Aug 25, 2009

Cussing Poem Maker, P.A.Levy

The Cussing Poem Maker
By P.A.Levy

The glass slams down empty.
The poet swears in monosyllables
about life, or not being served another drink,
it’s all a torturous ordeal.
He claims he’s only had a couple,
believe me he’s had his fill.
He walks like he’s roller-skating
on ice, throwing air punches
at metaphors that just won’t behave
and like an Englishman abroad
he’s shouting to be understood.
Humour him like the nutter
with two carrier bags full of yesterdays
that always seeks you out
to sit next to on the train.

Seasons of Lows, D.Christopher

Seasons of Lows
By Dawn Christopher

What is my conception?
Grasping for an explanation
Conflicting forms of structure
Bound but do not puncture
Can you whisper it to me?
A word, a gesture, your hostilities
Highly polished internal follies
Bubble, overflow, becoming sorries
Rain washes away the woes
Baptizing, cleansing a season of lows
Has the world turned deaf?
Blindsided, ran over, left for dead
My galaxy lies far from here
Where feelings are open, released, trusted
But until my path comes to a close
I will wonder, in astonishment, and become unfroze

Untitled, T.Vincent

By Tom Vincent

Few things are sadder or more pathetic than an overweight dog. The other day I saw an obese Jack Russell terrier. My God, Jack Russells are like little wound up electric motors with no governors. They’re like regular dogs on crack. It has to take some serious overfeeding to result in a tubby Jack Russell. What kind of eating disorder must one have before you stuff Fido so full of Kibbles that his stomach is practically dragging on the ground? Social commentators are fond of pointing out what it says about the USA that a third of our kids are obese. What does it say about our culture when even our pets need to go on diets?

Fourteen, E.Duffy

By Emily Duffy

number 14
cue ball
cue ball
no significance whatsoever

what if my head exploded?
…not figuratively

what if I sat down here
in this place
until I forgot how
to interact with people

styrofoam blocks stretch to the ceiling
to the sky
when I try to climb they digress, compress
they’re not as tall as they seem

that looks like blood on the wall
but it’s paint on the wall, actually
blue blood, red blood purple
these blue jeans have holes in them
it’s ok.

my name and your name
is the same name
and we play the same game

but you’re winning

Curse of Cubs, M.B.Kaley

The Curse of the Cubs
By Mary Baader Kaley

The curse of a goat?
Not likely. I know the real story.

A lifetime ago, when the Orphans morphed to Cubs long before Wrigley field was dreamt,
a ballplayer met a mysterious woman. In her presence he felt like the most fortunate man alive,
though he did not know anything of her family or where she lived.

Her hair was long and red. Her deep green eyes made it impossible for him to look away.
She spoke with an Irish brogue, and her voice was melody and harmony in one.
And best of all, she loved this ballplayer with his imperfections, his fickle moods.
She kissed a charm and gave it to him to wear during his games at the West Site Grounds.

He wore this tiny charm, a chained baby-blue stone, each and every game. When he had a chance,
he'd look for her in the stands and smile, wink, or wave. She loved his rugged allure,
his hopeful grin.

And his team did well. Back-to-back World Series came their way. Amazing times indeed,
1907 - 1908. And tragic.

You see, women flocked to the famous team. The ballplayer received so much attention,
especially from a dame with dark eyes and sleek black hair. Sophistication effused in her walk;
he didn't know what hit him.

His mysterious redhead knew before any news of the affair had reached her;
at the next game he failed to look her way.

So enraged, she clawed at her neck and looked up at the sky. She invoked a hundred-year
Gaelic curse on the ballplayer and his team, “…Imeacht gan teacht ort!”
In that moment, no one could blame her.

The charm, of course, was broken and lost.

So goes the curse of the Cubs according to my great-great-aunt.
Go ahead, run a goat across the field, re-use dirty socks, kiss your bat before you swing!

No, what works is what has always worked -- wearing one’s true love.

Friends, N.Schultz

By Nathan Schultz

What happens to your friends?
Your first day of school,
You start all of your friendships,
They build through the years,
Some grow while some fade,
A few will be revived,
Middle school comes,
You have a basic set of friends,
You think you will be best friends till the end,
High school is here and you see,
A couple of friends like to do things,
That you don’t want to,
You don’t say anything,
You just go through the year,
Slowly drifting apart from each other,
You start to make different friends,
Ones with similar interests,
These friendships build,
Then the day you graduate,
You wonder if these friendships will fade,
You go off to different colleges,
You talk every once in a while,
But it’s still not the same,
You get to college and make some new friends,
They grow and fade,
You get older,
You graduate college and move away,
You get a job and make new friends,
They may not be the best friends you ever had,
But they are what you have.

John Locke, R.W.Pretzer

John Locke
By Randall W. Pretzer

"You spent your money on a worthless suit….you should have got a book by John Locke…" I said. I was furious looking at this man with his new suit on…..telling me…no bragging to me how much it cost.
"Who is John Locke? Why should I care?" he said indifferently. This was too much.
"Who is John Locke? What are you deranged? He is only one of the most important philosophers…..we may not have a the United States if he never lived." I was just screaming at him now. He just looked at me scratching my head confused as hell I could tell.
"I just want to get a new pair of shoes…..why are you bothering with me?" He said confused. I looked at him and threw my hands up in the air and walked off. I didn't even care about his reaction. The ignorance of society. The moral decay of the education system. How does one graduate from high school….or college…not knowing the greats? Adam Smith? Karl Marx? Voltaire? The men and ideas that have helped shape civilization…give us what we have today. I don't understand. I sat down a nearby bench for I was exhausted….just from being so angry….so frustrated and just constantly thinking about… didn't matter anymore.
The bench fell apart as I tried to sit on it and fell on my back. I just laid there. I had no energy left. I turned on my side to get a bit more comfortable and I saw that same man who wanted shoes come out of the shoe shop we were standing next to. I looked at him and he saw me. He paused for a minute and then came rushing over to where I was. I didn't move.
"Excuse me sir….are you all right…?" He said with a sense of urgency and concern I was not expecting. I thought he wished to fight.
"No, sir… thank you….I am just very tired…I need to rest." I said kindly.
"No problem….I know a sturdy bench not too far from here….I can show you…" He said kindly.
"No thank you….I am very comfortable where I am." I said almost laughing for I know I sure didn't look comfortable but I was. I was laying on my side in a rubble of wood from the bench.
"You're welcome..good sir…. Good day." He said kindly and headed back in the direction of the shoe store. What kind of a man was I? You fool. He didn't know who John Locke was and you hated him for it? I was mad at myself now. He was a kind man and I treated him unfairly. It was not my concern he didn't know who John Locke was. He came out to buy some shoes. He didn't want a fight. He wanted shoes. Shame on me.

Developing Hormones, R.Standley

Developing Hormones
By Ryan Standley

As a junior in a small town high school, I worked at a photography studio. My boss kept himself busy shooting senior portraits in the backroom while I stayed in the smelly red-lit darkroom developing black-and-white passport photos and wide-angle football shots, hallways in passing, dances, and student club pics for the yearbook committee.
Our film developing process began with my boss, Tim, creating a negative by unrolling film in complete darkness, wetting it in chemicals, and hanging it to dry. Later I'd run the dried strip through a single frame projector, flashing light onto white photo paper, removing the paper from its frame, submerging it in starter bath till the image appeared, then stop bath, and wash. The photos were laid out to dry on a table, no clothespin line like the movies.
The job was monotonous till I developed a roll of my boss's naked wife. The pregnant, nipple-concealing pose, popularized in the nineties by Demi Moore and Vanity Fair, covered two rolls, 24 exposures each, including several obvious nipple and hair slips. The unappealing pregnant belly was cropped off. Black and white, shining wet, topless with a serious expression and slicked back hair. The copies I made for my personal files were openly drying on the table when my boss suddenly walked in the darkroom. Tim saw the pictures and froze. He slowly turned green, opened his mouth to speak, barely grunted, and quickly left the room.
After seeing his reaction I felt guilty and ripped up all the prints and went home. Tim and I never spoke of it again, and I found a new job a month later. I forgot all about the embarrassing situation until I saw old Tim at the grocery store the other day. He introduced me to his beautiful wife, and his son, who was twelve, and I suddenly felt very old.