’s lucky
liberty dime
nail punched

to make
a necklace
for my
daughter

its edges
honed
& ready
to scratch

the coating
from any
lottery ticket

Super Bowl Sex by Bradley Mason Hamlin

Posted in Bradley Mason Hamlin with tags on February 20, 2011 by Scot

I think I
finally get it
why
people get so
passionate
obsessed
addicted
to watching sports
on TV

if you allow
yourself
to become
emotionally invested
in the gladiatorial
event
it’s
a lot like sex

anticipation
back and forth
tension
mounting
excitement
your heart pumping
desperately
wanting
sweating for
the best possible
outcome

or the
crushing
gambler’s high
and ultimate
let down
if it doesn’t work
out
as planned

like a poem
rejected
by
a
publisher.

Two Poems by A.J. Huffman

Posted in A. J. Huffman with tags on February 20, 2011 by Scot

Seeing Through the Eyes of a Butterfly

There is a touch for me.
Waiting.
Behind the thin metal
of your blue mask.
There is a dance.
A spark.
A flashing circuit
to terminate control.

I can feel it.
Through the velvet wall
of your shoulder
turning again
to block my light.

____________________

A Barbie Under Glass

You made me beautiful.
A perfect red-lipped Eve.
Naked.
And unknowing
that I needed you
for anatomical completion.

Your hands turned me.
Stiff and plastic
in the dark.
In a show of respect.
For you.
My God.

Then you took me.
Finished.
From your perch.
And dropped me
in a fire-side paradise.
A crystal coffin.
Cold and brittle.
Enough
to crack
at your touch.

Tennyson Squares by Gary McDonald

Posted in Gary McDonald with tags on February 20, 2011 by Scot

I remember the smell after we lost Frankie,
like someone had ironed the walls
pressing a crease into the oak finish.
You sat with your napkin and a picture of August,
adding trees to our garden
with the power of sunburn.
You didn’t mind the stares,
you were used to them,
but as the room filled with swagger
each finger anchored you, restless
to the nervous kitchen table.

Long horns that pushed back the sea
and lines of traffic flashing white
then red
made up the distance on our way home.
We could whisper over the purr
and announce the change in our heartbeats
with flightless birds
stone-washed and hurried.
Sudden pauses
like the warm brown glove peeking over silk fences
came and went with the scenery.

I’m with you in Paris as we stand by the beaches
their faces so pale in the black shade
fences barbed and contorted with age, desperate for the touch to wilt them.
I’m with you when they say it’s coming now
they turn away, naked, as my hand holds yours
I hear you cry, but you say it was the wind between velvet curtains.
I’m with you and the midnight, as we descend into absurdity
howling at the moon before my shaking eyes
you claw at my chest and stumble from your perch
I grip you and the hand burns,
burns like the purple flower still twisted around your finger
solid and feminine, memorized in routine.
I’m with you on the streets of Crawley
forgotten in your madness but tender to the eyes
you paint your name with the embers you never caused
and say your final words
the final time
for me.