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

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.

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

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