January 2013 | back-issues, poetry
The world has found
New Jersey, the
new entertainment capital.
like an ant farm on a glucose high, now,
we crawl, we build, we eat each
other, we carry the dead, we swarm the
living, and we sit in your living
room, while getting picked apart,
and give joy to those viewing-that life can always
hit a new low.
they understand that when fate gives them
the dagger, at least it didn’t come
soaked
in coconut oil.
usually when the networks
come and the advertisers pay,
those on the other end- providing the
laughs and memorable quotes, are the ones
with the last laugh, that the spectators
and the tourists are the fools
for tuning in.
but like the bad end of a casino game,
it seems the joke
is on us.
and even though
our pizza
is better
I’m pretty sure
the masses are right.
and for the first time
in all history
the masses are right for the right reason,
and i’m not invited to the
victory party.
by Scott Laudati
January 2013 | back-issues, poetry
In the sci-fi movie, plants drifted
through space and took root
in fields outside our city, blanketing
them with a sinister green until they fattened
on cow’s blood and rain. When they ripped
free from their roots and began to walk,
strangely graceful, gliding more than hopping
on those bending tendrils, we knew that fire
couldn’t stop them, nor cyclonic winds
nor prayer. Merciless in their calm, asexual way
they marched on Paris and Rome, we saw them
waving down Fifth Avenue, hideous parody
of Saint Patrick’s Day. We saw them
clustered in Beijing exhaling carbon dioxide
and fluttering like deadly daffodils
until the factories shut down, and gradually
earth grew calm and waters swelled
clean and crystal blue and the aliens began to sicken
because there was no acid in the cold rains to fuel
those bodies raging for silence and the ancient breath of stars.
by Steve Klepetar
Steve Klepetar teaches literature and writing at Saint Cloud State University in Minnesota. His work has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Flutter Press has recently published two of his chapbooks, “My Father Teaches Me a Magic Word” and “My Father Had Another Eye.”
January 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Electric Pictures
lend credibility to imaginary walls.
The perfect frame for time-
stopped moments of mind rain.
They flair to life. Laugh, dance, twirl
an eternity into the blink
of an eye that only pretends to be
blind.
With Disdain
I hand over the two
dimensional datum ephigical
laminated version of myself
to anonymous hands.
Fingers fly
over keys. Stroking,
entering my parameters. I am
essentially logged, filed
away for future reference.
by AJ Huffman
January 2013 | back-issues, poetry
While you were gone
We talked
We touched
We slid melting
Ice cubes over
Sweat slick thighs
While you were gone
We danced barefoot
To the little radio
In the kitchen
Naked
Ate chocolate chip
Cookies and licked
Crumbs off our faces
Together
While you were gone
We laughed
Softly and hard
As the light fell
We sat face to
Face and fingered
Eyelashes
Until
With an unwarning whir
You returned
In blaze of light and
Blaring voice
And caught us
In reimpowered
Sixty inch eye
Shamed separate
we covered ourselves
And resumed
Our silent watch
Power restored
by Pearl Ketover Prilik
Pearl Ketover Prilik, freelance writer/psychoanalyst, is a believer in the spark that flickers within each and connects all. She has three nonfiction books published, was editor of a post-doc psychoanalytic newsletter and lately, editor/contributor of two collaborative international poetry anthologies.
January 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Her love is binary
off or on
yes or no
zero or one
but if she could rest
in the untapped mantle
between extremes
or even possibility
there is acceptance
and tranquility
like liquid tangibility
no tears or lament
just a trace of light
enough to see
a love that is
one more than one
and two more
than nothing
at all.
by Richard King Perkins II
January 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Loose steps lead down to the dusty porch
surrounded by the graffitied stone wall
I watch the sun rise from the lawn chair
paces from the small bungalow where we lived
sharing cinnamon rolls, spaghetti, lemonade
all of us stuffed in tight
the blue coat of paint on the house so worn
we see rough splintered wood underneath
the shutters squeak in the wind
the roof leaks and my father curses, puts
back the split shingles and reseals them
the sun high and hot over the flagstone path
the front door with the torn screen
my grandmother grows tomatoes along that walk
near the boulder left sometime after the last ice age
I imagine its ancient world when dinosaurs
and woolly mammoths roamed among the trees
now the lawn is crushed by dandelions
and giant ragweed bushes stampede across
red tailed hawks screech in wheezing oaks
as my heart sinks with the sun on the planks
and I slip into a place of buzzing voices
my brothers plead
and my mother bangs the car keys on the table
The driveway up front by the big willow
points away from the house onto the broken road
with millions of hairline cracks
like fault lines to other houses, other families.
by Alison Carb Sussman
Alison Carb Sussman’s chapbook, On the Edge, is scheduled for publication by Finishing Line Press in May, 2013. Her poetry has appeared in The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, Cutthroat: A Journal of the Arts, The Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, Eclipse, Slipstream, and elsewhere. She currently studies at The Writers Studio under the direction of Philip Schultz.
