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Devices on Stand-By
by Kelly Ann Malone
I’ve tucked away two forty-fours.
They’re deep within a wall.
Their bullets line my dresser drawers
and wait for me to call.
Two vials filled with cyanide
are safe within their space.
I’ve stashed them in a pot outside
beneath the Queen Anne’s lace.
Two gleaming knives to slit my wrists
sit nestled in a shed.
I’ll use them if my grief persists
to soak my ivory bed.
Two slipknots made of sturdy rope
sit limp upon a chair.
It helps me when I cannot cope
to know that they are there.
You ask me why they come in two’s…
the need for added stress?
In case the first one that I choose
is launched without success.
I’ve had these items in my house
for over forty years.
I’ve hid them from my kids and spouse,
my neighbors and my peers.
I tried to do it years ago,
but then I had a boy.
And two more children in a row,
brought intermittent joy.
And then I thought my work was done.
I’d surely end my life.
But now my daughter has a son,
my son now has a wife.
I’ll get around to my demise
and give in to despair,
when I can look into their eyes
and tell them I don’t care.
A Monster Named Les
by Matt Martinek
German Expressionism
leapt out of the 20's,
superimposed
on top
of my life.
Modern-day
Nosferatu,
bald-misshapen skull,
protruding nose-point, looming large
as the shadows leaking from those boots.
Nightly occurrence-the haunting trench coat
floating over, myself shrinking back.
I, Victim, spoke.
Disappearance came in the dead-
So unlike you, Immortal.
Inquiry through newsprint,
never the monster,
only an old lonely man
with nothing to do
but stalk insomnia
through the alleyways.
I pass the scenes still,
expecting you always-
The rooftops become edgier,
and no one can hear me speak.
Anthropomorphic
by Pete Lee
In the merry-
go-round chase
of dog-eat-dog,
the dog's tail
wins by a nose:
It's a very
human race.
Bearing the slogan
by Pete Lee
The pale,
tired-looking,
unsmiling woman
with the three
little kids is
wearing a
T-shirt bearing
the slogan:
"Tanned,
Rested, and
Ready!"
Tuesday
by Floyd Harden
Tuesday
in my car
holding up my end of the bargain
with the red light
My next door neighbor
dressed in poverty’s
purple shirt
stands at the corner holds a sign it says
“please help” or
“blessed are the meek” or
“go kings” or
“look here to avoid eye contact”.
I threw away her name because she asks.
She asks for a ride
I lie “I’m late”
she asks for my phone
I lie “I’m phoneless”
she asks for money
I lie “I’m broke”
I threw away her goddamned name.
Tuesday
in my car
holding up my end of the bargain
with the red light
And she doesn’t have her teeth in
(for business reasons I think)
and I think of Mom
who has her teeth in
whose name I keep
who raised seven
who raised my idiot brother’s daughter
Now I remember:
my toothless nameless neighbor
raises her grandkid Bradley
and his little sister
whose name I threw away
because she reminds me
of her goddamned grandma
Tuesday
in my car
holding up my end of the bargain
with the red light
I reach into my pocket
mine for a coupleabucks
and the light changes
and the guy behind me
late late
for his court ordered anger management class
leans leans
on his horn
And dressed in poverty’s
purple shirt
my toothless nameless next door neighbor
needs a couple of bucks
but the light is green
and that guy behind me isn’t
by some miracle
becoming less a prick
Tuesday
in my car
holding up my end of the bargain
with the red light
I drive on
I go home
I put the coupleabucks in an envelope
I put the envelope on her doorstep
and that that was Tuesday
I gotta go pee
by Floyd Harden
He stands there the angry young poet
Stands spitting his stanzas at me
He speaks to our time
With passionate rhyme
It’s too bad I gotta go pee.
The crowd is held rapt by his musings
His unbroken syllable spree
His rhetoric darts
Are piercing their hearts
The thing is I gotta go pee.
He shouts to all, “Down with injustice!”
He rails against blind tyranny
His words though inspired
In urine are mired
I’m sorry I gotta go pee
His prosaic puns draw wry laughter
And challenge his listeners to see
The meter he’s made
Just might get him laid
Who cares man I gotta go pee.
Now I fear the crowd will soon notice
And turn their attention to me
They’ll likely surmise
My yellowing eyes
Are screaming I gotta go pee
My bladder is swollen to bursting
I try no to move suddenly
I’m fighting the flow
But she’s gonna blow
Oh mama I gotta go pee
So I’ll sit here sipping my pale ale
Though nature keeps calling to me
I’ll just drink my drink
And try not to think
Of how bad I gotta go pee.
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The Worst Smelling Revolution
by Brett Staggs
I’ve got to get to work,
But I can’t find any socks,
So I just don’t wear any.
I’m sure to hear about it at the office,
I’m sure to confuse and disrupt the logic of
Offices across America,
Inciting a wave of sock burning.
It will go down in history as the
Worst smelling revolution and
Will soon be wadded up and
Lost under the bed of time.
Happiness
by Natallia Arsiennieva
Happiness is like the sun.
Gently gliding,
A little cloud into the bright sky will come,
And the sun shines at once dimly, unbrightly,
Swiftly the sunlight is gone.
Happiness is like the spring cherry-flowers.
And the wind blows and the spring starts to mourn,
Down to the mud petals fall in snow showers.
Swiftly the blossoms are gone.
Happiness is like our fair and bright daydreams,
And a harsh word comes, a comment, just one,
And straightway into a fire they are blazing,
Swiftly the daydreams are gone.
Translated from the Belarusian by Vera Rich.
Lucid assembling on the freedom line
by Joshua Kilbourn
Welcome to the land of the living, now pick up a
shovel and start digging. Start digging you cowards,
you faggots! You crying, niggardly maggots! Dig! Heave
and hoe!
Scammed, coerced and tricked into absurd scenarios, with
those who suffer selfishly. Firmly planted underneath
thumbs of Assholes with large debts and fractured
aspiration. Walking the earth wielding heavy-chains
and bats.
Grim production lines: Conveyor belts running
continually..... Dawn turns to dusk. Daunting moments
in time with reoccurring nightmares, followed by false
promises.
Minotaurs: Well trained managers and supervisors, lure
ailing souls off and on the line. Scraped knuckles and
flaccid muscles. Breaking backs. Deep impressions of
soles on souls.
Quick breaks induce short lived dreams. Abstract
colors and surreal visions shimmer quickly with
comfort. Time descends into long passageways. Dark
corners pour into illuminating myths, submerged in
vivid resonance.... Lucid assembling on the freedom
line. Sudden glory, ruthful in sleep. Agony and spoil,
ruthful in wake.
Scattered Goods: A new term for shit... Piss, diapers
and dead-goldfish. Blistered on beaches..... boils on
skin. Ignorant without sin. A candid glimpse, an
unseemly look into the frivolous past, present and
future. Gaudy gestures rest heavy on weary
silhouettes. Ominous statues and pungent fumes. Shades
of illness and depravity color the horizon.
Rotten teeth are signs of good living under bad
conditions. Sores, pustules and scars tatter the body.
Signs of good living in hazardous times. Permanent
reminders of necessary decay, a steady descent.
Revolving with fewer rotations. Last chance for a
slow dance. Constricted blood vessels, wrapped tightly
around strained, popping and narrow eyes. Nothing left
to lose, when you’re riding the spiral with quick turns.
Sudden stops are always a killer. Remorse, wanton lust
and terrible regret, in the final moment before the
abrupt drop off.
I Dreamed You Lost My Keys
by Elizabeth Willse
Everything was in your pockets
Except my keys.
We stood outside the stern apartment door
Grey, steel and silent.
You pulled out a handful of crumpled paper.
A cascade of goldfish, gasping and jackknifing,
Bereft of water. You gave me a handful of origami cranes.
You pulled a bouquet of roses out of one pocket
They turned to spitting, golden sparklers,
Then back, again, to roses. Yellow, this time,
And unaware of the conflagration.
You waved your hand.
I only wanted my keys back.
A cascade of Monarch butterflies
Beat themselves against the windowless constraints
Of the hallway, and my locked door.
You gave me everything
Except the keys you'd lost,
And, like any charlatan, you hoped
The sleight of hand would hold me
Placid, in your thrall.
You looked so pleased
When you waved your hands and produced
A china tea set, complete
With steaming pot, and sugar bowl.
But still, no keys.
Peacock feathers. A cat's-eye marble.
Assorted puzzle pieces: fragments of the faces
In a Renoir painting. A stunted, blunt pencil,
A small white dog, and the hoop he'd been trained
To jump through.
The doves you conjured
Each had one broken wing.
They fluttered, awkwardly, on the hallway floor
Littered with the debris of your distraction.
Vitamin C
by Alida Santandrea
I often wonder how the first humans ate
Did they bite into everything, skin and all,
Or did they cut things in half and consume the inside first
Then discover later that some skins were edible?
Oranges are interesting fruit
Brightly colored and appearing poisonous
Thick, bitter tasting peel
Yet juicy and sweet on the inside
Larger than a kumquat, smaller than a grapefruit
Difficult to penetrate, but once the tough skin is broken
You are as vulnerable as an upside down porcupine
Kumquat is a funny word
New Brunswick: The Poems I Won't Show Him
by Sarah Kolbasowski
I won't let him read about
some guy he's never met,
snoring on the side of me with his hand
tucked up my shirt.
I won't tell him about the time
one of them thought I was his mother
and I slept on the couch in fits
until poetry class
and the anonymous escape
of a state university,
coffee cups and gum wrappers
littering the sidewalks
at eight in the morning
on the way to Scott Hall
or Van Heusen.
I won't tell him
why I get nervous before
any kind of mini, pot smoking,
couch lounging reunion
because then he won't want to be friends
with those who have seen me naked
but don't want to anymore.
It is for the good of us, he tells me.
It is best for me not to show him these pieces,
with the past heartbreaks
and kicked in car doors
and screaming, drunk fights in the puddles
of Hamilton Street outside of the bar,
these pieces of me
typed on pieces of paper
years after the blacked out pieces of me
came to and life was all about color again,
because he is aware of the pieces
but he doesn't have to eat them.
Diamonds in the trees
by Ron Cervero
The icicles were like fine crystal,
hanging from the trees and cabins.
The ice storm was nasty, but it left such beauty.
Icicles were lethal stalactites hanging passively,
from on high.
The icicles became warmed by the sun, and
began to melt. Then they started their journey to earth,
falling like missiles without a target.
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