Month: September, 2010

“Schnucks,” Alex Warble

Schnucks, Alex Warble

“Someone You Can Talk To,” John Brandon

         I despise those meetings.
         And it’s not that the room smells like vegetables or those stupid chairs. Or the, you know, topics on the agenda.
         No, I know what it is.
         Nice, nice, nice. Can’t wait to be nice.
         It’s an epidemic.
         Not everywhere. Here it is. Click here to finish John’s story.

“The Moving Wall,” Jeffrey Miller

         The Vietnam Memorial came to town yesterday. All two hundred and fifty-two feet of it with its fifty-eight thousand two hundred twenty-five silk-screened names on black, Plexiglas panels half the size of the one in Washington. Click here to finish Jeff’s story

“Long Hot Afternoons,” Kenneth Gurney

Nominally, I would say,
How I wasted this past July.

But eating and drinking
three times a day
counts for something.
And I did sleep
at least eight hours
each day
though not in a row.

I did lay around a lot
in the shade and read,
though I doubt
anyone can make a case
for a better world
out of this physical inaction
that owned the sole purpose
of transporting me
off planet.

Mostly I changed
an oxygen nitrogen atmosphere
into one containing
a bit more carbon dioxide,
which gave the trees
reason to smile
or whatever it is they do
that equates to a smile.

“I Ate My Mother’s Hair,” Ruth Sabath Rosenthal

standing behind her, as she sat
on a stool in the shower stall

of her nursing home bathroom,
tile floor catching silver snippets
I cut from her statue-still head.

What could I do with the comb
when I had to wield scissors
with one hand, clasp her locks

with the other, Mother’s tangled
brain not letting her grasp that
she could ease my task, she could

turn her head when asked, hold the comb
and look in the mirror when I finished,
see what a fine job I did?  Every month

for seven years, I stood at the sink
in that bathroom, rinsing her traces
out of my mouth, the sadness.

“Heritage,” Alex Warble

Heritage, Alex Warble

“Orkney, The Isle of The Wild Boar,” M.M. Perez

He, who once had been the Norwegian Earl Rognvald of More, now King of Orkney, is about to send a message to King Harald Harfagre, King of Norway. The message is of the most urgent nature, since Orkney is again to be taken by pirates, as it had already been in the past, before Rognvald and his men wiped out the outlaws, who had established a base from where to raid the coast of Norway during the summers. Press here to finish M.M.’s story

“Jazz Echoes,” Rebecca Brown

He is a well of deep, dark punk-chew-ation
Licks his lips and sings another verse
About a nation
That died, now lies inside a hearse.
They play the funeral march with sink-cow-pation
No need to rehearse
Live radio station
Jazz echoes, final verse.

“The day I stopped writing poetry,” Tyler Bigney

I promised myself that I was done
that poetry was for the birds and that
the magic was in the short story.

That same afternoon
I saw a dark skinned girl
wearing a blue dress, sitting on a park bench
waiting for the bus.

“Approbations 691,” Felino A. Soriano

—after Jason Moran’s Feedback Pt. 2

                                    virtual ethereal
                       hushed by hushing verbs
curtailed synonyms with
                                             perforated lags of
timely resuscitation
many of the how many longing bodies
recall assistance
                        whose persuading motives
hide amid sorrow’s