Going Home by Pris Campbell

 

The old man walks down
the center line of Jenson Boulevard
in his best suit, shoes spit-shined.
Cars honk.
Curses abound –
get out of the road you crazy fool!

A truck driver pulls over,
tries to guide him to the sidewalk,
only to be whacked by the old man’s cane.

Cell phone users gather.
Some call 911. Others record in case he’s hit.
They’ll have the video for the evening news.

The old man doesn’t understand the ruckus.
Mother will be waiting for him,
with milk and cookies.
He doesn’t want her to worry.

Two cops finally pull up, take him
by each arm, check the bracelet
on his left wrist, load him into their car.

A woman in white wrings her hands
when they park beside a squat,
institutionalized building. She takes
him to a small room, tells him he’s home.

The sun knows and the moon knows
this isn’t home. Home is somewhere
along that big road outside.
He’s determined to find it.

He’ll try again the next time
a door is left open.

THIS HOUSE by Tom Montag

 

Stillness
like smooth water,
like an empty field.

Silence
is the starting point,
the place where motion

becomes the singing
in your small bowl.

sweet songs of coming home by DB Cox

 

january wind
cuts like a chisel
through cemetery
rows of expired
parking meters
tiny tombstone
reminders
that time never sleeps
waiting grave markers
for more young junkies
stumbling
done-in down
one-way streets
still unwilling
to swap a half-world
of unfillable space
& gratuitous suicide
for a valid world
of comfortable clichés
& pipers playing
sweet songs
of coming home—

does anyone know why
they climb inside the darkness
of their own souls
searching
day after day
for the closest point of departure
clawing
at the walls of “the box”
cursing
the empty “soul of sanity”

after learning
then forgetting
the weary language
of the american conversation
was there anything else
to be considered

one more online psych-doc
to fly a shiny reason
for staying
in this crumbling world
by this endless river

does anybody know
how long this curtain
has been falling

Coming to Terms by Jessica Gleason

There’s no way to come to terms with
loving a
dead
man.
He is dead today.
He was dead yesterday.
He will be dead tomorrow.

And, my love isn’t.

It sits there, scratching to get out
Unfulfilled
Confused
Not understanding
that it
will
never get
what it wants,
Not because he
couldn’t
have given
it.
But, because
he
can’t
anymore.

for the girl that helped me with my spelling words in elementary school by Corey D. Cook

your mugshot made the 11 o‘clock news

pulled over for talking on your cell phone
arrested after they found cocaine and drug paraphernalia in your car

face still youthful
hair tucked neatly behind your ears
lips pursed
eyes dark and distant
like the silhouettes of a mother and father walking away from their only child

you sat right behind me in school
blonde hair teased
clad in umbros regardless of the season

helped me spell hundreds and hundreds of words

words like recovery
stability
maybe even prosperity

Sometimes by D. A. Pratt

she wanders
through my mind
wearing just jeans …
I like her dressed in denim
and she seems to know this …
Sometimes
she whimsically wanders
through my thoughts
wearing just a jean jacket …
I like her dressed in denim
and she seems to know this …
Sometimes
she playfully performs
wearing one black bra
after another:
both with and without
the caress of denim …
I like her wearing black
especially with denim blue
and she seems to know this …
Repeatedly she wanders
through my mind
in sultry scene
after sultry scene
being more
than just a muse
and she seems to know this …

Drawing Down Lightning by Bradley Mason Hamlin

 

 

I like it
yet
it causes

the chaos

I hate it
yet
I miss

the tornado

she wants me
to
drink
with her

she hates it
when
I get drunk

the kids say
I’m an asshole
when I don’t drink

yet
hate monster
arguments
or inter-dimensional
reasoning
from bottle bottom

my doc says
don’t worry
he likes his wine, too

then mad sciences
my blood
and says cessation
may be wise

but my six-pack
of readers
will tell you

this
is a sober poem
lacking
the larger
brushstrokes

of unglued ecstasy

I can hear
a bluebird outside
my window

tweet-fuckin’-tweet

what
is his secret
message?

I don’t know why
the sober bird
sings

maybe
he saw a worm
Watusi
or the naked dance
of secret squirrel

the wild cats
will kill them all
if given
half a song

don’t worry
this isn’t depression
I care too much

about
comics & toys
and their destruction
upon my destruction

saturday mornings
with the blonde

my daughter’s vinyl
collection
still needs help,
I guess

UFO meetings
with older offspring

hell, my youngest
hasn’t seen
Attack of the Mushroom People
yet

there’s always shit to do

it’s almost summer
and vodka & crushed ice
tastes like

west coast jazz

my wife’s pissed
that I’m not building
a patio set

told her not to buy
one of those thousand
piece

Apokolips fire-pit
jobs

but good-lookin’ broads
rarely listen

could be anxiety
the thinking too much
seemingly caring
too much

the fucking puzzle piece
of it all

coming together
right now

poof
let it explode
like dandelion pedals
gone to seed

then reaching out
trying to
put it all
back

in concert
with
nothing more
than
Italian roasted java

I like it
yet
it makes my heart
beat

like
Gene Krupa
surfin’
tribal drums

I hear
the thunder moaning
in early June

growling
like a lion
trapped in a zoo

raging
because we are here
drawing down
lightning

maybe
the earth is flat
or round
or oval

who gives a fuck?

the gods are angry

we create
artists & idiots
magicians
and warriors

madmen
and crazy women
dancing
singing
praying

soothsayers
farmers
teachers
and children
driving tricycles

but
who talks to the clouds?

probably
more people; more often
than we know

we have jazz
we hold that one thing
and lumberjacks
to make the pulp
paper
to cut into

creating
the telepathy
to tell
you

this.