MP

One Year

Last week MP turned a year old. I would like to thank all who have taken part w/ the journey so far: readers and writers alike. Each and everyone of you have made this endeavor worth the trip. I do not believe in Terrible Twos. Here’s to another year of MP, friends.

-will

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“Salutations of Remembrance,” Christina Murphy

the blue of a hotsweet summer
searing the land into fractures
gouging the fault lines of memory

somewhere between loss and joy
the night speaks in the language of stones
structuring mosaics of broken sorrows

within an hourglass of possibilities
the illusion of horizons
makes us need the sky

“Koreshan,” Ward Abel

Estero, Florida

Today I went to the new
Jerusalem. Blackwater
cuts through a holy heart
the haunt of bugs.
O Estuary, the place of storms
chooses you. Sometimes the roads
flood. Sometimes it rains for days.
Epiphanies received in such
sepia green holes
must be of a type that shake a man’s
immediacy to its core.
Who can argue that we are not
the center of a universe?
Who can deny the shape
of the sky?
There is a mathematics
of speaking gently between the stars.
And down here beside the Estero River
a small band composed with horns,
winds, drums, a piano. A black and white
picture of its members is nailed
beside the handle of a door
to an abandoned Eden
in nighttime by now.

“Bipolar Menopause,” Meg Tuite

     Lately, I’ve been strapped into this chokehold ride of blunt, cataleptic stalemate, like that time I was stuck inside The Egg, upside down at a carnival, with bloodless knuckles clutching the bar for twenty minutes, gritting my teeth, preparing to wallop the dolt below who operated this rickety cage, if I survived this chess game with death and got out and stood with my goddamned numbed feet on solid ground again. Click here to finish Meg’s story.

“Dusk,” Gregory Luce

The scent of rainwater
lingers as clouds slowly
disperse and a huge
three-quarter moon rests
against a deepening
blue sky. A few porch lights
anticipate the night but I still
have time to scoop a jar
of brown water from a puddle
on the sidewalk to take home
and hope to find tadpoles
and wonder again if they
could have fallen with the rain.

Clouds almost gone the sky
stretches out beyond the edges
of town and I’m thankful
the moon is anchored there
holding me in place.

“SELF-PORTRAIT,” Howie Good

1
Bless the suicides
who live short lives
of appalling cold.

And bless me.
I drink heavily enough
to be a poet.

2
Words yell and sigh
like wild boys of twelve

racing on ten-speeds
into the vast,

monotonous sunlight
bordered by green.

3
Back from the country of the dead
with a chest-length rabbinical beard

and purplish bruises
where the eyes should be.

“$1.99,” Larry O. Dean

Glow in the Dark and Blacklight Superballs
Cherry ½” Oval Top Wood Plug
Lobster Claw Harmonica
Polyester Print Designer Champagne Jacquard
Rayon Print Snappy Stripes
Cute Ninja Cable Smart Wraps
LifeSavers Candy, Wintogreen
COCO CHANEL logo sticker decals
Wholesale Dog Clothes, Leashes, Collars
13-Inch Bamboo Stir Fry Spatula
6 Pack of Ice Pop & Frozen Treat Drip Catchers
Sprinkles On Top Crochet Sweater Pattern
Gerry the Felted Bear Crochet Toy Pattern
Gummy Taco Factory
Purple Neon Disco Ball Belly Ring
Pool Cool Jewel stickers
100 Mommy Cards
Small Olive Wood Crosses
Rastaman Guitar Picks
Downloadable Motion Backgrounds for Your Ministry
Fabulous Eye Shadows
Ambulance Stress Ball
Novelty Potato Spud Gun with Free Stink Bombs
Gold & Orange Black-Eyed Susans
Stew Leonard’s Weekly Specials: London Broil
Bananabells
Star of David Place Card Holder

“Dingle, Ireland,” Donal Mahoney

The bathroom carpet,
wall to wall, is blue,
the lightest blue,
to complement
the bowl and ceiling.

Apropos the moment:
I bend the waist
and heave the gristle
from last evening’s steak.

Tomorrow I shall row again
to see those ancient men
in caps and coveralls
stand like statues
while they talk
and tap gold embers
from clay pipes
forever glowing. Click here to finish Donal’s poem.

“Skin’s Skin,” Jack Bristow

      “Listen. I’m going to go dance, if that’s alright with you. You aren’t comfortable with it, that’s okay. I’ll sit here with you.”
      “Go have some fun. That’s why you came here, right?”
     Lou play-punched his best friend and coworker Carl Strothers in the arm. Carl, the only hetro of the two, probably the only hetro in the entire club had winced in pain. “Sorry,” Lou grinned, as he stood up and walked onto the dance floor, then strutting, waltzing. The rave music grew louder, the strobelights flashed with gusto as Louis Childers took the hand of a tall bearded fellow; gray, fiftyish. Click here to finish Jack’s story.

“My Brother Began to Live,” Justin Robinson

beneath floorboards
pretending to

play hide-and-seek
jar lighting bugs

collect bottle caps
& build tree houses

pretending to rest his head
on pillows