Dream Potion
By Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
I found a potion
you might like to try.
The potion helped me see
life in new ways,
in a different light.
I feel young again.
I found it in a forest.
I found it in a stream.
It is in the back of a dream.
I could lead you there.
Mar 4, 2009
Superpower, P.McFarland
Superpower
By Peggy McFarland
Dick punched Jack in the jaw hard enough that Jack spun around, lost his balance and hit his noggin on the pavement, a process that cost Jack a full eighty-nine seconds of his life. Jack blinked at the nervous Dick-face in his vision and remembered the exchange of ninety seconds ago. Rage filled his mind. Jack pictured Dick with a black eye and a bloody mouth and before the image fully formed, Dick's hands clenched into fists. The right fist shot up and walloped Dick's own eye socket while the left fist clobbered his own kisser, knocking out both front teeth.
Cool, guess Dick did me a favor, Jack thought. I've got a superpower, which was his only viable conclusion since most of his education was garnered from the television screen. Jack felt wonder and a bit lightheaded. He could revenge everyone who told him he was a no-good-high-school-drop-out. He could redeem himself, fight evil forces and become a hero. No, make that a Superhero, capital S, thank you. His mind skills would not only stop criminals but force them to punish themselves. Yes! He now had purpose.
Jack hoisted himself off the pavement, ignored the dizziness, spit on the moaning Dick and stepped into the street directly in the path of a speeding city bus. No problem. He would test this new Superpower. With his mind, he would bring the looming city transport to a screeching halt a mere inch from his nose, just like in the movies. Power coursed through his veins. Excitement filled his brain. Pride allowed him to stand straight and tall, arms extended, jacket billowing with the oncoming rush of wind. Yes, the portrait of a Superhero, Jack thought, and hoped Dick paid attention. Every Superhero needed one awed witness. Jack faced the vehicle and concentrated.
Tires did not screech. Through the bug-eyed windshield, Jack saw the bus driver mouth, "Move it, jackass." Characters on television, when confronted with danger, said time moved in slow motion. Or maybe slowing time was a Superpower bonus.
Jack's life did not flash before his eyes, but every Superhero movie he ever watched did. A bead of sweat blinded his right eye. A warm liquid washed over his right leg. The acrid reek of urine mixed with car exhaust tang. Horror replaced excitement as he learned a Super-lesson.
New skills could not be used on command; a trigger was necessary. The trigger released the power plus practice -- tons and tons of practice -- allowed eventual control and mastery until the Superpower truly transformed the individual into a Superhero. Jack focused harder. The bus wobbled… but no screech. The millisecond before impact, Jack experienced fright, resignation, embarrassment, regret, even disappointment, but he did not summon rage. He heard a giggle from the pavement. Aw, jeez, Dick saw I peed my pa….
By Peggy McFarland
Dick punched Jack in the jaw hard enough that Jack spun around, lost his balance and hit his noggin on the pavement, a process that cost Jack a full eighty-nine seconds of his life. Jack blinked at the nervous Dick-face in his vision and remembered the exchange of ninety seconds ago. Rage filled his mind. Jack pictured Dick with a black eye and a bloody mouth and before the image fully formed, Dick's hands clenched into fists. The right fist shot up and walloped Dick's own eye socket while the left fist clobbered his own kisser, knocking out both front teeth.
Cool, guess Dick did me a favor, Jack thought. I've got a superpower, which was his only viable conclusion since most of his education was garnered from the television screen. Jack felt wonder and a bit lightheaded. He could revenge everyone who told him he was a no-good-high-school-drop-out. He could redeem himself, fight evil forces and become a hero. No, make that a Superhero, capital S, thank you. His mind skills would not only stop criminals but force them to punish themselves. Yes! He now had purpose.
Jack hoisted himself off the pavement, ignored the dizziness, spit on the moaning Dick and stepped into the street directly in the path of a speeding city bus. No problem. He would test this new Superpower. With his mind, he would bring the looming city transport to a screeching halt a mere inch from his nose, just like in the movies. Power coursed through his veins. Excitement filled his brain. Pride allowed him to stand straight and tall, arms extended, jacket billowing with the oncoming rush of wind. Yes, the portrait of a Superhero, Jack thought, and hoped Dick paid attention. Every Superhero needed one awed witness. Jack faced the vehicle and concentrated.
Tires did not screech. Through the bug-eyed windshield, Jack saw the bus driver mouth, "Move it, jackass." Characters on television, when confronted with danger, said time moved in slow motion. Or maybe slowing time was a Superpower bonus.
Jack's life did not flash before his eyes, but every Superhero movie he ever watched did. A bead of sweat blinded his right eye. A warm liquid washed over his right leg. The acrid reek of urine mixed with car exhaust tang. Horror replaced excitement as he learned a Super-lesson.
New skills could not be used on command; a trigger was necessary. The trigger released the power plus practice -- tons and tons of practice -- allowed eventual control and mastery until the Superpower truly transformed the individual into a Superhero. Jack focused harder. The bus wobbled… but no screech. The millisecond before impact, Jack experienced fright, resignation, embarrassment, regret, even disappointment, but he did not summon rage. He heard a giggle from the pavement. Aw, jeez, Dick saw I peed my pa….
Elephant Gun, R.Monroe
Elephant Gun
By Richard Monroe
The big game hunter
mad dreams rhyme schemes
the thunder
funky manna from heaven
four-legged on the Savannah
shot down and done
trophy courtesy the
elephant gun
one plus one and
you’ll still be on the run
with an equation dead alive
but the problem starts at 5
more news at 11
rappin on Sunday bread unleavened
back to the rhyme scream crack the divine scheme
brain agitated electrodes blastin codes
not Davinci
caffeine stimulation
and my pain and elation
migraine, lyrical Athena
passed from my brain
my stage is my nightmare
my skull, my dream
By Richard Monroe
The big game hunter
mad dreams rhyme schemes
the thunder
funky manna from heaven
four-legged on the Savannah
shot down and done
trophy courtesy the
elephant gun
one plus one and
you’ll still be on the run
with an equation dead alive
but the problem starts at 5
more news at 11
rappin on Sunday bread unleavened
back to the rhyme scream crack the divine scheme
brain agitated electrodes blastin codes
not Davinci
caffeine stimulation
and my pain and elation
migraine, lyrical Athena
passed from my brain
my stage is my nightmare
my skull, my dream
Who's Crazy Now? A.Combs
Who’s Crazy Now?
By Andrea Combs
Two weeks passed and it happened again. As I look out my apartment window, I see crazy Norman from the building across the street. He has a chair above his head, beating the floorboards clean, but there’s nothing there. This isn’t an unusual sight. Two weeks ago, Norman was attacking the couch with a fire poker. At first I found his behavior strange. Now, I enjoy every mental breakdown. It’s my own form of relaxation.
I first met Norman two years ago when I moved into my building. I went down to the corner of Sanctuary and Vine to buy a cup of coffee. Norman was in line in front of me having an argument with his alter ego. It was quite interesting to watch.
"No Norman, don’t say things like that," he laughed menacingly and paid for his loaf of bread and De-Con, an unusual combination for a normal person. I questioned the clerk about his sanity. The clerk was all too quick to give the juicy information.
Norman was the town whacko. He had imaginary illnesses, invisible friends, and everyone was out to get him. He lived alone now, due to his roommate’s mysterious disappearance. The clerk reassured me that Norman was insane, but harmless. So, I of course, became intrigued with my new neighbor and picked up a pair of cheap binoculars at the local hunting store to keep an extra eye on him. My evenings of reading mysteries were over. Norman was a mystery all on his own.
This night was an exception. He had set two places for dinner and ate alone. Poured two glasses of wine and toasted the air. He turned the radio on and glided across the floor as if he were entertaining. As he settled in to watch television, something must have startled him. He jumped up, both feet on the couch and began searching the room for the culprit. He ran over to the end table and switched on the lamp. Next, he grabbed a wooden chair tightly and held it high above his head as he tiptoed around the living room. Pacing to one end and then the other, finally coming to a halt exactly where he’d started. Down came the chair, over and over again, first to the right and then to the left. I chuckled to myself as I intruded on this man’s most private thoughts. What was he chasing? I continued watching this scene repeat itself for about an hour. Then, he got a dustpan and broom, and swept his imaginary kill into it, before dumping it into the trash. I called it a night and went to bed, and hoped now Norman could do the same.
The next morning I journeyed to my favorite coffee spot. As I made it to the end of the block I saw Norman about to empty his trash into the dumpster on the side of the building. I walked over and wished him a good morning.
He replied, "Does your building have rats?"
I told him I had never seen any. Then, he asked if there were any vacant apartments on my floor. I gave him the name of my landlord and asked him why he wanted to move. He opened his trash bag to reveal his catch, and said, "These damn rats are keeping me up at night."
By Andrea Combs
Two weeks passed and it happened again. As I look out my apartment window, I see crazy Norman from the building across the street. He has a chair above his head, beating the floorboards clean, but there’s nothing there. This isn’t an unusual sight. Two weeks ago, Norman was attacking the couch with a fire poker. At first I found his behavior strange. Now, I enjoy every mental breakdown. It’s my own form of relaxation.
I first met Norman two years ago when I moved into my building. I went down to the corner of Sanctuary and Vine to buy a cup of coffee. Norman was in line in front of me having an argument with his alter ego. It was quite interesting to watch.
"No Norman, don’t say things like that," he laughed menacingly and paid for his loaf of bread and De-Con, an unusual combination for a normal person. I questioned the clerk about his sanity. The clerk was all too quick to give the juicy information.
Norman was the town whacko. He had imaginary illnesses, invisible friends, and everyone was out to get him. He lived alone now, due to his roommate’s mysterious disappearance. The clerk reassured me that Norman was insane, but harmless. So, I of course, became intrigued with my new neighbor and picked up a pair of cheap binoculars at the local hunting store to keep an extra eye on him. My evenings of reading mysteries were over. Norman was a mystery all on his own.
This night was an exception. He had set two places for dinner and ate alone. Poured two glasses of wine and toasted the air. He turned the radio on and glided across the floor as if he were entertaining. As he settled in to watch television, something must have startled him. He jumped up, both feet on the couch and began searching the room for the culprit. He ran over to the end table and switched on the lamp. Next, he grabbed a wooden chair tightly and held it high above his head as he tiptoed around the living room. Pacing to one end and then the other, finally coming to a halt exactly where he’d started. Down came the chair, over and over again, first to the right and then to the left. I chuckled to myself as I intruded on this man’s most private thoughts. What was he chasing? I continued watching this scene repeat itself for about an hour. Then, he got a dustpan and broom, and swept his imaginary kill into it, before dumping it into the trash. I called it a night and went to bed, and hoped now Norman could do the same.
The next morning I journeyed to my favorite coffee spot. As I made it to the end of the block I saw Norman about to empty his trash into the dumpster on the side of the building. I walked over and wished him a good morning.
He replied, "Does your building have rats?"
I told him I had never seen any. Then, he asked if there were any vacant apartments on my floor. I gave him the name of my landlord and asked him why he wanted to move. He opened his trash bag to reveal his catch, and said, "These damn rats are keeping me up at night."
Pleasures of the Page, A.Kendrick
Pleasures of the Page
By Anthony Kendrick
Temptation of the eyes you rapturous letters
The whole world is open to all
Then again, other worlds as well
Pictures flowing off and dancing
Pixie pixels still and flat but fluttering
Yet, paradise in monochrome is never lost
Losing you is half the battle and all the pleasure
To take another's heart in yours
Mind their manners well
Follow where they lead
From the depths of Sheol to the heights above
Like a mother with child, no many
Pleasures surround me day by day
Night by night some follow me
Resting upon my breast
Holding them till I see no more
By Anthony Kendrick
Temptation of the eyes you rapturous letters
The whole world is open to all
Then again, other worlds as well
Pictures flowing off and dancing
Pixie pixels still and flat but fluttering
Yet, paradise in monochrome is never lost
Losing you is half the battle and all the pleasure
To take another's heart in yours
Mind their manners well
Follow where they lead
From the depths of Sheol to the heights above
Like a mother with child, no many
Pleasures surround me day by day
Night by night some follow me
Resting upon my breast
Holding them till I see no more
Untitled, J.Carfagno
Untitled
By Joseph Carfagno
Near the end
Of a misspent life
Long or short
Nothing connects
The few small fires
Feeble glimmers
That illuminate
Nothing
By Joseph Carfagno
Near the end
Of a misspent life
Long or short
Nothing connects
The few small fires
Feeble glimmers
That illuminate
Nothing
Cut Stones, B.Frauman
Cut Stones
By Barry Frauman
Barefoot on a sea of rocks
beneath a sky of white-gray ice,
I wipe my bleeding soles
against the smooth maroons and yellows,
all the while yearning
for the jagged blacks and greens
to pierce my feet again again,
jolting a thrill into bone and nerve
that crashes me to this knife-sharp bed.
By Barry Frauman
Barefoot on a sea of rocks
beneath a sky of white-gray ice,
I wipe my bleeding soles
against the smooth maroons and yellows,
all the while yearning
for the jagged blacks and greens
to pierce my feet again again,
jolting a thrill into bone and nerve
that crashes me to this knife-sharp bed.
Flannel Sheets, L.Haslem
Flannel Sheets
By Lindsay Haslem
Hey, Baby, come kiss my fingertips here under a hailstorm,
like you did before your town got fire-bombed.
Please, Baby, tell me why that pond is all frozen over-
it's a warm day and these sad seagulls don't make no sense.
Listen, Baby, I think we should buy that black house
down by the railroad tracks because it has a dandelion patch.
I think, Baby, we ought to get a piebald puppy,
name him Lenin and only feed him VHS tapes.
Hold on, Baby, don't you watch those big beaks tear apart
the neighbor's scrawny children, they don't know no better.
Oh, Baby, it smells like piss and unsettled dust when I close my eyes,
let's take a bath and swallow each other.
Dance with me, Baby, before the blood stings our eyes and your mother
comes up to check on you.
By Lindsay Haslem
Hey, Baby, come kiss my fingertips here under a hailstorm,
like you did before your town got fire-bombed.
Please, Baby, tell me why that pond is all frozen over-
it's a warm day and these sad seagulls don't make no sense.
Listen, Baby, I think we should buy that black house
down by the railroad tracks because it has a dandelion patch.
I think, Baby, we ought to get a piebald puppy,
name him Lenin and only feed him VHS tapes.
Hold on, Baby, don't you watch those big beaks tear apart
the neighbor's scrawny children, they don't know no better.
Oh, Baby, it smells like piss and unsettled dust when I close my eyes,
let's take a bath and swallow each other.
Dance with me, Baby, before the blood stings our eyes and your mother
comes up to check on you.
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