July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Knight’s Night Out
You write
your memoir
of shattered mirrors
and misconstrued epiphanies.
for every recollection,
every doubt that
binds your
mountainous limitation,
to the top of the
summit of debt,
retaliations still sings
as it’s proliferation stings,
dissection
of affluent
memories persist,
onto life’s projection
where you tip-toe
towards your demise,
a modest dignitary
forever monetized
within life’s monotony,
where life is a lease,
any moment could disease.
Inked into our membranes,
are words transmitted,
through our rife.
We reside inside
our calligraphy,
where you recite.
Your memory is a mic
your future is a turnpike,
but the past remains
a present
– a precedent
only a wish could represent.
The Weight We Carry
We painted black
into backpacks,
revived our
medieval retrievals,
and clasped onto
our adamance
that sunk deep
beneath the bag,
where thorough
thoughts of
fervent promises
transported to
a portal of
prominence.
When we gathered
our optimistic
pleasantries,
we prevailed
like concrete
shadows,
but our fossilized
memories froze
under
the clock
that echoed
faint haunts,
as we traced
our uncertainties
that paved
to cemented
cemeteries,
where
we follow,
but never lead.
When we cleansed
the palate
that painted
only faithful
melodies,
we withstood
our melancholy
tragedies
as we
evaded our
casualties
to combat
the disdain
that punctured
the tapestry
of a gangrened
dancer.
We Bloomed
like flowers,
and watered them
until the spring
turned to autumn;
memories that
blossomed
melancholy
melodies,
and when
love walked
on bridges
we began
to break
by the
hook that caught
onto our shirts,
where we descended.
Still we arose;
we were maps
that traced back
into the wilderness
and we eroded
from our sacrilege,
sentences written
of trials tribulations
and labored distortions.
As they swallowed
their accelerants
and grabbed dismay
and sold it’s Adsense
to the relapse
that plummeted
into yesterday,
we still peak
to re-capture.
and re-hash,
decades of last
years ghosts,
so within
a century
our ancestry
could
create an abstract
memory
where dissipated
pilgrimages
pulled their
weight
like sacrilegious
vestiges
as they tore off their
appendages.
It’s never too late
to rekindle the seams,
that took apart
our shovels,
and buried our dreams.
by Chris Ozog
Christopher Ozog is a 23-year-old writer who currently resides in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He has previously appeared in Burningword Literary Journal, The Commonline, and Crack the Spine and has work forthcoming in the 2015 winter Crack the Spine Anthology.
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
I liken the effects of coffee
multiplying in my nervous system
to the sound of cicadas,
cacophony transitioning to unison
on the warmest of days,
finally climaxing, singular high pitch,
solid throbbing greater than the sum
of its parts. My brain ceases to exist
outside itself for a period,
all becomes internal cloaking haze
before the caffeine begins to sluice
and trickle down liver’s way,
as the insects disappear into winter.
by James Mahon
James Mahon’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Bitchin’ Kitsch, Enizagam, and The Insomniac Propagandist.
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
But I can only pour you this poem:
with poor cloth-made and form not yet shaped,
metaphors rain upon flesh and bone
floating riddles dress in pale champagne froth
tiers of honeysuckle foam pin to a clover’s song
light seeps inside the ink droplets black–
an ever-musing vestal rhyme
charts my fingers to your mortal gasps.
With warmth of day the eyes grow dark,
I breathe your name of caress reigns
where wings of holy light stretch my ocean vast,
in soft similes of wind-drops caught
and hollow crowning thorns.
Weak nods full of sleep in the shadows deep,
old notes draw your breaths once more–
depart soon as last sighs coax from my lips,
courting you home.
by Lana Bella
Lana Bella has a diverse work of poetry and flash fiction anthologized, published and forthcoming with more than eighty journals, including Aurorean Poetry, Burningword Journal, Chiron Review, Contrary Magazine, elsewhere, The Criterion Journal, Poetry Quarterly, and Featured Artist with Quail Bell Magazine, among others. She resides in the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam with her novelist husband and two frolicsome imps.
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
luck
young dog
standing in the blocks
four blue bills working
in against a cigar smoke call
once more around
try to take them
tree high shots
tipped one and feathers
out of another
but the steel shot
fails me
they are gone
like mad buddists
westing to the timber
only the grey spent husks
to show for
normal heart
day has a playlist
heartfelt grooves
breaks creative logjams
emphasizes flaws
errors honored
as hidden intentions
sing into the sadness
canons for life
makes a tasty soul
write a catchy tune
about a nerve induced asthma attack
don’t miss a beat
wage a heavy peace as
going around corners is scary
see it with new eyes
get into woodworking
follow hockey in church basements
crush the capsule
life is a godzilla disaster movie
success beat you down
tough to imagine
ever being young
an original american horror story
billionaires in birkenstocks
johnny cash not being played
on country radio
teenage jesus jerks in cowboy hats
creative people don’t always turn out
to be interesting
like chance meetings in london tube
someone called amy
conversation like watching sausage
and politics being made
world just gets tinier
it used to be a stage
a private confessional
by Dan Jacoby
Dan Jacoby is a graduate of St. Louis University. He has published poetry in Belle Rev Review, Black Heart Press, Canary, Chicago Literati, Clockwise Cat, Indiana Voice Journal, Haunted Waters Press, Deep South Magazine, Lines and Stars, Red Booth Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, Steel Toe Review, Red Fez and the Vehicle. He has work soon to be published in Bombay Gin, Dead Flowers, Floyd County Moonshine, Maudlin House, R.KV.R.Y., and theTishman Review.. He is a member of the American Academy of Poets.
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
You’re on the other
side
being abstract, acting
distant,
I have a stack of
thoughts in front of me,
unfinished; have poems to
write, poems I
should be writing; instead
I’m writing this; an
alarm goes off, it’s mine
Saturday morning, you’re
laying around somewhere,
Cootie Williams is blowing
Gator Tail; I shut the blinds
and the world outside
goes on and on and about
and out without me,
this poem is running, jazz is
dead, so are all those jazz
men playing, dead, but time doesn’t
make sense anyway; it’s
just going in circles, stealing
what it can,
which is everything,
we aren’t friends; I can’t see the
trees,
I’m hiding from the sun.
by Thomas Pescatore
Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the idea of the fabled West in his heart. His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he’d rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row.
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
The time until you die
grips the top of my hand
grates my fingers against
puckered metal
collects skin and bone
shavings
into a soft pile
on the good China.
by Jane Juran
