Archive for July, 2011

mitzi jo mckinley by scot young

Posted in Scot Young, Uncategorized with tags on July 24, 2011 by Scot


near sundown
you taught me
by example how to
french kiss
near the back
of the church bus
–blanket across our laps
waiting for it to get
a little bit darker

AMY by F.N. Wright

Posted in F.N. Wright with tags on July 24, 2011 by Scot

> she could’ve been
> any limey named Amy
> but she had a Winehouse
> full of music
> that hadn’t even matured
> at the tender age of 27
> found dead Saturday,
> July 23, 2011
> how many young musicians
> & poets before her?
> how many more to come?
> I thought I’d put away
> my black wardrobe after
> Johnny Cash died
> but now I must once again
> dress in it & follow one more
> caisson carrying a gift
> larger than life
> to an early grave.

Two Poems by Scott Owens

Posted in Scott Owens with tags on July 23, 2011 by Scot

To Whom It May Concern

Dear Sir (or Madam),
The life that you sent me doesn’t work.
I’m returning it herein
and expect a full refund.
Please find enclosed the following:
One clueless mom;
she tries but really can’t manage
(perhaps future models
should come with fewer children
and greater self-esteem);
Three men who want to be called
Daddy but don’t deserve the title
(please note the cowardice,
drunkenness, rage and stupidity
they bear were not of my doing);
One tattered file of memories
undoubtedly inaccurate and incomplete;
One crummy job after another;
One string of failed relationships,
all my fault;
One disappointing body wracked
with pain, guilt, confusion;
One shattered set of ideals;
An indeterminate number
of vague promises, uncertain
answers; One bag of dreams,
empty but unfulfilled.


Just What the Hell Is

black and white? I mean
Billy Mays is dead and still
trying to sell me armbands
that hold nails and hammer,
Jupiter Jack, Awesome
Auger, Instant Scratch
Remover, I mean we
celebrate Christopher Columbus
because he discovered
a continent already populated
by millions and then  tried
to kill, rape, convert, enslave
those millions, I mean
what part of Christian theology
isn’t prefigured
by stories from other religions
condemned by Christian theology
because their stories weren’t
Christian, I mean is everything
as arbitrary as one-fourth
human, one-eighth black,
one-sixteenth native-American,
and I had a student once
who claimed pure blood
because she was descended
from the von Trapp family,
I mean am I the only one
who remembers
that Maria was an orphan?

Do me a favor,
if you’re not comfortable
with the definition of river
being constantly changing
molecules of water roughly
bordered by eroding banks,
the pull of gravity,
and the saturation point
of muddy soil, then just
shut the hell up!

Purse Notes by Nicole Henares

Posted in Nicole Henares with tags on July 23, 2011 by Scot

with apologies to Fydor Dosteovsky

I am a wicked girl
I am a lazy girl
My achilles tendon throbs;
I can no longer avoid
the dirty bubbles of inertia.
I sing out a song of the underground
lapses that nag under the surface and lie
waiting for pernicious bites.
My mouth is stitched and my fingers are glued
to a pen I cannot find.  My purse is not a knock-off
but an abyss
of scraps that invite in the glow-worms of inspiration.

The Stolen Dog by Brad Hamlin

Posted in Bradley Mason Hamlin with tags on July 23, 2011 by Scot

The Stolen Dog

This week
I was accused
of stealing
ideas or imagery

not sure which

from some guy’s dog poem
that I’ve never
heard of

You see,
my poem had a dog
in it

Isn’t that just
too much

What are the odds
that two poems
out of the very
that crazy people

contain dogs?

The funny part
is that my poem
wasn’t about a dog

just about
the blank page
and how
to bring something

out of nothing.

July 11, 2011

Another London Morning Fading to Circles Henry C Smith

Posted in Henry C Smith with tags on July 23, 2011 by Scot

hanging like mirrors
trodden ground,
like rotting leaves
sifting the silt
of your star crossed

A thousand sighs
in a dawn
ramsacked by silent knives,
fed by the gulls
of fear,
days beseiged
by grinning mouths,
licking tongues.

what a day
to die,
and wet
down in the sweat,
past the black lines
lacking empathy
in spades,
amongst the hooded oddities
of people.

what a day
to live or love.

i just can’t see
the brilliance
of thought
in this
opaque waste,
fish eye torpor
fading to circles of stone.

“when poetry won’t do” by Erek Smith

Posted in Erek Smith with tags on July 23, 2011 by Scot

“when poetry won’t do”

she was the second woman
to ever tell me
that she wished
she could love me
but no matter
how hard she tried
she felt nothing

she was staying in my apartment
while her car was broken down
and slept in my bed
next to me

i tried
to feel nothing
but it
never worked

so i’d wrap my arms
around her
pull her body
into mine
and hold her
hoping to fill the void
even just for a moment

because sometimes
just won’t do.