Poetry # 146

I have the ability to read poetry from all corners of the world, Africa, India, and weird ass places like Florida and forgotten northern towns of California. I wouldn’t trade that for anything. As much as I complain about it, it’s truly a gift that I am allowed this.

The following issue has some really strong poems that, by themselves, stand alone as great pieces of testimonial art; but together they paint an amazing worldly portrait, as most of the poetry issues do–if, by chance, you haven’t noticed.

Poets are everywhere, fortunately or unfortunately. Now, the true task of the poet is to paint the truth (motherfucker shoulda been a painter then, huh?!) in such a way that its nakedness startles us; its rawness disgusts or offends; its remarkable accuracy enrages us; and if that doesn’t work, the poet should lie to us so well that we, in turn, applaud his or her malicious and honed skills.

Luis Rivas,
Henry Ajumeze
Poetry Editors

won’t someone think of the janitors
By Leeroy Berlin

i can only imagine that joe wasn’t pleased

exactly

about how it went down

i know that was his favourite picture of

himself with that tranny hooker

off the five

he had framed on the walls

not a bad looking girl

i think they might be related

but it wasn’t my fault

exactly

in a bar when a guy walks up to you

and complains that

you’re in his seat

it’s not because you’re in his seat.

learned that one from my grandfather.

i also learned

how

to shoot the heads off squirrels

from him.

he was full of good advice

like

don’t shit in one hand and wish in the other

you’ll get shit on your wishes.

i think

it was supposed to be funny

because he only had one arm

i’m not sure

but when a man tries to push you off

your seat at the bar–

i’m not entirely clear about what happened next

my head’s still swollen where

someone hit me with a pool cue

and i don’t know how larry got in the middle

but

i do know i wasn’t the one who broke the bottle

i wouldn’t use budweiser as a weapon

not even against that crazy guy in the cardigan

who keeps handing out flyers in front of

the bar that say things like

GOD

HATES

FAGS

and

ABANDON ALL HOPE

YE WHO ENTER HERE

which never bothered Mr. Yi who

drove the mail route and

already had.

no matter how much that guy needs a beating

i don’t hate him enough to do that

as for how larry got stabbed with that broken bottle

i don’t know

but i do feel bad

for the unfortunate asshole

who had to clean up

after we were gone.

BioLeeroy Berlin was last seen escaping from a cul-de-sac somewhere in the bowels of Suburbia, Los Angeles CA. He is rumored to have been seen on several isolated Pacific islands, though these reports may not be trustworthy and often contradict each other placing him simultaneously in indistinguishable locations thousands of familiar miles apart.

 

twelve-mile
By Steve Calamars

 

morning

runs

at

six

a.m.

separates

me

from

other

writers

that

and

these

oddball

poems

busting

in

my

head

like

amniotic

sacks

and

concussion

grenades

Bio: Steve Calamars lives in Texas. He has a B.A. in Philosophy and works in a grocery store. His first collection of short stories, six years of relative happiness, is available from Calliope Nerve Media. He is currently working on a small collection of poetry and looking for a publisher. He blogs @ dirtywordsoncleanliving.blogspot.com.

MARRIAGE
By Daniel Nielsen

she asked

if he thought

about other women

when they made love

he said

only as friends

Bio: Dan Nielsen is a journeyman bookbinder living somewhere in Wisconsin. He manages an art gallery, Gallery B4S. His work has appeared in numerous small press literary journals, as well as some unlikely places, such as: Created Writing: Poetry from New Angles, a Prentice Hall/Simon & Schuster textbook, Selected Poems of Post-Beat Poets, published in Chinese by Shanghai Century Publications, Beijing, China, edited by Vernon Frazer, and Stand up Poetry: The Extended Anthology, University of Iowa Press, edited by Charles Harper Webb.  Recent poetry publications/acceptances include: Verse Wisconsin, The Postcard Press, Randomly Accessed Poetics, and OneTitle, and short fiction in Linguistic Erosion ,The Feathered Flounder, The Sim Review,  Belly Fat, and Alternate Trigger. Dan’s most recent chapbook, Tips, Hints, & Shortcuts, is available from Penhead Press.

 

(818)
By Rachel Frankel

yellow-bellied kids cried out in dreams
where shoes never fit right
when they were running away

palm trees and pavement dreams
mark a tired reaction to mutiny
Melrose bleeds to Alvarado
with the death of California’s son

and the backside of Mulholland
reveals a tanned wasteland
we turn down plumb alleyways
and shrug at Spanish billboards

yellow-bellied boys cried out in dreams
after running through the streets
they scraped elbows and knees
grafting skin to history

legs dangled from an overpass
you claimed the 405
as a resting place
when your spine bent forward
and hurtled into the night.

Bio: Rachel grew up in the suburbs of Los Angeles, and now lives and works in San Francisco. After receiving her undergraduate degree in Painting & Drawing and English Literature from San Francisco State University, she decided to delve back into her first love of writing as a creative focus. She is fascinated by narrative, animal instinct, human nature, and the complexities of memory. Her work has appeared in Eunoia Review.

 

Mute. Deaf. Blind.
By Afzal Moolla

Blinded by the cacophony,
with tongues and ears left by the wayside,
dulled senses rotting away,

while all traces of empathy,
swirl into the gutter.

Willingly mute,
gleefully blind,
embracing the soundlessness of a billion cries.

Blind.
Mute.
Deaf,

consciences left to rot,
heartless and mindless,
as the promises turn into rust,

with all traces of empathy,
swirling into the endless gutters,

while the flag of freedom limply flutters,

in the impotent breeze.

Mute. Deaf. Blind.
Bio: Afzal Moolla was born in New Delhi, India while his parents were in exile, fleeing Apartheid South Africa. His father Mosie Moolla represented the African National Congress (ANC) in India, Egypt and Finland. Afzal returned to South Africa following the unbanning of the ANC and the release of Nelson Mandela and other political prisoners. He works and lives in Johannesburg, and shares his literary musings with his most strident critic – his 12 year old cat. 

Published by peace is illegal

I am a writer of pornography, of politics and murder.

2 thoughts on “Poetry # 146

  1. Though the reader sympathises with Hardy’s evident grief, it is difficult not to be a little impatient with his tendency to wallow in self-pity. He reproaches Emma for leaving him, and thinks despairingly of his and her failure to rekindle, in later years, their youthful affection. Yet we feel that this is a tragedy largely of his own making. He has, after all, had some forty years in which to “seek/That time’s renewal”. The fact that he expresses regret at his failure to do so only when the possibility has been removed by Emma’s death casts doubt upon the sincerity of his grief.

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