Three Pieces From A.J. Huffman

A Flapping Dove

We fly time sideways.

Over bridges.

Invisible and soft.

They give beneath us.

Like wings

with no feathers.

All caught up in the weather.

And wear

                 ing nothing.

But the smile

we hold

as good-bye.

  

Opening Night

You want me to believe

you chose to return.

You chose to turn

your eyes and ideas around.

But my sweet tooth is gone.

A hole is all I have left

for you.

Your visual candy.

You’re empty as puppy eyes

and twice as dreadfully dull.

There is no space for your show.

It’s over.

You are over.

And I am the starring play.

  

Balancing Skin and Stone

The cage fit

her shoulders.

Welcoming them.

To the golden spring

surrounding the eyes

of an Autumn angel.

Two hundred years

too late

to save her soul.

--A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida.  She has previously published her work in literary journals, in the U.K. as well as America, such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Eastern Rainbow, Medicinal Purposes Literary Review, The Intercultural Writer's Review, Icon, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review. 

The Lover's Secrets

The grasses flutter and bend on the rolling hill,

their hearts upturned in the rustling wind.

Two lovers meet beneath a great, sprawling tree

of red fruit dangling heavily as planetary bodies

.

Vines curl in an intimacy along their bodies,

for to be naked is to be known.

The man does not speak but holds secrets in his

mouth, painful as an unfurling snake.

Strength clenches his jaw, strangles his heart

until it is a mass of limp palpitations.

The woman holds her sorrows in her throat

as if a shuffling blackbird, and she is breathless.

She retains the dignity of a woman accustomed

to having no confidante; her heart is of bone.

Their lips mutter in their secret-keeping,

their hands are hidden from one another.

In the night they cry silently, softly as small birds.

--Margaret Beaver's poems have have appeared or are forthcoming in various online literary magazines. In addition, she has been a featured guest on Vox Poetica's Blog Talk Radio show 15 Minutes of Poetry. Her first chapbook, The Memory Speaks, is available from Victorian Violet Press.

Inlet

Electronic feudalism

dominates discussion

that ought to

discuss the prevalence

of tumors or blood

clots,

but instead it is

strained with LCD

awkwardness and

pleasantries

unpleasantness crept

upon these chimed, monochromatic

pings—static—

lust confused for

as love, when a

solitary figure knows

himself less than those

who transfix upon

this pretension because of

a discontent and personal unwillingness

to love love,

even though lust lust

never occurred,

except

in its more stunted,

sickly form, as

hidden behind that

fine mesh made of

plastic and liquid.

--James Gapinski is a poet, freelance writer, and musician living in Portland, Oregon. His work has appeared in numerous print and online publications, including Flutter, Oak Bend Review, Gloom Cupboard, The Clemson Poetry Review, Burdock, and Qarrtsiluni. His 2009 novella, Right is Left, is available from Broken Bird Press, and his 2007 chapbook, Affectionately Dysfunctional, is available from Scars Publications. Gapinski holds a BSE in English from the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater.

Weary

Subcutaneous shuffling

of listless—or perhaps

listful—humans

in pursuit

of an apothecary.

--James Gapinski is a poet, freelance writer, and musician based in Portland, Oregon. His work has appeared in numerous print and online publications, including Flutter, Oak Bend Review, Gloom Cupboard, The Clemson Poetry Review, Burdock, and Qarrtsiluni. His 2009 novella, Right is Left, is available from Broken Bird Press, and his 2007 chapbook, Affectionately Dysfunctional, is available from Scars Publications. Gapinski holds a BSE in English from the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater.

Einstein’s Random House

You didn't hear the word "dismay" in many rap songs, he thought.  Why was the publisher named 'Random House'--- was it because it was a house, by chance?  He thought about his old girlfriend---she wasn't really 'old', it had just been a long, long time ago, when he and she had both been very young. Music, love, time: not in any particular chronological order.  Like a piece of mail that would never arrive, he was traveling 4th class. Everyone, even Einstein, knew that two entities couldn't occupy the same space, simultaneously. Nevertheless, it was too late to stop now.

--Brad Rose was raised in southern California and lives in Boston.  His poetry and fiction have appeared in Third Wednesday, Off the Coast, Imagination and Place, Tattoo Highway, Boston Literary Magazine, Monkeybicycle, SleetMagagazine.com, Six Sentences, Right Hand Pointing, Fiction at Work, Short Fast and Deadly, Nano Fiction and other publications.  Links to his poetry and fiction can be found at: http://bradrosepoetry.blogspot.com/.

Applause

He lectured for an hour

trying to talk us out of talk

which sounds paradoxical

but Zen is like that. 

Finally finished he bowed

smiled wide absorbed the

sound of no hands clapping

like a caress.

Less persuaded but mindful

to avoid appearing impolite

I only didn't clap with

one of mine.

--Byron Matthews left Iowa for graduate school in North Carolina, later gave up a tenured faculty position in Maryland to make furniture for ten years in Santa Fe. He lives now in the mountains east of Albuquerque with his wife, a cellist.

Anachronistic anarchist

The anachronistic anarchist

uses post-it notes

to remind herself

of her dinner date

with the sun.

But the sun has a cold

and sends a rain check

that bounces

into a

reverse

black

hole.

The anachronistic anarchist

sends two gmails a day

to her former self

but they are flagged as spam

and the user is blocked

from

the

future.

The anachronistic anarchist

wants to start a revolution

to protest the dictatorship

of synchronicity.

Her identical twin

outlaws coincidence

and abolishes punctuality.

So the anachronistic anarchist

shows up late

to her date

with the sun,

who is covered in post-it notes

about the revolution

against

the

anarchy

of

space.

--Clockwise Cat publisher and editor Alison Ross dabbles delicately in verse. She also spews incessant invective. You may peruse her precious poesie and rowdy rants online. Alison's personal utopia would be to dwell inside a painting executed by Joan Miro, wherein Frida Kahlo, Jean-Michael Basquiat, Arthur Rimbaud, Isabel Allende, Jorge Luis Borges, Dr. Seuss, David Lynch and The Cure all converge in felicitous, Zen-surrealistic bliss.

CRACK IN THE ASPHALT

the road to the centre of the village
the aberration of light
in the lens of a transparent leaf
makes all contours
lose their meanings
between the hammer of the sunlight
and the meat of clay delivered
by the crack in the asphalt
the fracture of the road-bone

--Alan Zhukovski writes poetry and prose (as well as literary and music criticism) in English, Ukrainian and Russian. His poetry and art have appeared (or are accepted for publication) at Foundling Review, Poets for Living Waters, Liebamour, and others. Alan Zhukovski has published  three articles about English and American literature: "Structure, General Significance and Genre Specificity of Synesthesia in Shakespeare’s Comedy" (2008), "Inner Space in the Works of Edgar Allan Poe" (2009) and "Metaphorical Understanding of the Body in the Poetry of Jim Morrison" (2010).

Galette des Rois

among all of their objects, 

one may wonder at the souvenir, 

at luck,

at picking up little drops of story, 

in the huge torso of history,

as we eat the world up scrap by scrap

watching for the ring or the bean in the cake 

the proverbial 15 minutes which will elevate a name/

dangle a twitchy string to follow

or wisdom

to evoke probabilities like transgression etc

and in the wind outside marigold flowers

are bright living things 

which in november honor the graves of the dead 

for the dia le los muertos 

the guatemalan women in golden necklaces

beaming out at the world

while rats crawl through holes-in-your-walls, 

and you write poems about souvenirs and 

our interaction with all of the bizarre tangible objects 

which are really

99% space 

well, enough of that, let’s pray 

for the girl down by the 

river with shining rocks gleaming

in her hands

when she takes them home

they will be quick grey lumps

in the air.

--Lauren M. Stevens is a a gardener, musician, visual artist and poet, and has travelled extensively around the rural united states and europe investigating how people today are sharing folk traditions. her writing is a reflection of appreciation existing alongside a curious interest as to questions of space, narcissism, and permanence. in addition to these things some of her main interests are how we can live well in the mysterious body of history,  intuition, making beautiful things for eachother, markets, animals, letters, ancestry, the effects of sound, bees, and how we experience trauma, perplexity, and love.

Bees Of The Unseen

the bees of the unseen

are crumbling

like a piece of poisonous bread

the venom of the future

has no taste

I smell the void

a river in Chicago

the coin of the sun

has died in the acid of love

my fingers are moving

like sleeping rockets

waiting for beautiful sunsets

with their exotic dances

touching the skin of my face

with the vivid gathers

on the roof of a star

there’s a breeze of leaves

on the floor of the park

filled with the beam fishes

no days

no waiting liars

in a queue

no future in the sunlight of the tired notes

my steps can be heard on the railway

leading to the shop of the night

the water on the melting sugar of the sand

the acute feeling of loneliness

my fingers on the pages of the book

are like fishes on the shore

licking the sand

let me out

I need light

I need electricity

--Alan Zhukovski writes poetry and prose (as well as music reviews and literary criticism) in English, Ukrainian and Russian. His poetry and art have appeared (or are accepted for publication) at Foundling Review, Poets for Living Waters, Liebamour, and others. His music reviews can be found on numerous sites and in several e-magazines. Alan Zhukovski has published three articles about English and American literature: "Structure, General Significance and Genre Specificity of Synesthesia in Shakespeare’s Comedy" (2008), "Inner Space in the Works of Edgar Allan Poe" (2009) and "Metaphorical Understanding of the Body in the Poetry of Jim Morrison" (2010).

Mostly Basie with a Little Bach

Whenever I see a new woman, I know 

I should look at her hair and her eyes and her smile  

before I decide if she's worth the small talk

and the dinner later 

and whatever else she may require 

before she becomes taffy, 

pliant and smiling. 

But that never works for me.

Whenever I see a new woman, 

what matters to me is never 

her hair or her eyes or her smile;

what matters to me is her saunter 

as I stroll behind her.

If her moon comes over the mountain

and loops in languor, left to right, 

and then loops back again,

primed for another revolution, then

I introduce myself immediately

no matter where we are, 

in the stairwell or on the street

and that's when I see for the first time

her hair and her eyes and her smile  

but they are never a distraction since

I'm lost in the music of her saunter.

Years ago, tall and loping Carol Ann

took a train to Chicago, 

found a job and then one summer day 

walked ahead of me on Michigan Avenue 

while I surveyed her universe amid 

the cabs screeching, horns beeping, 

a driver's middle finger rising. 

Suddenly she turned and said hello 

and we shook hands and I saw her smile 

dart like a minnow and then disappear 

as she frowned and asked   

why was I walking behind her. 

 

I told her I was on my way to the noon Mass

at Holy Name Cathedral and she was welcome 

to come along. The sermon wouldn't be much, 

I said, but the coffee and bagels afterward 

would be plentiful, enough to cover lunch.

And Jesus Christ Himself would be there.

She didn't believe me, not at all, 

and she hasn't believed me since. 

That was thirty years ago and now

her smile is still a minnow

darting here and there but now 

it's more important than her saunter 

which is still a symphony, 

mostly Basie with a little Bach.

And I no longer traipse Michigan Avenue 

as I did years ago looking for new moons 

swirling in my universe. Instead, 

I take my lunch in a little bag 

on a long train from the suburbs

and I marvel at one fact:

It's been thirty years since I first heard 

the music in her saunter

and Carol Ann and I are 

still together, praise the Lord. 

Who can believe it? Not I. 

Carol Ann says she knew 

the ending from the start. 

Lord, Almighty. Fancy that.

--Donal Mahoney has had poems published in The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, Revival (Ireland), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), Public Republic (Bulgaria), Calliope Nerve, The Camel Saloon, Black-Listed Magazine, Phantom Kangaroo, Camroc Press Review, Leaf Garden and other publications.

Her Perdition

Her Perdition

 

The defile of perspiring breath

Do creep along twisted spindle

Betrothed to him named Death

And touch softly skin so brittle

 

--Rhonda Miller is an aspiring writer whose inspiration can come from toes or telephone poles. She enjoys most of her time editing her current magazine, Raven Images at raven-images.net, and Co-Editing with it's sister magazine Indigo Rising at indigorisingmagazine.com. She very seldom submits poetry and often hates typing, but her love of literature wins over every time.

Poorly Executed Warring

Poorly Executed Warring

War of 1812

didn't know it was over

until 1815

The Treaty of Ghent was signed

in 1814 but word didn't reach

battleships at sea

until next year

During the 1812

England offered

American slaves

freedom

and put them on islands

not called England.

Americans claimed

this violated the treaty

and the British paid

American slave owners

$1,204,960

in damages

Following the war

dinner plates

featuring portraits of

American Navy captains

sold well in the States-

most of which were

painted in England.

some Native American tribes

fought for the British.

Oh yeah, those guys. Nobody told them it was over

until 1817.

--Ed Makowski is a poet, writer, and artist living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Ed prefers reading to television and hiking over both. More of his work can be found at http://edmakowski.wordpress.com/.

Wearing the anonymity

Wearing the anonymity

  

That—

I would be a night—

sleepless—soundless

as a step behind

that no one hears,

I pour down like

the quietude

on the parted house,

the living-ones in it,

the—discards—scattered about

that the moveable lights so made

before entering the marquee tents,

where effigies are burnt

to fight off the cold;

where foundries toast

to flesh and bones.

So far away—from the heaven;

my legs are dying

unable to run to the

names—all around

festivals, around

eternal bells to surround;

my hands are shying

incapable to proffer

the pails of perfuming oils

to the Pamir knots.

Don’t let it upset you,

pass me by

for this is my shade

that no one finds;

here I bind myself with

strips of obscure night.

--June Nandy's recent poetry have appeared in Qarrtsiluni, Aphelion Webzine, Hudson View, Up The Staircase Quarterly, and elsewhere. She has an award winning poem in the open poetry contest, 2009 with Prakriti Foundation, Chennai. Her novel, 'Ideospheres of Pain' has been released recently in India which advocates for an ideology-free world. She has been nominated for the best of the Net Anthology 2010 and best of Dzanc Books Web Anthology 2011. She has received her post-graduation in English Literature and is a professional translator for about a decade now. Her poetry and other details can be accessed at: http: throughmystripedshirt.blogspot.com. She lives with her family in Calcutta.

Mubarakobama

Mubarakobama

Sunlight now
Violence in Egypt
Unlouver the shades,
Gurney the injured.
Coffee stimulation warmth and molotovs
Flagbearers, burnt automobiles
Barricades and unfolding the morning newspaper.
A cat brushes my ankles
While a dog barks off a soldier.
CNN streaming onto my laptop
A young man's bleeding head nestles in his mother's lap.

--Jeff Santosuosso is a business executive and poet who lives near Fort Worth, TX.  His work has appeared in Pif, Hobo Pancakes, and Clean Sheets magazines.

Pomegranate Stains

Persephone knows the hard truth:
once you eat the seeds,
there is no turning back.
Forbidden fruit always
has a rotten after-taste.
Six months multiplies and we're stuck
in a winter long-enduring.
Our fingers are sticky with guilt,
our guts gnawing on sorrow.
So we remain
under with the lifeless
eyes and open-palmed words like slaps
leaving their imprints on our souls.
The Iron Queen has no pity
for those who take what isn't theirs.   --Christie Lambert is a small-town, southern writer who loves prose and poetry. She is currently obsessed with learning how to play the guitar, and is in real danger of being driven insane by the F Major chord. Christie can be contacted at christiedlambert at gmail.com.

In the Field

In the Field

Here I am,

spread out beneath the dandelion-sun

of autumn, flat on my back

in a field of self pity. Your whispers lift

my skirt and expose the bony knees

of an empty summer.

Here I am,

searching through oak limbs

and heather sprigs for a patch of green

to cherish. Thread my tangled hair

into your nest-egg of lies, like an injured thrush

fluttering out a song. Feather me

in earth-worn promises.

Here I am,

waiting for winter to ice my heart.

Trying to count the berries in a hawthorn

while I pocket acorns and ivy to weave

a wreath, and make a tattered crown

to mark you as my own.

--Karen Kelsay is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and the editor of  Victorian Violet Press. Her poems have been featured in the following

journals: The Boston Literary Magazine, Triggerfish Critical Review, Toasted Cheese, The Foundling Review and Willow's Wept Review.

BEYOND THE BEYOND

BEYOND THE BEYOND
We’re all suckers
but she’s a sucker and a half
with patches on her back side
just hanging out for laughs.

So blow it out your elbow.
Life is just a wink
in eternity’s cosmic eye
just watching over priests

in a donut factory
deepfrying wisdom flour
into holy carnations
of chocolate nirvana

where you give up conceiving
and you give up perceiving
and you give up giving up
making rings of religion.

Friend, take a match to this
if you take a trip beyond
conceiving of a place beyond
which you can go beyond.

--Born in the past, living in the present, heading into the future, Larry Ziman, larry@tgaps.net, publishes and co-edits The Great American Poetry Show, www.tgaps.net, a serial poetry anthology open year-round to submissions of poems in English on any subject and in any style, length, and number.

Phone Booth

Phone Booth

usually
I share so little

on the phone, receiver
behind glass, beyond my reach
I talk to a friend

he calls me pet
I call him sir
I’m his maid
I do whatever he tells me to

it’s never been better
it’s weird
I like it

behind eye wide windows
I’m screaming
tell me this isn’t okay

get me out

drag me
if you have to
before I go too deep

the line is cut
not even a dial tone

--Kella Hanna-Wayne is a native Eugenian and is just acquiring her first publishing credits. She has participated in the 1st and 3rd Thursday workshop group for a year, has a gluten free cooking blog, and is working on a poetry series to raise awareness for abusive relationships. She sings, bakes constantly, dances argentine tango and blues, and loves to put words to what she sees. She hopes to return to college at the University of Oregon and major in English Literature.

Miss Lakeishia Sings The Blues

Listen, mister, you're a guest 

at the Night Owl Club 

so you can sit here 

all night long, tip me 

after every song, 

buy me scotch 

till the final gong 

but none of this will help. 

You'll still go home alone 

unless some other lady has a need

to make her rent 

and sees the opportunity

you offer. It won't be me; 

I can't be bothered. 

I need a different kind of man, 

a man who'll hug me tighter 

than my panties can, 

a big old man 

whose big old tongue 

will be my tampon 

when I'm dry.

If you'll get off that stool 

and look in the mirror 

behind those whiskey bottles

standing at attention,

you'll see clearly why 

you can never be that man,

not even for an hour. 

I'm no Billie Holliday,

but even with my glasses off,

I can see that you

ain't no John Wayne.

--Donal Mahoney has had poems published in The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, Revival (Ireland), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), Public Republic (Bulgaria), Asphodel Madness (R.I.P.), The Camel Saloon, Black-Listed Magazine, Phantom Kangaroo, Camroc Press Review, Leaf Garden and other publications.

The Detestable Agony of Inedible Ecstasy

The Detestable Agony of Inedible Ecstasy

So blissful!
So tender!
So affable!

Eyes aloof, astray
infinite depths away
incongruently posing
in laughter without madness

but my palms

indifferent to details of daily fare
like conversations kept to a medium rare

and my nose

to grindstone locked
all exits blocked
Dissipating into a nightmare
with open eyes
right under my nose

the plot crumbled

in her silence between the words spoken,
spoken silently when she paused.

Persistent deliberation
of cheeky proliferation
what long I have sought
without a word she denied

like

the a blank canvas
of empty skies
smirking at the hungry earth
habitually awaiting showers
today denied downpour.

So loyal!
So alluring!
Unpalatable!

--Vineet Kaul, born in Ahmedabad (India), is a musician/journalist who has been exploring words as his medium of expression through poetry, prose and songwriting. Locally he performs as the Troubadour that has almost become his pen-name. His poems and articles have been published in the leading newspapers (The Times of India, The Pioneer, The Asian Age, The Indian Express etc),literary magazines of India and in a handful of Literature and Poetry Journals across the globe. He is currently adding the final touches to his poetry manuscript to be 2011. His work will soon be put up on his blog and can be read at thetspeak.wordpress.com.

Another Nail in the Old Wooden Coffin

Another Nail in the Old Wooden Coffin

I’ll read another book,

write another poem,

strum another song.

There are always words to entertain us,

that pageantry of language

stringing moments and events together,

a tapestry of time and recollection

where tradition and modernism meet.

I’ll learn another word

and lace another bead onto my necklace,

worn tight at times

to check out the lines,

a strangled actor

trying to make it to the second act,

frantically looking across the theatre

for any sign of an interval.

The play continues,

and I pluck another nail out from my coffin

just to hammer another board onto the stage.

I’ll rip these boards up,

only to be buried in them again.

 

--Born at the tail end of the seventies in Northern Ireland, Colin Dardis is a poet, artist, and sometimes musicians. He edits Speech Therapy, an online zine focusing on poetry from Ireland and beyond. He is also the co-ordinator of Make Yourself Heard, an open mike poetry night.

 

I Thought About It

I Thought About It

I thought about becoming a Feminist,
but I loved the scent of aftershave & rough hands
a little too much.

I thought about becoming a ballerina,
small tits & all, but every ballerina that I had to teach me
was already broken.

I thought about saving people, doing all that good Philanthropy
stuff that gets you into heaven & makes your heart feel
like you are worth something-

but I could barely get out of bed or quit starving myself.

I thought about becoming a tree, still & observant & always
at peace with my surroundings,

but my surroundings would not let me find peace.

I thought about becoming a song-writer & singer,
something like Mclachlan or Amy Lee, but my voice cracked
& tears choked whenever I attempted
to sing the truth.

I thought about becoming a whore,
because at least they get paid for their good service
& having to endure boring conversations.

I thought about becoming a mute, that way I would never
have to shut out the yelling or insults & would never be expected
to talk intelligently or softly or even at all
in the critical rooms.

I thought about becoming the rain,
that way I could always be somewhere & yet
always disappear.

I wish I was the rain.

--Heather Lenz is the poetry editor for First Step Press Online. Some of her work has appeared in Falling Star Magazine, Dance to Death, Because We Write and others.

Personality Tremor

Personality Tremor

Chaos to order,

I stab thermodynamics in the back.

I will not hide in a jail cell

of my own making.

I will never find safety,

reassurance

in

confinement.

Pie doesn’t exist,

especially not in kings,

where only the heart

goes without a mustache.

There is something happening here.

Why?

No, why is the answer

I bought the game but it bought me

Cracked helmets, cracked helmets

To each his own, but is the treachery

really necessary?

“In the middle of” in the middle of “In the middle of.”

Trickle down, a personality tremor,

industrialist gabber;

geometry isn’t my strong suit,

anyhow

--Michael Bagwell lives and writes in West Chester, Pennsylvania.  His recent work has been published or is forthcoming in Dark Sky Magazine, Collective Fallout, Weirdyear, Daily Love, and Short, Fast and Deadly. Blog: www.odysseysofash.blogspot.com.