editorial | interviews | home | photography | reviews

poetry

(New Pieces From issue 38 will be added Weekly)

on the good days by j.lester allen

I eat sunshine
spit the seeds into the
gutters
devour the blocks in shoes
not made for heavy walking

I smile when the dogs bark
(it is rare)
I smile even louder
pull threads of awareness
from my shirt
draw imaginary doors
in the sky

walk thru them and disappear

life is a thrift store that I
am inside of
browsing the shirts, pants
bald heads of mannequins
with chips in their plastic flesh

meat grinders
stereos with one speaker
and a broken tape deck
suits with no
bottoms
pots with no
tops

dust
dust
dust
old paperbacks and
the many shoes of the dead

I purchase nothing
it is good to abstain sometimes
it is better to be hungry,
lonely, sober and
wanting

it keeps a man moving forward

I step back into the street
grabbing the sound of passing cars
with both fists
trying not
to let go

 

the king of turk & taylor by william taylor, jr.

A Tuesday afternoon
and this bar teeters
on the edge

of nothing
and nowhere.

Outside these grimy windows
is an ocean of the lost

upon the surface
of which
strides an old man

wearing a crown of velvet
and gold

and a staff
of hard black wood:

The King
of Turk
& Taylor.

he’s got three teeth
and laughter that would
scare the devil.

He embraces and consumes
the indifference of the world

and spews it back
upon those who lay claim to some
higher purpose

than being drunk on a Tuesday afternoon

He says, abandon all dreams of immortality,

he says,
my children,
do not fear the void.

we are already forgotten
we may as well burn.

 

 

lightning lightning, rusty by dan sicoli

what we was
were young thin-legged colts
displaced from narrow alleys
with our gritty charm
and cooked-in stains

what we was
were damp with night’s acid
a slow burn nestled in the throat

what we was
with a lure of rum’s wick
and a wind stifling curious pupils
like open windows coping with destiny

what we was
was blue jeans worn and ragged
hold a mother’s hand once passed over

what we was
were grins as wide as
a crowded sky would allow
haunted on the tarred streets of slag

what we was
when the disease of noise
became shelter, escape, and finally reverence

we gave up everything, russ

what we was
was all we endured
like the realm of a pitted, battered moon

 

 

 

poem for dave church by a.d. winans

I walk about the apartment
Tripping through the garden of my mind
Wandering through a luscious vertical hibernation
Beneath the quiet sheen of one light bulb
And the shadowed glow from the bedroom window
With Van Morrison and Dylan cranked beyond the
Tinnitus shaking the dust from my memory bank

I see you slumped over the steering wheel of the
Taxi cab you drove all those long years
Poet warrior who recorded my “13” jazz poems
Making the poems come alive
As no other poet could

Brought back to reality by a flock of birds
Who circle the dark clouds outside
That threaten to burst into tears
Gone but not forgotten
jazz in your heart poetry in your soul
Your words exploding like artillery fire
Shattering the quiet of dawn

poets are like butterflies
inhabiting temporary space
tasting the pollen of life
spreading their wings
reshaping the stars the universe
cosmic matter waiting to be reborn

 

 

street fightin' man by alan catlin

says, “Don’t drive drunk, let me do
the drunk driving for you,”
unofficial logo of Albany hacks,
gypsy cab drivers with expired
licenses, cut-off denim work shirts
for better boy Art displays,
scuffed knuckles and facial bruises
turning yellow as nicotine stained
fingers, personal CD player cranking
out old Stones tunes, basement tapes
he might have made himself in ‘69
and had remastered, “Fuck the cost,
worth every damn nickel!”. No
dispatcher for late night hassles,
headache inducement, petty office
politics, also no contact with the outside
world beyond car doors. Car heater
stuck on swelter or doesn’t work at all;
windshield wipers permanently welded
to glass; he’ll pick up anyone but there
are some places he won’t go.
Says the end of next week, :Future,
I don’t have no fuckin’ future”.

 

 

churchitis by david s. pointer

like a battlefield
tour guide, I could
take you around the
small press where
word soldiers have
always fallen-Dave
Church death news
no exception, yet,
1819 “Pushkin is
sick in bed…now
he’ll have to go
back to his poem.”
Dave won’t be
writing through a
break like that,
but I’ll be going
back to his poems.

 

i was a serial bug killer by dave church (issue xxiii)

muses by dave church (issue xxv)

alone in a small dark room by dave church

pondering again by dave church

out of chelsea by b.z. niditch

the soulkeeper by marcus koeplin

robotics by lance calabrese

paris, october 1936 by cesar vallejo (translated by clayton eshleman)

souls and whiskey by frederick davis

untitled by matt pattee

sitting in the back of a white caddy, not even hank could write the lonesome to this song by scot young

traffic by charles portolano

saying goodbye by frederick zydek

remember the time by jonathan church (dave church's son)

 

 

 

editorial | interviews | home | photography | reviews