Creative Displacement, J.Farley

Creative Displacement
By Joseph Farley

Clickety clack
clickety clack
they keys rattle
a train on track
where does it go?
what does it carry?
Floor sweepings
and disposable verses,
edging, arguing, falling, failing
towards something grander
than the small station
from which it left.

Popcorn, J.Bloomfield

Popcorn
By James Bloomfield

I'm working late at the office. The office is on the highest floor of a gargantuan tower block, a tribute to the technological achievement of man. Seven hundred offices and four canteens and a television room and a small cinema all packaged in one towering, phallic, steel monstrosity.
I'm alarmed when a blinding flash lights the office from somewhere outside. The mighty glass windowpanes rattle softly in their frames, buffeted by shock waves from a colossal bomb that has just fallen on the heart of the city.
A flotilla of unmarked black airplanes cruise the night sky, barely discernible.
Many more bombs drop and I press myself against the glass in stunned horror, watching as families of buildings fold into dust. At first I holler down to the people below, futilely attempting to warn them of their doom. I pound on the glass with my fists, weeping and yelling out until I am exhausted and cannot cry any longer.
Eventually I feel drained, numbed, and I watch the tireless patterns of dust storms and infernos, hypnotized. I take the elevator to the ground floor and return soon after with a large bucket of sweet, sickly popcorn and a soft drink from the staff cinema. I bring the Director's plush leather chair into my office and I sit down resignedly to watch the anarchy.
I tune the radio momentarily into an emergency broadcast that brings news of a synchronized attack on no less than two hundred major cities worldwide. Everybody knows it is the end of the civilized world but nobody knows who is flying the unmarked black planes.
The frequency of the intense bombing never diminishes and by dawn the entire city is a flattened wasteland.
My building alone never falls.

Cherry Dots, T.Spencer

Cherry Dots
By Taryn Spencer

My shoes are decorated
with red dots
I hate them
Today I know I won’t be
Wearing them
The girl next to me
Had similar shoes
on her feet
The same expression
on her face
as me
The same look
every victim
wears
Before death
gobbles them up-
Empty, black as the chalkboard was that morning
In class
Beside letters that read
Mrs. Belinda Cash
And the moments I would color
at my desk--
bringing bears and myself to life
with a brown crayon
Desires deadened
by what should have been my first thought--

To run

So close
To base
Like a player of hide and seek
But I can’t move
My feet stuck to the ground
like Bubble gum in between paper after you’re
Chewed-out for chewing it,
Like vapors during the steamy bath Mom gave me
that morning
Minutes between an hour
In that minute, the bus made a final stop
I heard a BOOM, the girl who sat next to me dropped
And I came face to face with endless blots
Of red dots.

Heart Beat Away, N.Liron

A Heart Beat Away
By Nomi Liron


What does your latest invention do?” Susan asked, as she stood at her office door.

Well,” Harry explained, “My device is something like a reverse pacemaker. When placed within fifteen feet of a person, it disrupts the electric currents which control the heart muscle and sends the person’s heart into defibrillation. The person falls over with an apparent heart attack and dies.”

Can it work through doors or windows?”

“Of course, currents are not deterred by substances. Think about lightening striking a person. The current passes through the flesh. I used lightening as my model when first developing the Heart Throb”.

Can it kill animals as well as humans?

“Of course, I used birds as my test objects.”

“You know, Harry. I don’t think this is a good idea. It sounds very dangerous. I think you should take it apart. You could get angry with someone and in a fit a temper kill them.

Harry smiled and aimed his device in her direction. “Or merely irritated,” he said, watching her grab at her chest and fall over dead.

More Modified 12...M.C. Thompson

More Modified Twelve-Step Affirmations
By Mel C. Thompson


Just for today, I'll pretend
I'm not fucked in every way
and try to convince myself
you're not a frumpy, sub-human troll.

Just for today let's affirm
that the gods don't hate us.
(Please ignore their bloody hatchets
drawn crossbows and glimmering swords.)

Conclude that your Higher Power
does not revel in the creative joys
of being endlessly inventive
when it comes to torturing you.

Just for today, call yourself
inherently sexy, although alcoholics,
drug addicts, food addicts, sex addicts
and drama queens are all you attract.

Just for today, claim divine prosperity,
although you can't afford a massage
or a psychiatrist or a vacation to anywhere
Greyhound doesn't go. Your big breakthrough

is just around the corner. I feel it
in the very marrow of my bones.
(Okay, that part is completely a lie.
Frankly, I think you're deeply doomed.)

But just for today, I'll try not
to judge you like I always do.
(I usually hate your taste in everything.
Never mind. Let's focus on the positive.)

Just for today, I'll resist writing
a political poem. I can do this!
Let us join hands and with one voice
affirm that nothing we believe is true.

Nothing I believe could ever possibly
be true. Because of that I feel great
Bodhisattva compassion. If I leave you
the fuck alone for just a little while

that would truly be a great act of love.
And, on a closing note, just for today
I'll resolve to use the word "fuck"
a lot less often in future poems.