Archive for July, 2011

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.

sometimes dreams are the lady in red by Scot Young

Posted in Uncategorized on July 23, 2011 by Scot

sometimes dreams wake you up
mixing reality with the whatever

*stuck in this apartment parking lot
nothing familiar
not finding the exit
you came over the crest
of the drive
wrapped in the coat i bought

you when we were sixteen

you said nothing/smiled/
ran up and hugged me
hung on w/o
words until i woke up*

i tried to go back to sleep
return to the moment but
sometimes dreams are the lady
in the red dress leaning
against the bar

talking talking talking
with a viginia slim hanging
bouncing from her mouth
eyes half closed
tattoo on the back
of her neck you can no longer
and and and
sometimes even in dreams
the lady in red gets lucky

irretrievable things by db cox

Posted in DB Cox with tags on July 7, 2011 by Scot

— for Caylee Marie Anthony

dark places
counterfeit eyes

the black hole
of a twisted mind

ticking time—
truth gets lost
in a prime time
legal extravaganza

a young mother walks

the sun sets
behind a florida
stillwater swamp

a rotting yellow ribbon
of police tape
in a cypress tree

a sleepless whip-poor-will
sings his favorite lullaby

a tiny ghost
sleeps in the rain
& dreams
of irretrievable things


Posted in Bradley Mason Hamlin on July 3, 2011 by Scot

Alien Mind Control No. 1

the aliens
our complete and utter
I drank Rebel Yell
and wondered what I could do
for my fellow humans
as I could sometimes hear
the invaders,
see them outside in my backyard
at night
or watch them
watching me through the dark windows
and they read my mind
even now
influencing these words
and telling me
to tell you
there is no alien invasion
already happened
long ago
and the alien
is you.

Bad Buddha

Come on fat man,
you’re not even the real Buddha,
so let’s
create a little chaos today

Let us wrestle on mountain top
forget all those holy birds
rushing in always,
singing angelic choirs

Pistol whip the spring and love
and the lie of religion;
every scream we scream a dream
of the unattainable angel’s wing

All I ever wanted was an igloo
and a good blonde to keep me warm,
but why do bad voices whisper
so close to ear?

Why do genies in bottles speak
more clearly
than those voices on radio and TV?

I’d rather wear boxer shorts
with tiny red devil demons
& pitchforks
than a flock of halos,
rather fuck than work,
rather drink than think,
rather think than sleep,
rather not rhyme but sometimes
it comes out that awkward way …

Come on, fat man,
come on,
let us swallow the moon.









Three Poems by Cynthia Ruth Lewis

Posted in Cynthia Ruth Lewis with tags on July 3, 2011 by Scot


They’re too tender
and sweet
and gentle.
They handle you like they’re afraid
you’re going to break
and the sex is over before it even begins

it’s like they’re making love to a corpse
and I might as well be
for the way they’re fucking me

Put a little effort into it:
slap me
bite me
skin me with a knife
let me know I’m fucking alive
instead of boring me to death
with your slow and fragile ways…

and afterwards
they always considerately ask
“Was it good?”
but there are some questions that just don’t
deserve an answer



I’m not what I appear to be–
I’m damaged goods

there’s no cotton at the top of this medicine bottle.
Somebody popped my lid and fucked with the contents
a long time ago
only I didn’t go down very well–
we didn’t gel
so they slapped a new label on me
and stuck me back on the shelf

they should have known
not to swallow me dry;
I’m not the type that goes down smooth

I tend to stick in one’s throat

It’s been awhile since someone rattled my vial
but I haven’t lost my potency yet.
I’ve only gotten stronger
and built up my resistance
since I’ve been back on the market–
these bright lights and shelf life
can’t hurt me any,
so if you’ve got the urge
and a strong constitution,
place me on your tongue
wash me down with a full glass of water
and I’ll slide down nice and easy;
hit the spot
heal the wound
whatever ails you



I don’t know what you want–

I screamed
I whispered
I lied
I cried
I confessed
I bitched
I raged
I smiled and praised
I pledged my soul
I spread my legs
I bled
I said I was a virgin
I told you I could take you
around the world and back
and still I could not please you….

I’m sorry, but perfection’s
an unattainable