January 2017 | poetry
Obliquity
Give me poems—
poems which speak to the heart
and not the head;
whose words roll from the tongue
like water over polished stone;
which say straight out
what they have to say;
whose truth does not lie buried
beneath endless layers
of meaningless metaphor;
poems unlike those
fawned over by the literary elite,
but leave me asking:
What fuckery is this?
Rescued
Standing in the bathroom,
attempting to text
and pee at the same time,
I dropped my cell phone in the toilet.
In a flash, I saw the phone’s
micro-circuits signing off, one by one,
as I reached down and took hold of
the little urine-soaked rectangle.
And now,
after three days of silence,
no texts, no emails
no help from the ubiquitous Siri,
the phone still buried
in a bowl of Uncle Ben’s long-grain rice,
I wonder who, in truth, has been rescued—
the cell phone or me?
Bad Kitty
He was a bad kitty,
and did not care.
Dining according to the dictates
of his own finicky palate,
he turned up his nose
at all the rest.
Without warning, he would
bite the very hand which fed him,
if that hand strayed where
he deemed it should not be.
He shat and pissed and wiped his butt
wherever he chose—oriental rug,
litter box or easy chair,
they were all the same to him.
Clueless that he owed us anything,
he slept through the day curled in front
of the big glass door, twitching in the sunlight
as he dreamed his ephemeral, feline dreams.
For he was a bad kitty,
and did not care.
Howard Brown
Howard Brown is a poet and writer who lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee on Lookout Mountain. His poetry has appeared in Old Hickory Review and Poetry Super Highway. In 2012, he published a book of poetry entitled “The Gossamer Nature of Random Things.” His poem “Pariah” placed first in the poetry division of the 2015 William Faulkner Literary Competition put on by Mississippi’s Tallahatchie Riverfest. He has published short fiction in Louisiana Literature, Extract(s), Gloom Cupboard, F**k Fiction, Crack the Spine, Pulpwood Fiction and Mad Hatter Review (forthcoming).
January 2017 | poetry
Some men are born
gathering a nest
of white and dark
fabulous musical notes
to them,
and some men,
born broken like two halves
of the April moon,
discover that to drink
alone at night –
under the glass chandelier’s
metropolis of stars
buzzing over a river’s
boardwalk where tugboats
usher in ships
whose melodic horns
blow mournful refrains
like liquid train whistles
over the bay –
is to discover
the very edge
where heartache
and music, those twin
companions, prevail.
And so at night,
they lift up
their strong arms,
and they carry their horns
under a twilight,
and they saunter out
where the moonlight glows
like a great partridge pea
hanging loose in the sky
so that they can feel
all that aloneness
there, holding court.
And then they blow their horn
to the moon,
and to the Goddess body,
and to the many bodies,
and to beauty
and to soul,
and to the vast category
of inscrutable love,
and thus is their benediction –
many forms: a tuneful ladder.
And when they find it,
their song –
they become forsaken
by every sweet summer
night,
every lost love
they could never
hold tight,
and, within themselves,
smoked holy
with the music one feels
when one is blessed full
with camphor and blues,
they depart.
Ken Meisel
Ken Meisel is a poet and psychotherapist from the Detroit area. He is a 2012 Kresge Arts Literary Fellow, Pushcart Prize nominee, Swan Duckling chapbook contest winner, winner of the Liakoura Prize and the author of six poetry collections: The Drunken Sweetheart at My Door (FutureCycle Press: 2015), Scrap Metal Mantra Poems (Main Street Rag: 2013), Beautiful Rust (Bottom Dog Press: 2009), Just Listening (Pure Heart Press: 2007), Before Exiting (Pure Heart Press: 2006) and Sometimes the Wind (March Street Press: 2002). His work in over 80 national magazines including Cream City Review, Rattle, Ruminate, Midwest Gothic, Concho River Review, San Pedro River Review, Boxcar Review, Otis Nebula, Kentucky Review, Birdfeast, Muddy River Poetry Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Lake Effect, Third Wednesday and Bryant Literary Review.
January 2017 | poetry
I swear I can feel the grass
extend myself out, reach to touch
pet and adore, show my affection.
Light makes me marvel
all those photons busy working;
a free painting every second.
If my hope were tangible
I could easily say
it lives in times of quiet
blessed by a hummingbird
beating its wings.
Penney Knightly
Penney Knightly is a survivor of sexual abuse; themes about that are often found in her work. Her poetry has appeared in Broad Magazine, Big River Review, Dead King, Ink in Thirds, and elsewhere. She lives with her family on a sailboat in the San Francisco Bay, where she writes and makes art. She tweets @penneyknightly and shares on her blog http://penneyknightly.com.
January 2017 | poetry
The little ant stood on the edge of
the curb, to avoid being stepped on
and looked down,
as the city crowds shuffled by,
faces clinched to another
average day.
And someone noticed the little ant,
on the curb’s edge – and shouted
to the ant, “Jump! Jump you little fucker!”
It’s tough out here.
Tony Walton
Tony Walton is a Caribbean writer living in the Cayman Islands. His works have appeared in Storyteller Magazine, Moonkind Press, Whisperings Magazine, Mountain Tales Press, Out of Our Magazine, Poydras Review, Poetry Bay Magazine, Burningword Literary Journal, Wilde Magazine, Nite Writers Literary International Literary Journal, Tiny Moments, Avalon Literary Review, Iceland Daily, East Lit Literary Magazine, Boston Poetry Magazine, Eunoia Magazine, Olentangy Review, Carnival Literary Magazine, Verity LA, Phantom Kangaroo, Tincture Journal, Star 82 Review, Seltzerzine, Literature Today and Morphorg Magazine.
January 2017 | poetry
suitcase.
it is better than an empty closet,
for it encourages thrift
and reminds us
that we can, indeed, slam
those rosewood doors,
a cautious sanctimony
tucked in the scarves
of the accomplished
and inarguably well-spoken moms
who told us of regrets
we ought not to strive for.
escape.
and reach as lost stars do.
the clothes on our backs
flapping in light autumn sweat.
ready to be folded
again, near public showers.
Kristine Brown
Kristine Brown is a freelance writer and editor located in Southwest Texas. Her writing has been featured in Forage Poetry, In-Flight Literary Magazine, Dulcet Quarterly, Thought Catalog, Journal of Asian Politics and History, and Sanglap: Journal of Literary and Cultural Inquiry. While her work is driven by research, Kristine aims to expand herself creatively through poetry and prose. She experiments with writing at her blog, Crumpled Paper Cranes (http://crumpledpapercranes.com).
January 2017 | poetry
A Brand New World
Strange cracks evaporate,
buckle like a sky that has forgotten
its blue. Clouds
crawl off the floor, point
accusingly at stars swearing
they are innocent as a bathroom
mirror. Three leaves send up smoke
signals, invitations to tomorrow’s mess.
Of Onions and Umbrellas
Parallel creatures of hanging,
droplets are their common denomination.
Production vs. repellant. Necessity
will decide as I stand in abandoned
doorway. Surrounded
by solace, I waver
between kitchen cabinets and countryside
pathways. I inhale
freedom-scented winds from both sides.
I wonder if I held
a match between my teeth,
would I spark, change
the weather or the world?
Midnight in Central Park
Clock tolls, harsh tones
of deadline’s passing. Old contracts
now void; New contracts, yet to be
inked, lay stagnant on conference-room table.
The squirrels and pigeons have spent hours
painting protest slogans on posterboards,
now firmly fastened to limbs
graciously donated by the trees. Morning
will find a feral picket line rising
with the sun. Let the tourists try
and cross. A mouthful of human nuts might be
an interesting change of pace. Thoughts darken
as demands are prepared for release. Select
branches have been branded, stand ready
for wind’s first liberation movement. Seeds and
crumbs to be bickered over, most will be fodder
for the camel-cracking straw: Respect. Less
smoking. The flowers feel brown tint
is a terrible shade to bloom. No stilettos. The grass
is wimpy, sparse at best, already aerated enough.
Absolute banishment of Alka-Seltzer.
Some urban legends need not be
granted acreage for daily testing by teenagers.
Mandatory permits for artists and musicians. The
ability to hold can or conversation does not make
a Monet or Missy Elliot. Little reprieves
that might make the daily doses of drunks and
muggers bearable. The last
[semi]natural wildlife in this city is crying
out for compromise.
Dawn comes, as do the villagers. Both storm past,
ignore flurry of fur and feathers, paws and wings.
These mindless migrants remain
too blinded by their own
desire to beat the rush, to make the train.
A.J. Huffman
A.J. Huffman has published thirteen full-length poetry collections, thirteen solo poetry chapbooks and one joint poetry chapbook through various small presses. Her most recent releases, The Pyre On Which Tomorrow Burns (Scars Publications), Degeneration (Pink Girl Ink), A Bizarre Burning of Bees (Transcendent Zero Press), and Familiar Illusions (Flutter Press) are now available from their respective publishers. She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2600 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, The Bookends Review, Bone Orchard, Corvus Review, EgoPHobia, and Kritya.
