Today I have made the difficult decision to shut down BVR and permanently exit the publishing world. Without going into too much detail, because of family and career obligations, I simply do not have the time or resources to give this project the attention that it needs and deserves. Sorry If I was unable to get to your sub. For those that have been published here, thank you. Whether you were published here or not, I wish you all well in your future artistic pursuits. I'll leave the archives up.
Lee.
Three poems by Scott Laudati
Arrested Development
her parents said
-believe in God
-believe in yourself
-believe in family
-don’t have sex it will
leave you
empty
i thought of
these things, and
many other things
as she pulled into
a park, turned off her headlights
and lit a
cigarette
I said, “I
don’t think this is
a good idea”
she took off
her shirt
I said, “I can’t
I’m dirty”
she unhinged her
leopard bra
I said, “jesus,
if I ever have a daughter
there’s no way to stop her,
is there?”
she handed me a
water bottle and
said, Go Clean Off
her parents were asleep
when we got back, but the goddamn
brother-
3 feet shorter than me
100 pounds lighter, but
with a better haircut, said
“I didn’t say you
could come back over”.
he smiled to himself, as if
he had won something
I smiled back, and thought
if that’s what you need
then take it ... I’ve already
helped myself.
I fell asleep
i fell asleep
thinking
about lorraine’s
toes,
and how she’d
never show
them to me.
but
she let me
see
everything no one
else is
ever supposed to
see.
now, at night
i don’t stay up
thinking
about our bar
crawls
or parking lot
sex.
i fall asleep
thinking
about lorraine’s
feet,
and how she
never showed
them to me.
the dog days are over
sometimes
when i lose too much faith in the world-
too many wars
too many police
all going so right
for the wrong,
i look at my dog,
fearless
asleep
farting
shedding
all over my couch.
a wild animal brought in
to serve a purpose
that went extinct
with the letter
and the barn.
and i think “all
this animal has to do
is shit
in the right place
and it makes me happy.”
that’s it.
of course, the dog can operate
with no regard because it
doesn’t know the greatest
fear- that someday
it will
die.
but as animals
grow weak,
and the weak
are killed
and eaten,
humans grow old
in community
homes. and sometimes
they’ve lost it, and drool
on bingo boards and smile
at the space between
them and time. but usually
they haven’t. and
because they
are old and
boring they’re
stuck away, to ride out the days alone,
and watch their roommates
drop out one by one.
and at the end, their very first
learned lesson becomes their last-
if they want to keep everyone
happy,
all they have to do is shit in the right place.
her parents said
-believe in God
-believe in yourself
-believe in family
-don’t have sex it will
leave you
empty
i thought of
these things, and
many other things
as she pulled into
a park, turned off her headlights
and lit a
cigarette
I said, “I
don’t think this is
a good idea”
she took off
her shirt
I said, “I can’t
I’m dirty”
she unhinged her
leopard bra
I said, “jesus,
if I ever have a daughter
there’s no way to stop her,
is there?”
she handed me a
water bottle and
said, Go Clean Off
her parents were asleep
when we got back, but the goddamn
brother-
3 feet shorter than me
100 pounds lighter, but
with a better haircut, said
“I didn’t say you
could come back over”.
he smiled to himself, as if
he had won something
I smiled back, and thought
if that’s what you need
then take it ... I’ve already
helped myself.
I fell asleep
i fell asleep
thinking
about lorraine’s
toes,
and how she’d
never show
them to me.
but
she let me
see
everything no one
else is
ever supposed to
see.
now, at night
i don’t stay up
thinking
about our bar
crawls
or parking lot
sex.
i fall asleep
thinking
about lorraine’s
feet,
and how she
never showed
them to me.
the dog days are over
sometimes
when i lose too much faith in the world-
too many wars
too many police
all going so right
for the wrong,
i look at my dog,
fearless
asleep
farting
shedding
all over my couch.
a wild animal brought in
to serve a purpose
that went extinct
with the letter
and the barn.
and i think “all
this animal has to do
is shit
in the right place
and it makes me happy.”
that’s it.
of course, the dog can operate
with no regard because it
doesn’t know the greatest
fear- that someday
it will
die.
but as animals
grow weak,
and the weak
are killed
and eaten,
humans grow old
in community
homes. and sometimes
they’ve lost it, and drool
on bingo boards and smile
at the space between
them and time. but usually
they haven’t. and
because they
are old and
boring they’re
stuck away, to ride out the days alone,
and watch their roommates
drop out one by one.
and at the end, their very first
learned lesson becomes their last-
if they want to keep everyone
happy,
all they have to do is shit in the right place.
Two Poems by Amy Soricelli
Love Leaves Me Blue
Blue combs my hair with his dark shadow hands in the dead of the night
smelling of cigarettes; Blue uses his teeth/removes my tangles
once a long braid down the perfect straight of my back.
The edges of empty/lost settle on the ground - the hair he cuts;
see them piled/chippy brown sniplets of high school feeling hair -
collects around the tiles on the bathroom floor...will find months later laying up in the sides
curled up, hidden.
Blue drapes his arms around me -leads me around in a blind-man-with-stick way
Blue combs my hair with his dark shadow hands in the dead of the night
smelling of cigarettes; Blue uses his teeth/removes my tangles
once a long braid down the perfect straight of my back.
The edges of empty/lost settle on the ground - the hair he cuts;
see them piled/chippy brown sniplets of high school feeling hair -
collects around the tiles on the bathroom floor...will find months later laying up in the sides
curled up, hidden.
Blue drapes his arms around me -leads me around in a blind-man-with-stick way
i feel around with my hands not trusting Blue-
the lonely rounded corners with nothing to hold onto; Blue smells danger
offers shiny coins for it.
Blue says "i love you" in hard pounding paragraphs stuck with pins against black paper
the rough on your hands leaves behind ash...
little words of ash.
Blue dances with knives in the sleeves of his coat
walks up the sides of buildings/ there are dogs with chains locked hard to the gates.
Blue whispers "you need me"
like a threat in the black starless night.
the lonely rounded corners with nothing to hold onto; Blue smells danger
offers shiny coins for it.
Blue says "i love you" in hard pounding paragraphs stuck with pins against black paper
the rough on your hands leaves behind ash...
little words of ash.
Blue dances with knives in the sleeves of his coat
walks up the sides of buildings/ there are dogs with chains locked hard to the gates.
Blue whispers "you need me"
like a threat in the black starless night.
Weekend at the Cape
I took the sand away in a small pail -carried it lingering
across glittery pieces of rock - maybe stone.
there was no skipping but light light on the feet it seemed
always daytime there.
she lived on the top of the hill the very top
like ceiling clouds the air filled the mud room
slippers with tracking feet -
the umbrellas smiling always straight up like soldiers.
the wooden floors would crack the doors would creak -
no surprise behind curtains/the giggles trapped between the tiniest
rose buds as they danced around the hem
on my sailor-blue sneakers.
all sea glass in plates with the frozen smiling seahorse in its profile pose
delicate lace tableclothe/everything sprinkled with lavender;
slight breezes through open spaces in floorboards/
the sound of the ocean tapping at the door expecting to sit with arms folded on its lap.
One poem by Michael Lee Johnson
Common Church Poem
Sitting here in the pew
splinters in my butt
hours in prayer begging
Jesus for a quiet life.
Breathing here is so quiet,
so alone, so unnoticed,
so simple, you can hear Saints
cleaning my eardrums
so I can hear the scandals
of my wickedness-
crying here seems a
form of sadistic laughter.
Where is the priest, masturbating at home?
Is he bleaching down the walls
inside his confessional?
Is he out selling cassette tapes, reaping in riches,
spewing glibness, condensing remarks to those
in office, those in need of counsel.
Is that woodpecker I hear outside pecking my brain, calling me insane
or tapping out a new set of rosary beads, or a chisel and crowbar
to break my sins free?
2 Poems by Jonathan Butcher
Drifting
We burnt down what was left of our
responsibilities on the midnight fire;
scarfs and drinks keeping us warm,
the powders rush now creeping up our
backs like demented frost.
We share our tokens of pride without
judgement, clink glasses when 'great
minds think alike', "So will this continue
after we hit fifty?"- I have seen various
casualties, and secretly pray that is not
our fate.
The music from the battered stereo still
flows through the hiss, as we pick ourselves
up once more, and hope the end never finds
its path, as the fire leaves its embers to warm
the oncoming dawn, as we continue to drift
forward, but never even close to home.
The Odds
We were ousted by the very mouths
that claimed to be our mentors, only
of course when our presence suited
them we are invited back to the fold.
When they wished to appear wise
about drugs, vandalism, walking
down parkways at 2.00am, and music
they only listened to in secret.
Their false words of wisdom then trailed
off like tired exhaust smoke, their eyes
that first seemed as bright as bonfires then
depleted, and stared stagnant like unmanned,
rotting sewage.
Yet we still repeated their phrases,
their ill fitting wardrobes and backwards
logic, yet always with a smile on our faces;
it was just far too easy aspiring to shit.
5 Poems by J.J. Campbell
only the guilty run out of fear
let's go swimming
in a frozen lake
get out the snowboards
and go to the desert
bring plenty of
sunscreen for three
months in a cave
go rob the bank
a block away from
the police station
calmly walk away
only the guilty run
out of fear
go introduce a rabid
dog to your newborn
son
take bets on who
makes it out alive
always remember the
sheriff plays for free
unless you want that
newly built grow room
to become property
of the state
and only repeat the
lies you believe
otherwise you sound
like a fucking fool
avoiding conflict
string the holiday lights
up like hope still exists
in this world
be it bliss, ignorance
or a silly faith
you don't avoid
wearing it with
pride
you obviously didn't
grow up with the pain
of abuse or ever take
a fucking punch at a
school recess
avoiding conflict might
have worked for you
but i'll bet you all 37
cents in my savings
account
that once you taste
the joy of defeating
someone
you'll never avoid
conflict again
the rainbow
somewhere over the rainbow
there's an old man with a
gun in his mouth
having freshly penned his
last words he's comfortable
with his goodbye
somewhere over the rainbow
a bleeding child is placed
in a dumpster
a bleeding teenager tries
to quickly run away
guilt not far behind
somewhere over the rainbow
a good woman still cares
though she's grown tired
of trying to figure out why
somewhere over the rainbow
a man goes down to one
knee and asks his lovely
wife for a divorce
somewhere over the rainbow
a dreamer asks to go
back to the other side
to the other side
you can feel the
sweat on the back
of your neck as
soon as you walk
out the door
you look at the cats
and how miserable
they appear to be
you start speaking
spanish to them out
of a habit taught to
you years ago
that should be enough
food and water to get
them to the other side
you don't allow them
inside anymore after
reading one too many
stories about household
pets eating deceased
owners
a sad kitten looks up
from its bowl and you
walk away
you're not going to
be fooled again
the invisible muse
she's the kind of woman
that knows she's incredibly
attractive yet gets pissed
when she's in her finest
clothes and men start
staring
the kind of woman that
wakes up each morning
believing the majority of
the earth is beneath her
yet will brag all day long
about her love of god and
work in the church
the kind of woman that
wants to be spoiled with
lavish gifts and treated
like a queen yet don't be
surprised when you catch
her sucking dick in the
corner booth of a dive
bar with a latin man
twelve years older
than her
the kind of woman that
never takes responsibility
for her actions because
quite frankly she's never
had to
the kind of woman that
is embarrassed by her
family and the weekly
therapy session
the kind of woman that
knows she's really invisible
once that little blue pill
wears off
Complicated by Rebecca Gaffron.
I wake
with you
on my mind
and him
on my thighs
and realize
how sticky
this thing called love is
with you
on my mind
and him
on my thighs
and realize
how sticky
this thing called love is
2 Poems by Ben Newell.
to be posted on backpage with naughty pic
I do, at times, consider prostitution
a viable option—
Teabagging
and taking it up the arse,
thirty minutes of degradation
for two-hundred dollars
preferable to eight hours
of the same
for much
less.
plug for a porn novel
I’m issued the ISBN;
this and a form
to fill out,
providing input for the art dept.
as they begin designing the cover,
things I want
and
things I definitely
do not
want.
Given the plot and characters,
I want
a nineteen-year-old
college slut
in cotton panties,
preferably an ass shot
with said slut
glancing over a shoulder,
eye contact
with potential readers,
reeling them in
with the promise
of more.
I definitely do not want
a Fabio facsimile
with high cheekbones,
washboard abs
and
long flowing locks
the color of
sun-baked
wheat.
Of course,
the final decision
isn't mine to make;
the art. dept
wields the power
in this relationship.
I’m just the writer
of dirty book
978-1-61160-736-9;
like
an inmate,
I’ve got my number
and
a solid idea
for
my next
tattoo.
SOME OF THE TIME THE UNIVERSE IS GRAY AND OFF COLOR by Michael Brownstein
I am made for Alzheimer’s
practicing forgetting since I was a child.
A pink thread of mist frays into light,
the sky a sun ached blue-white
full of calories and miscellaneous detail.
Suddenly a great shiver of katydids
blows a wind across the edge of the yard.
I have a need to explain everything in color,
the mood swings and the warmth of scars,
a strain above the eyes, a roll of breath
across a shape of lips I am not allowed
to wander through. This is the way
to dementia, the play of remembering
what needs to be forgotten, what needs
to never be remembered, what needs
to settle into the swamplands
near the gathering of love chatter
from grass toads and large mouthed frogs.
Everything else dissolves unto frames,
a black and white Humphrey Bogart a moment
before he walks out on Katherine Hepburn
Two Poems by Melanie Browne
Before They Begin
She sticks her
juicy fruit gum
on the bedpost
before they begin
he scratches his
inner thigh and
coughs a little,
on the T.V. is
the droll sound
of true-crime
documentary,
"people are savages"
she tells him,
flicking her
eyelashes across
the room,
then back to
him again,
"yes they are,"
he replies.
Internal Dialogue Between a Shiny New Year and a Depressive Mind
You could use a bath,
your hangover is the size
of a small state,
perhaps Rhode Island,
who has as their state Bird
a chicken,
that seems a bit lazy,
like not much thought went
into it,
but who am I to judge,
I know better than to mix drinks
like that and now U2's New Year's Day
is floating in a sound fog
around my third chakra-
wherever that is,
I try to picture the new year,
all golden and bright but
its raining in my brain and the
toast on the hopeful plate
is a bit soggy,
the NSA might read this poem,
rich people are playing tennis
in outer space,
Al Gore still searches
for Sanctuary
and the sun shines
a little hotter each
day
She sticks her
juicy fruit gum
on the bedpost
before they begin
he scratches his
inner thigh and
coughs a little,
on the T.V. is
the droll sound
of true-crime
documentary,
"people are savages"
she tells him,
flicking her
eyelashes across
the room,
then back to
him again,
"yes they are,"
he replies.
Internal Dialogue Between a Shiny New Year and a Depressive Mind
You could use a bath,
your hangover is the size
of a small state,
perhaps Rhode Island,
who has as their state Bird
a chicken,
that seems a bit lazy,
like not much thought went
into it,
but who am I to judge,
I know better than to mix drinks
like that and now U2's New Year's Day
is floating in a sound fog
around my third chakra-
wherever that is,
I try to picture the new year,
all golden and bright but
its raining in my brain and the
toast on the hopeful plate
is a bit soggy,
the NSA might read this poem,
rich people are playing tennis
in outer space,
Al Gore still searches
for Sanctuary
and the sun shines
a little hotter each
day
POEM OF THE MONTH DEC 2013!
It's crass. It's disgusting. It's provocative. It's exactly why I check my email. I am happy to announce that the winner for December 2013 poem of the month goes to Ryan Quinn Flanagan for "Piss in my Mouth." In case ya'll missed it:
Piss in my Mouth
We were sitting around
after a nice dinner together
enjoying our coffees
when she said it:
Piss in my mouth.
What?
Come on, it’ll be fun, piss in my mouth.
She tied her hair back in a ponytail,
got down on her knees
between my legs
and started to unzip me.
I don’t know about this, I mean, Jesus woman, this is highly irregular,
can’t I just cream in your mouth like normal people do?
That’s no fun.
I hear it can be.
Come on, forget that.
She pulled it out and let it rest against my jeans.
It looked flaccid and sad like a deflated tire.
Don’t even think about it, pretend my mouth is a urinal, or something.
Right now, right this moment?
Of course silly, I’m ready now, come on, piss in my mouth.
She opened wide.
I could see the strain of her jaw line
work its way up to her lightly freckled forehead.
She looked very beautiful.
Nothing like a urinal.
I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, my dear.
Come on, I’m ready.
But I don’t have to go.
She started to get angry with me.
What can I do?, I asked,
a man only stands in front of a urinal
and goes when he has too,
the rest of the time he shops for pears
or puts on socks
or checks the glove compartment
for maps of upper state
New York.
You’re no fun.
She got back up to her feet
pulled her hair out of the ponytail
walked into the bathroomin
and closed the door.
Leaving me cold, limp,
and dangling
in the kitchen,
wondering just how many
a man
had pissed in the urinal
I would have to kiss
goodnight later.
For his life experience poured onto a page, Ryan will receive a money order for 10 bucks from yours truly. It's not much but it's what I can afford. I intend to do this every month throughout the lifespan of BVR. It's less than my weekly alcohol budget, so why not? Besides, bribery works, just look at the U.S. government and try to call bullshit on that. Dare ya. So tonight I would like to thank Ryan, as well as all other BVR contributors for making this little mag what it is. Keep sending in your good works ya'll.
Lee Lincecum, Managing Editor
Blind Vigilance Press
Piss in my Mouth
We were sitting around
after a nice dinner together
enjoying our coffees
when she said it:
Piss in my mouth.
What?
Come on, it’ll be fun, piss in my mouth.
She tied her hair back in a ponytail,
got down on her knees
between my legs
and started to unzip me.
I don’t know about this, I mean, Jesus woman, this is highly irregular,
can’t I just cream in your mouth like normal people do?
That’s no fun.
I hear it can be.
Come on, forget that.
She pulled it out and let it rest against my jeans.
It looked flaccid and sad like a deflated tire.
Don’t even think about it, pretend my mouth is a urinal, or something.
Right now, right this moment?
Of course silly, I’m ready now, come on, piss in my mouth.
She opened wide.
I could see the strain of her jaw line
work its way up to her lightly freckled forehead.
She looked very beautiful.
Nothing like a urinal.
I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, my dear.
Come on, I’m ready.
But I don’t have to go.
She started to get angry with me.
What can I do?, I asked,
a man only stands in front of a urinal
and goes when he has too,
the rest of the time he shops for pears
or puts on socks
or checks the glove compartment
for maps of upper state
New York.
You’re no fun.
She got back up to her feet
pulled her hair out of the ponytail
walked into the bathroomin
and closed the door.
Leaving me cold, limp,
and dangling
in the kitchen,
wondering just how many
a man
had pissed in the urinal
I would have to kiss
goodnight later.
For his life experience poured onto a page, Ryan will receive a money order for 10 bucks from yours truly. It's not much but it's what I can afford. I intend to do this every month throughout the lifespan of BVR. It's less than my weekly alcohol budget, so why not? Besides, bribery works, just look at the U.S. government and try to call bullshit on that. Dare ya. So tonight I would like to thank Ryan, as well as all other BVR contributors for making this little mag what it is. Keep sending in your good works ya'll.
Lee Lincecum, Managing Editor
Blind Vigilance Press
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