Archive for July, 2020

Three poems by Bradley Mason Hamlin

Posted in Bradley Mason Hamlin with tags on July 10, 2020 by Scot

Don’t Try, He Said

His shadow
us all

the monster
from Hell’s icy fire

inside the beast
a frightened little boy
weeping at the whip

craving isolation
while reaching out
from typewritten soul

they heard you
they hear you now
your damnation choir

to give you the love
you never knew
you were capable of.


What is Sinead Doing Tonight?

is she
writing poetry
crying in bed
or maybe
writing a song about
riding a midnight
or whore
who knows?

is she drinking old red wine
or fucking a stranger
all apologies

in a potato field
or sleeping in a gray

many options
and how can I possibly say
when the children
and my beauty of a bride
are making so much
beautiful noise

calm down,
think of Cornell Woolrich
drinking iced coffee
while his kids
played cowboys & Indians
in the house
and he wrote Rear Window

lightning a fire somewhere
I imagine
a bubble bath

lady death
in the mirror
she’s a cunt, isn’t she
it doesn’t really

where is sweet Sinead, this
very night
a peanut butter sandwich
& strawberry jam
getting high
on the tears of fairytales

do you give a shit
what occurs with O’Conner
in the cold
in the heat of the skillet

are you a witch
waiting to snake on her soul

might go in the oven willingly
but be careful
to leave the light on

loves more than most
peoples are able
she gets too much
love in return

but hey,
leave the girl alone
let her be

don’t get
too close to the Irish
of it

she’s a banshee
and wouldn’t hate me
for saying so
I don’t want to know
this time, this night

and you’re very welcome.


This Could Be L.A.

grew up in Los Angeles
and sometimes
I miss the ocean waves
seaweed wind
and Tommy’s chili burgers

as I relax in Central California
watching the palm trees rock
the summer breeze
like they did back home
I wonder

as the kids
play with the garden hose
and we talk of cutting in a pool
I look at my lady looking good
in a lime bikini …

and you know what, I think
if I ain’t going to the beach

this could be L.A.

I keep a giant cooler nearby
iced water gets so cold
like swimming in winter
just to get a beer
from Chico, California

and when the wind’s just right
blowing gently through her
blonde-blonde hair

you know what,
if I ain’t going to Ocean Boulevard
this day

this could be L.A.

we’ve got a backyard
green grass
squirt guns
Duncan Yo-Yos
comic books
and the root beer gets just
as cold as the brew

If I were in L.A.
maybe I’d be shopping
at the local market
for taco supplies
& iced coffee
just like I did this morning
and walking to my car
watching the palm
sway-sway in the parking lot

and thinking …

if I ain’t going to Disneyland

this could be L.A.

but you know what,
I can’t wait
to tell the kids
to get in the damn car
cuz we’re heading south

to visit
Uncle Mickey

and if we’re not going
to the beach today

fuck it.

Two Dreams by Nathan Graziano

Posted in Nathan Graziano with tags on July 10, 2020 by Scot


I can’t pretend her throaty invitations never
whispered their way into my waking world.
I dream of her with her lipstick in full bloom;
the next morning my eyelids are soaked towels.

In one dream, she dies, her white throat slit
like a ribbon, from ear-to-ear, by a dark man
in a Red Sox hat who watches her bleed out.
I stand in the corner, my hands on my throat.

In another dream, she wears a wedding dress
and waits for me at the end of an endless aisle.
When I arrive, she smiles and straightens my tie.
I cry and tell her in July we’ll find a lost promise.