One Poem by Chelle Viegas

This and That

This earring
Tugs at my earlobe
That band
Chokes my hair
This collar
Strangles my pulse
That brassiere
Restricts my breath
This ring
Hurts my finger
That bracelet
Shackles my wrist
This belt
Squeezes my waist
That anklet
Pricks my ankle
You
Don’t complete me
I prefer
Being a divorcee

3 Poems by Thomas Pescatore

Pepper Spray

Halloween

we all carried pepper spray can

in the store (like old west brook

park market convenience store) some

ladies complained, this one girl

without form shot hers into the air

constantly,

She turned to me and

concretely blonde and maybe 17

said, "It's really hot in here don't ya think?"

I realized it was and took my shirt off—

Awoke on a beach

Wake up to beach under the stars

million million stars and feels like the

ocean is black and crashing in over us

like into a sand wall (from earlier lifetime

dreams) and I'm wondering how I slept so

long and know right then that Mike isn't there,

that he fought off the sleep, I curse him

for not wasting the day--in my mind

and eye the scene is inside-and-out-endless,

"He must be back at the room"—I assure

the masses of people still sleeping beside me.

Stirring

The first sip of Guinness and

a toast to the empty

bowels of this tipping universe,

I wipe the drip from

my chin with the back of my

hand like a ritual of earthliness,

of the ugliness of stark American

realities, at my table alone,

set in the back, masked by laughter

and drunken cheer,

it's a triumphantly sad gasp

calling out to those who'd found their way

across this land that's always been,

singing boozing passing by,

living breathing loving

humbly truly simply every moment

3 Haiku by Denny Marshall

Woke up from a dream
Length of my entire life
I was someone else

I am so happy
Many events in my life
Only a bad dream

She is always there
Laying next to me on bed
Until I wake up

4 Poems by Holly Day

Conversations Overheard

there’s a guy in the restaurant booth just behind me and he’s trying

to score. he’s telling the girl sitting in the booth with him all about his

trouble at home, about how he’s going to finally confront his girlfriend

and just ask her what the hell is wrong, because she’s been acting

really weird lately, and he needs to know if maybe she’s pregnant

which he seriously doubts because they hardly ever sleep together

anymore, if she’s had a nervous breakdown and needs

professional help, or if she just doesn’t care about him

anymore. the girl in the restaurant booth just behind me hums

sympathetically, says this situation must really be hard for the guy

says he’s been a really good guy to stay with a woman

so obviously troubled for as long as he had. I hear her ask

the waitress for another drink, make it two, and I

am suddenly so happy that the man sitting in

the booth with me is my husband, because

it would be so easy, so horrible

to be a part of that couple sitting just behind me.

On Trying to be Good

Fish do not have sex, which is why

it’s okay to eat fish during Lent. Because fish

do not have sex, they are not

considered meat, and therefore

you can eat all the fish you want

and still be a vegetarian.

When a baby is born, it has to pass

through its mother’s vagina. Because it

has touched its mother’s vagina, it has sinned

and therefore needs to be baptized

and forgiven. Also, babies come from having sex

so they need to be forgiven for that, too.

A woman needs to know how to please her husband

in bed, but she also needs to save herself, stay a virgin

until she’s married. Priests are no good

at giving advice on how to do this,

how to be a good lay right out of the gate.

Neither are Catholic mothers.

Gilles de Rais

despite the legends, he kept an impeccable house

even the tiny room where the children were kept

was bereft of any evidence of crime. the bones

were always immediately take out back and burnt,

the clothes and the shoes were cleaned and sent out

to be distributed among the poor.

he was only married twice, and both wives

were as guilty of the crimes as he was.

the first one died of a fever soon after

they were married, possibly from eating raw meat

while the second one, more careful

choked to death on a tiny ring wrapped

around a tiny finger.

it was because of love that he consumed both women

shared their pale, limp bodies with his guests

burned them in the pit out back with the rest of the

stripped, bloody bones—they wouldn’t have understood

any other kind of tribute, not from him.

Family Magic

the woman whispers a few words over the bundle

and hands it to me. she says

put this under your pillow and the dreams will

go away. she tells me of the village

she grew up in , how her mother taught her magic

all the secrets passed down through her family

thousands of years, old magic, and just from her clan.

when I get home I look up her village

on the map, try to reconcile her story

with the Inquisition’s ransacking of Béarn, how

there was no one left to pass on the old magic

how the village stayed abandoned for years. I wish

she would have picked a different town

to prop up her credentials, I grumble

before heading off to bed, putting the bundle

under my pillow anyway, trying hard

to believe in the lies.

One Poem by Andrew Taylor

Cooling Towers

  

Tilt at cooling towers

there are no windmills

re-plant to cover loss

Send me a postcard
when you get there

No time for shut down
the archive is housed

in filing cabinets

newsletters mailed with
blue or green stamps

to semi-remote cottages
alongside the milk bill
that is delivered weekly

printed with the name
that we
briefly shared

One Poem by Joe Joyce

An Open Window on Portland

I can feel the pressure 
that was never there
alleviated in the back of my eyes

an open window on Portland,
drifters holding hands 
and bringing dogs into supermarkets

Your submissions and shot-outs to HST and Camel Saloon.

Just wanted to take the time to let everyone know we are completely caught up on submissions through the end of 2013. If you sent a submission before the end of 2013, you should have a response in your in-box. If you think you may have been overlooked, shoot us an email. Some of you may want to know why your work has been accepted but not yet published. The idea is to post poems from 2-3 people per day rather than all at once. This way everyone gets a fair shot at having their work read by others. If you submitted work on or after the first of the year, I have received it but not yet had a chance to review it. I'll start that process in the next 3-4 days. I'd also like to give a very special thanks to Ryan Quinn Flanagan, and the guys over at Camel Saloon and HorrorSleazeTrash for getting the word out and making me work even harder for free. If you submitted work to us, regardless of whether or not it was accepted, I thank you for taking the time to do so. Thanks to all of you who have read or contributed, you're what this is really all about.

Lee Lincecum, Managing Editor

Blind Vigilance Press