See you again… was last modified: May 22nd, 2015 by CCM-Entropy
May 22, 2015
This is not a poem about a boilermaker
or the way I cut the chalk of you from snow
nineteen miles from the end of the road in
January. It’s not a poem about handprints on
a window and blur of blizzard through oily
outlines like Vaseline, or the way you like your
eggs. The thrust of you’s churned past that
now, dried your bones til knuckle split with
leather and no rain. Once I said I loved you
the way the ground loves a meteorite, the way
the internet loves both through Chelyabinsk
and lens. I tapped it, coded, to the thickest
rung on your ladder, so I guess it’s not about
that either. It’s about the whales I can’t stop
exploding, about how they mean woman,
mean body, mean back fat, mean what really
happened that night on Lake Loveland. Since
then, I keep a ruler between my teeth to
measure the things I wish were bigger than
me. They almost never are. You call me from
the desert to tell me you still believe. The air is
obese, humid, stammers at suggestion of
thunder. Your voice, a tin can and string.
Jacqueline Boucher is an MFA candidate at Northern Michigan University, where she studies spoken word poetry and its ties to social justice and community organization. She is the Spoken Word editor for Passages North. She spends her spare time wondering about the banal secret lives of supervillains.
The Big Wheel
There are those moments late in life
when the mind clearly takes hold of
the big wheel of the body and steers
us both away from imminent disaster.
Sometimes the the boat capsizes and
everyone drowns. Some call this a break or
a midlife crisis, who’s to say right then and there
which path is most necessary.
All I know is there are those days
when city life runs me over good and flat
and I find myself staring blankly at a kid near
a rack of bikes on a street corner.
Or maybe I am crossing a street watching
two drivers in a heated argument, near that
point where guns get drawn. The mind sees the
big wave coming and says, “fuck this.”
And in an instant I am on a December train
right outside of Portland watching the last patch
of white pines near a still lake in The Cascades.
Then the kid slashing each tire before
overturning each bike like a stack of dominoes
is not the catalyst. Nor is the man reaching
into the center console for the gun before pointing
it out the passenger side window and
pulling the trigger, a reason to crack like a
piece of clay left out in the sun for too long.
He instead is the reason to find Sandra
under the Manhattan Beach Pier on the
last ditch day of high school. A reason to kiss
her hard again as the evening tide runs up the aged
legs of a pier that will never crumble.
Billy Burgos is an illustrator/designer/poet from Los Angeles. He is a curator on staff at Gotpoetry.com. In 2007, Billy was chosen as an up-and-coming poet by the Los Angeles Poetry Festival. He has served as workshop facilitator of the Beyond Baroque Wednesday-night workshop and hosts the First Sunday Open Reading at Beyond Baroque. Billy is the host of Word Ballast. His first full-length collection of poetry called Eulogy to an Unknown Tree is out now on Writ Large Press.
We were walking through the white sand.
It was windy: the flash of a line across the sea.
There were many people walking in many directions.
And you showed me l’estel ferit from Rebecca Horn.
We touched its rough and rusty firmness.
We saw the sun reflected in the translucent glass.
We came again to your home
and made love like last time
Elena Garnelo: I begin to work as digital and net artist in 2013. Work based almost exclusively, in Android and iOs platforms. Appropiationism is my work line and transformation/transgression of reality. I made my poetry readings in several institutions in Spain
To Be Opened After The World Ends
I just wanted you to know,
the secret to it all
was under a rock
outside the 7-11 on Colfax
the entire time.
David S. Atkinson is the author of “Bones Buried in the Dirt” (2014 Next Generation Indie Book Awards finalist, First Novel <80K) and “The Garden of Good and Evil Pancakes” (2015 National Indie Excellence Awards finalist in humor). His writing appears in “Bartleby Snopes,” “Grey Sparrow Journal,” “Interrobang?! Magazine,” “Atticus Review,” and others. His writing website is http://davidsatkinsonwriting.
The Poem: At Seminal Depth
The poem, at its most seminal depth, is a lighted flambeau, within the storms of mystery. Strictly speaking, it is not a verbal object cast into view by an opaque cadaver. The latter being the author primed by spoils of acclaim, by the momentary flash of his or her appellation in lights. The peculiar personality, with its deficits and conundrums, cannot claim the poem as his or her “property” of “ideas”, this “property” amounting to no more than opinion, the latter, being less stable than shards of glass retrived from shattered windows. Indeed, in terms of “deep time”, the poem is alchemical currency is comingled with anonymous transmission, “consistent with the Philosophia Perennis.”
In contraidistinction, the provincial psychology haggles over after-effects, over likes and dislikes, all this in keeping with what I’ll describe as ancilliary tribulation. If all that remained of Rimbaud consisted of breaking up banquets or cursing out a magistrates, we would, indeed, be left with an unsustainable charisma. Because, in the end, the cosmos itself leaves us as an untraceable anonymity, it is incumbent upon the poet to leave us works alchemically wrought.
Will Alexander is a poet, novelist, essayist, playwright, and visual artist. He was the recipient of a Whiting Fellowship for Poetry in 2001, a California Arts Council Fellowship in 2002, and American Book Award in 2013. He is recently the author of Singing in Magnetic Hoofbeat (Essay Press).
no more writing
about the window
equal to a mirror only
i want to be the window
i want to be clear
like the water in my
was i wrong to
ask her to lower her voice
i trembled through my chest
each vibration an exclamation
you’re not there, you’re not here
she was raised in a police state
she told me, she was 62, she said
i refuse to be sick a minute longer
it’s hard must be my
catch phrase; hunter, that’s me.
how can both be both be both
Kalliopi Mathios lives in Brooklyn, NY, and is a poet, librarian, and Editor of White Rabbit, an imprint of Civil Coping Mechanisms. She curates the Blackmail reading series at Mellow Pages Library, and is the author of Horsegirl (Plain Wrap Press, 2014).
man, woman, a mystic yogi
berra dragging one-liners
like ocean liners to shore;
and still, legs folded, wade
until legs dredge away a
spiny something lodged in
mud and salt.
or attempt to, with legs
curled up in cowrie shells
ten pair each. we can now
heal, though, as groucho
marx hangs plastered on
our walls, askew; our marx,
the accidental non-savior.
Mike Jewett is editor and publisher of Boston Poetry Magazine. He has poems published, or forthcoming, in Peking Cat Poetry, Pankhearst, Yellow Chair Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, Orion Magazine, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Clarion, and others.