Archive for August, 2013

Poetry Issue # 152

Words have a way of staying put even after they have escaped the mouth of someone, even after the speaker or writer has long-since passed away.

In this way, words are a sort of magic or sorcery (as a friend describes them: that they posses the power to evoke things from within people, similar to summoning entities). And it holds true, still, that words don’t need to wait for their creator (or conveyor) to die.

Some of us who have the privilege to speak or write for others that cannot, or that do write but their work is withheld from us. Or they themselves are withheld from us, like detainees. Or “not like” but actual detainees, prisoners, like the ones that are on hunger strike in Pelican Bay and Guantanamo Bay.

I agree with this.

Imagine what the world would’ve been like if we were taught to read poems instead of the alphabet or the pledge of (imperialist) allegiance in grammar school. I say it purposefully in the past-tense since it’s safe to say we are past the point of no return, buckle your safety-belts, hug your loved ones – or the closest ones to you, for any matter – the Earth is getting ready to wake up and shake off all its capitalistic parasites like the bothersome fleas upon the ass of a sleeping dog.

In this issue I am proud to say that although some of the poets and their characters featured here have altered their physical being, their crystallized thoughts live on – like a friendly haunting. In that, honor that, bare through this rambling intro and read the poems below.

Once last thing:

Better late than never, right? I apologize for the lack of consistency in publishing Gloom Cupboard poetry issues. I should be able to publish regularly now, once a month.

For the poets that want to get publish, and I know it’s somewhat misleading because of the name of the website, but please stay away from gloomy poetry – unless, like, you’re Silvia Plath or your entire family was misplaced due to an ongoing war in your motherland.

For the poets who think they’re famous, truncate that bio of yours dramatically. Unless you’re Lyn Lifshin or Jack Hirschman.

Yours truly,

The Last Remaining Poetry Editor to Stand Up and Walk through the Apocalyptic Burning Streets of Los Angeles

Luis Rivas


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