by Amir Darwish
UN. Fountain of blood. Ready.
The stage is set for you.
You appear
Men clap
Hips examined, re-examined again and again.
Belly-dancing costume not too revealing!
They shout.
You take off a layer
Then another and another,
Not yet nude, but you will be soon.
Up you jump, landing in the fountain of blood.
SPLASH!
You splash the watching men,
Their tongues slide out, roaming over aces licking blood.
Unreachable spots lickable by others next to them.
They enjoy it.
‘Do it again, again,’ they chant.
Up you jump, landing more firmly.
SPLASH!
Blood flies, reaching glasses, faces, food.
Glasses are emptied, food is eaten, faces are licked.
Loud clapping.
Jump, land, splash
Jump, land, splash
Jump, land, splash
There is no more blood left in the fountain.
But they still ask for more.
Friday, May 1, 2015
That Woman
by Sowmya Aaryanmenon
I saw a woman once
barefoot, very brown,
red ribbons in her hair.
Her back bent.
Hiding a handful of silver spoons
under her half-torn clothes.
A woman like that has no shame
she must have stolen it
from the house she worked.
Some days she clutches fresh roses
under her arms
red, red roses.
Sometimes, paper napkins
stuffed inside her blouse
drenched by the sweat flowing
between her heaving breasts.
And I wish I could be that woman.
Shameless.
If only I could carry love like that
I saw a woman once
barefoot, very brown,
red ribbons in her hair.
Her back bent.
Hiding a handful of silver spoons
under her half-torn clothes.
A woman like that has no shame
she must have stolen it
from the house she worked.
Some days she clutches fresh roses
under her arms
red, red roses.
Sometimes, paper napkins
stuffed inside her blouse
drenched by the sweat flowing
between her heaving breasts.
And I wish I could be that woman.
Shameless.
If only I could carry love like that
Sunday, March 29, 2015
can’t play pictures out here
by Mike Foldes
jorge focused on taking the same photographs over and over. different people who all looked the same. mangold said “we can't keep writing the same poem, painting the same picture, shooting the same photo…. you must get out and away and come back with fresh flowers and wet sand.
i think there’s some down that alley.” jorge went to search for wet sand and fresh flowers. mangold never saw him again. when he returned, jorge was a different person, unrecognizable. his work was different, too. he’d taken up guitar and composed music for it that turned rivers green, the sky red and mountains mauve. when he put away his instrument, the world he played in went dark. mangold said, “let’s go inside. you can’t play pictures out here.”
The Other Muse
Nancy Gauquier
This is not about Pegasus,
but about a dark horse
born without wings,
& banished to an island lost
in the mists of Atlantis,
not a horse born to the sun
and bright soft clouds that
will never grow pregnant
with rain, but a horse born
in the sweat of your pain,
when you are too whipped
by work, by a world that
has a God but no Goddess,
a world that worships
its mountains of gold,
but never remembers the
nightmares of its buried soul.
When you are so sick & tired
& faith has leaked out of the holes
in your dream, that one in which
you are always treading water,
& thirsty for one sip of love,
she is surrounded by ravens
who caw & shriek &
fan her with their dark wings,
shielding her from the burn
of the sun.
Though you once longed for Pegasus
to take you up into his wings,
it is no longer Pegasus
you cry out for, but
an estranged dark horse
shrouded in the dust of Sisyphus.
If you are lying exhausted
under some dead indefinable tree
on an island lost, you may open
the soft eyes of the fog to believe
she has always been there,
like a dark wave,
waiting.
This is not about Pegasus,
but about a dark horse
born without wings,
& banished to an island lost
in the mists of Atlantis,
not a horse born to the sun
and bright soft clouds that
will never grow pregnant
with rain, but a horse born
in the sweat of your pain,
when you are too whipped
by work, by a world that
has a God but no Goddess,
a world that worships
its mountains of gold,
but never remembers the
nightmares of its buried soul.
When you are so sick & tired
& faith has leaked out of the holes
in your dream, that one in which
you are always treading water,
& thirsty for one sip of love,
she is surrounded by ravens
who caw & shriek &
fan her with their dark wings,
shielding her from the burn
of the sun.
Though you once longed for Pegasus
to take you up into his wings,
it is no longer Pegasus
you cry out for, but
an estranged dark horse
shrouded in the dust of Sisyphus.
If you are lying exhausted
under some dead indefinable tree
on an island lost, you may open
the soft eyes of the fog to believe
she has always been there,
like a dark wave,
waiting.
Sunday, March 1, 2015
Found
by Savannah Stuitje
Love is, Her.
It is the feeling in your chest
When she is dripping from the shower
Combing her hair with patient strokes
Blue eyes trained on the liver spotted mirror
As you lay sprawled on her bed
Watching the water drip down her skin and roll over her nipples
Down her stomach
Not quite flat, the hipbones curved maternal to hold
Like offered palms, the well of her
A birthmark beaded with water glossy and distended
Looks to you like a cluster of stars
And you know if you kissed her, she would taste sweet
Where the soap was smoothed over her belly and between her thighs
Removing a tangy musk that you have breathed in, head pressed to her warmth
Eyelashes fluttering
She is automatic in her routine
But you are transfixed by her breasts moving as she does
Her shoulders softly rounded and peppered with freckles
Shielding herself without conscious thought as she continues to brush her hair
And from the bedspread you take in the lines where her bathing suit protects her from the sun
Wet fabric you have tenderly peeled down,
To kiss cold skin slightly gritty with sand, salty and pale
As your fingers ran up the flesh of her calves
Feeling the prick of dark stubble
The intimacies of every day
Are in the blotched pink around her mouth
A cut healing raised on her tanned forearm
A towel slung unevenly
The frayed terrycloth damp
How she slips into your tee shirt, climbs onto the bed
Hands bracing at the old springs give to her weight
The droplets of water left in a trail on the white bleached sheet
Love is when she is stretched out beneath you
And her hands are in your hair
Still ropey from a day at the beach
And you know she wants you to clean up
That she’s wary of the grains on the soles of your feet that will cling to the old cracked linoleum and pressed wooden planks
But for now
She will let you lie against her
And the afternoon sun travel up your back
Warm and yellow
Her taste in your mouth
Love is, Her.
It is the feeling in your chest
When she is dripping from the shower
Combing her hair with patient strokes
Blue eyes trained on the liver spotted mirror
As you lay sprawled on her bed
Watching the water drip down her skin and roll over her nipples
Down her stomach
Not quite flat, the hipbones curved maternal to hold
Like offered palms, the well of her
A birthmark beaded with water glossy and distended
Looks to you like a cluster of stars
And you know if you kissed her, she would taste sweet
Where the soap was smoothed over her belly and between her thighs
Removing a tangy musk that you have breathed in, head pressed to her warmth
Eyelashes fluttering
She is automatic in her routine
But you are transfixed by her breasts moving as she does
Her shoulders softly rounded and peppered with freckles
Shielding herself without conscious thought as she continues to brush her hair
And from the bedspread you take in the lines where her bathing suit protects her from the sun
Wet fabric you have tenderly peeled down,
To kiss cold skin slightly gritty with sand, salty and pale
As your fingers ran up the flesh of her calves
Feeling the prick of dark stubble
The intimacies of every day
Are in the blotched pink around her mouth
A cut healing raised on her tanned forearm
A towel slung unevenly
The frayed terrycloth damp
How she slips into your tee shirt, climbs onto the bed
Hands bracing at the old springs give to her weight
The droplets of water left in a trail on the white bleached sheet
Love is when she is stretched out beneath you
And her hands are in your hair
Still ropey from a day at the beach
And you know she wants you to clean up
That she’s wary of the grains on the soles of your feet that will cling to the old cracked linoleum and pressed wooden planks
But for now
She will let you lie against her
And the afternoon sun travel up your back
Warm and yellow
Her taste in your mouth
Seasons of the Ape
by John Pursch
Nylon captives creak
in thermogenic motor
hovel blister hiss
compaction rituals,
plugging matrimonial
defection sprints with
newly sweating
pontoon spins,
cycling wheezes
into mourning.
Minnows foment
religious hyperbole
by the sextant’s
lusty gleaming
intersection teeth,
hemming integument
with pinochle breath’s
lonesome punch line.
Eruptive sidearms
capsize in moaning
glaucous schisms,
clubbing for pale red
seasons of the ape.
Nylon captives creak
in thermogenic motor
hovel blister hiss
compaction rituals,
plugging matrimonial
defection sprints with
newly sweating
pontoon spins,
cycling wheezes
into mourning.
Minnows foment
religious hyperbole
by the sextant’s
lusty gleaming
intersection teeth,
hemming integument
with pinochle breath’s
lonesome punch line.
Eruptive sidearms
capsize in moaning
glaucous schisms,
clubbing for pale red
seasons of the ape.
Friday, January 30, 2015
Chiricahua December
by David Chorlton
Sparrows flash
between the junipers
while towhees rummage
in grass turned dry
and pale through which
a trail leads
up the slope. Snow
clings to the crevices
on canyon walls
above the jays
and sapsuckers busy
tapping and calling,
oak into oak; red cap;
blue wing; low sun
shining cool
through the evergreens.
*
A chill stands up
straight and runs
from an agave's root
through the stalk
to the gray light
carried on the morning
wind across level
ground that flows
into the foothills
to where a shrike
looks out from
a shiver
at the tip of a mesquite.
*
Winter's crooked bones
rise from the creek banks,
white against the oaks
and junipers filling
slowly with night. It begins
with the stream turning
water to sound
and moves up the mountain
until the peak fades,
the juncos have gone
from the leaves in the yard,
and the forest closes around
the white patch
on a flicker's back.
*
A woodpecker's tap
carries between the trees
with their arms full
of overnight snow
while conversation soaks
into the clouds
pressing low and cold
onto the road
and the ice
lining each stalk of grass.
Sparrows flash
between the junipers
while towhees rummage
in grass turned dry
and pale through which
a trail leads
up the slope. Snow
clings to the crevices
on canyon walls
above the jays
and sapsuckers busy
tapping and calling,
oak into oak; red cap;
blue wing; low sun
shining cool
through the evergreens.
*
A chill stands up
straight and runs
from an agave's root
through the stalk
to the gray light
carried on the morning
wind across level
ground that flows
into the foothills
to where a shrike
looks out from
a shiver
at the tip of a mesquite.
*
Winter's crooked bones
rise from the creek banks,
white against the oaks
and junipers filling
slowly with night. It begins
with the stream turning
water to sound
and moves up the mountain
until the peak fades,
the juncos have gone
from the leaves in the yard,
and the forest closes around
the white patch
on a flicker's back.
*
A woodpecker's tap
carries between the trees
with their arms full
of overnight snow
while conversation soaks
into the clouds
pressing low and cold
onto the road
and the ice
lining each stalk of grass.
Cordoba
by Simon Anton Nino Diego Baena
Everything becomes a painting of memories
as the vineyards tremble in the conflict
of song and silence. It seems I yearn
for the pearls of my lost archipelago—
the temple is a window of the mosque
and a door of the cathedral. Still I see
no horseman on the hill, not even the phantom
of Frederico, but Azahara exists
in my dreams, at least. Since I speak
for myself, I remain drunk in my own narrative
of loss. There in the east lies the river
of grief and in the west lies the garden
of Bacchanalian feasts. Here I became
more aware of the potential of death
and what it means to life. But of course
I hear the music of water coming
from the Gothic fountain, if only
it could cure my longing of maya birds
flying over a forest of bamboo trees.
Everything becomes a painting of memories
as the vineyards tremble in the conflict
of song and silence. It seems I yearn
for the pearls of my lost archipelago—
the temple is a window of the mosque
and a door of the cathedral. Still I see
no horseman on the hill, not even the phantom
of Frederico, but Azahara exists
in my dreams, at least. Since I speak
for myself, I remain drunk in my own narrative
of loss. There in the east lies the river
of grief and in the west lies the garden
of Bacchanalian feasts. Here I became
more aware of the potential of death
and what it means to life. But of course
I hear the music of water coming
from the Gothic fountain, if only
it could cure my longing of maya birds
flying over a forest of bamboo trees.
The Prize
by Kelsey Bryan-Zwick
I had to explain to the surgeon
that I wanted to keep the metal
after it had been removed
It’s not that I wanted it
just knew that somehow
I had earned it, and couldn’t bare
to have it buried as biohazard waste
or in the ground before
and without me
This metal
bolts and washers
two thin rods
odd machined sculpture
bent to the curves
in the lean and slouch
of my posture
scaffolding to keep me
up-right, assembled
into and now out of
my muscled ribs
This collection of titanium bling
I will keep it with the other set
the stainless steel from the first surgery
that metal that I am allergic to, that
boiled and blistered
I have saved these things
keep them in odd drawer
There are other relics
the neck braces, the x-rays
the wrist bands, cotton balls
Steri-Strips
It is the metal though that I must
clean methodically, soak in bleach
scrub with old toothbrush and rag
in my latex gloves, hold each piece
to the sun, see how it shines
in the light
I examine them
read the little
letters and numbers
imprinted in each
I will keep them
and maybe one day
melt them down
into a chalice for ceremony
into a vase for flowers
into an urn for ashes
into a teapot for company
a paper weight charm
a music box lullaby
a pair of scissors craft
a trophy wins
counterfeit coins trade
a crown glorifies
Eureka!
If like metals spill the same amount of water
from a filled container, the body must transcend
its own internal displacement in order to maintain
a sense of wholeness, the hard immovable part
of the self that will in all ways needs every spare caress
The metal that appears the contents
of junk-drawer, through process of osmosis
has absorbed an intrinsic quality, has become
something precious, to me the metal, now
externalized, clutched to my chest, creates
a kind of pressure, reversing its alchemy
until I am only grasping straw
I had to explain to the surgeon
that I wanted to keep the metal
after it had been removed
It’s not that I wanted it
just knew that somehow
I had earned it, and couldn’t bare
to have it buried as biohazard waste
or in the ground before
and without me
This metal
bolts and washers
two thin rods
odd machined sculpture
bent to the curves
in the lean and slouch
of my posture
scaffolding to keep me
up-right, assembled
into and now out of
my muscled ribs
This collection of titanium bling
I will keep it with the other set
the stainless steel from the first surgery
that metal that I am allergic to, that
boiled and blistered
I have saved these things
keep them in odd drawer
There are other relics
the neck braces, the x-rays
the wrist bands, cotton balls
Steri-Strips
It is the metal though that I must
clean methodically, soak in bleach
scrub with old toothbrush and rag
in my latex gloves, hold each piece
to the sun, see how it shines
in the light
I examine them
read the little
letters and numbers
imprinted in each
I will keep them
and maybe one day
melt them down
into a chalice for ceremony
into a vase for flowers
into an urn for ashes
into a teapot for company
a paper weight charm
a music box lullaby
a pair of scissors craft
a trophy wins
counterfeit coins trade
a crown glorifies
Eureka!
If like metals spill the same amount of water
from a filled container, the body must transcend
its own internal displacement in order to maintain
a sense of wholeness, the hard immovable part
of the self that will in all ways needs every spare caress
The metal that appears the contents
of junk-drawer, through process of osmosis
has absorbed an intrinsic quality, has become
something precious, to me the metal, now
externalized, clutched to my chest, creates
a kind of pressure, reversing its alchemy
until I am only grasping straw
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