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THAT GUY (STANDING ON BROKEN LEGS) by Jared Schickling

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THAT GUY (STANDING ON BROKEN LEGS)

by

Jared Schickling

 

Dear Dick:

 

if there were power enough to do so

but who believes there is

someone—yes—someone

would use it

apes

a good ape

a bad ape

perhaps human

though probably not

(a poem)

us—where we were

some chief proponent—un elected

(un assailed) assistant

(to the) boss

of nothing special—

already—

a motherboard’s groan

too loud

hears a fan going

the way of heat

I no you do—

 

were there power enough to do so

yet you believe there is

someone—yes—someone

would take it

chance

a chance

the despicable and heinous

practice of printing

practice of printing

torture reports

cuz—cause the many

be many

un shocked

only disgusted—

the transparency and honest

nature found—in such printing

(really made you)

really makes you

shit your pants.

 

but not really.  permanent.  did you think

they were coming—that they’re here—

if there were powers

enough (& I believe

there are)—[redacted

redacted] forced

[redacted]

is like something that would that

could

have been—properly utilized much

to wish for—

 

We’re here—

a documented medical need

 

Poetic Statement: I began this poem learning of the Senate Intelligence Committee’s report on torture during the transnational American war begun in Iraq and Afghanistan.  It is a test for the poem committing the emotion that would like to see especially those war criminals that look and act like something called us subjected exactly to what they’ve accomplished.  To commit the beauty of stone legs made trunkless and the reality of social order.  Mechanically this was difficult to achieve, if I have at all.  The poem does not bear witness.  The poem is romantic, kissing mere instruments.       

 Bio: Jared Schickling’s recent books include Two Books on the Gas: Above the Shale and Achieved by Kissing (BlazeVOX, 2014), The Paranoid Reader: Essays, 2006-2012 (Furniture Press, 2014), and Prospectus for a Stage (LRL Textile Series, 2013).  He co-edits Delete Press and eccolinguistics.

Terrible Animals by Chris D’Errico

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Terrible Animals

by

Chris D’Errico

Terrible Animals by C.DERRICO

Bio: Chris D’Errico has worked as a short order cook, a doorman, a neon sign-maker’s helper, and an exterminator, among other vocational adventures. Born in Worcester, Massachusetts, he lives in Las Vegas, Nevada, with his wife Tracy, and a small clouder of house cats. For more, visit www.clderrico.com.”

SOURCE TEXT: “A Field Guide To Critical Thinking” by James W. Lett, from the book “The Hundredth Monkey And Other Paradigms of the Paranormal”… Filtered through insomnia  and nervous impulse. Inspired by Salvador Dalí’s description of his paranoiac-critical method: “a spontaneous method of irrational knowledge based on the critical and systematic objectivity of the associations and interpretations of delirious phenomena.”

Three Poems by Wayne Mason

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Three Poems

by

Wayne Mason

wayne

Bio: Wayne Mason is a writer and sound artist from Central Florida. His words have appeared across the small press in magazines both print and online. He is the author of five chapbooks. and is the former poetry editor for Side Of Grits, and The Tampa Bay Muse. Wayne Mason has also been active in experimental music for nearly twenty years. He records ambient, experimental and noise sounds, formerly under the name of Zilbread, and is also a founding member of the experimental/noise project Stickfigure and electronic duo Blk/Mas. http://brokenzen.wordpress.com/

Poetic Statement:When I was much younger I aspired to change the world. Now years later, my work stems from a desire to change myself by exploring my own internalterrain. In the end the strangest, most profound journey is not the one outward, but the one inward through my own psychic landscapes.

Three Poems by Frankie Metro

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Three Poems

by

Frankie Metro

 

-Real Pagans Drink Blood-

Pianos made for dragons are pushed
into the crevices of their hearts,
in places where music doesn’t exist,
bare, prone and pungent
like a piss-stained mattress on
the best friend’s floor.

They dream of a pianist career
w/o fingers,
impossible and daring
a 3rd (& fervently dissociative) party
rattled by the bleak standards of a 2 party system
often find themselves in the company of
those willing to question which endeavor
is higher and best suited,

chase down the avenging spirit?

or

wrestle the diluted dream into submission?

werewolves on the prowl
in darkstar nebulae,
violinists w/ bionic attachments,
eventually a pattern erupts
& it all leads to jungles
in full moon pitch & high strung
engagements w/ Morse enemies
wearing bridal gowns & a ring
of upheaval that holds their full
attention/dedication.

 -Polyester Grift-

 The midnight stumbler

is grifted by locusts in

detective coats/monocles cuz they’re

winged scrutinizers who

can really stomach all the clues.

 

But he’s not too naïve

that he misinterprets their deliberations

for the sound of palmetto bugs

flying in the dark

and even though he can’t really

call this night a win per se

it’s a hard one to chock up to a total loss.

 

The pair of knuckles in

his polyester pants are made

from brass and dragon teeth.

Everything feels justifiable/within bounds

Ideas of self defense leading to Homicide aren’t necessarily unappealing.

A rat lives another quarter of a decade

inside the walls of an AIDS house w/ green energy

powered utilities.

 

The broken glass in the parking lot doesn’t make it

into the heel of his polyester Vans.

It’s not a TOTALOSS.

 

& when the sun comes up,

all the dismay bleeds off like a cherry popsicle

on a hot sidewalk. Everything’s got possibilities to

turnitallaround.

 

He keeps stumbling,

carrying an empty Mason jar of something dark & rich

like virgin punk blood.

A real pagan on holiday, the reaper

Ignoring locust theories &

palmetto songs heard exclusively in notes of pianissimo.

  Basquiat Wannabes w/ I.E.D

winning staredowns w/ Cooper’s Hawks perched on chain-link fences in need of repair just as bad as the park itself,

ripped apart by monsoon storms that soak to bone like baptismal water or motherblood,

running away from unfit challenges & lightning bolts in the eyes of predator,

hand mirror stand offs made square on the

edge of a hairpin inevitably play out between men of similar/unequal understanding.

Stringing all those crypto-maxims together w/ a chip on your shoulder that feels like a bulbous clot and having tunnel vision ahead of mowed grass is convincing enough.

It’s a prominent argument to be self-reliant when you can only see what’s in front of you, that moments where vigilance falters, someone’s ready to cut down your neat,

 

unilateral visions of what is achievable in a codependent world where nothing out-rightly expressed or offered is genuine and w/o consequences.

What a fuct way of coming to some grandiose & ill-formed conclusions about the people around you, the people ‘willing to lend a hand’.

You build mantras and weigh daily affirmations around your exposure to stressful situations, against the fact that Cooper’s hawks aren’t passive aggressive, the monsoon season isn’t passive aggressive,

predators, hand mirrors & hairpins are not passive aggressive. But you’re not an elemental reaction to hot air or a hunter with the nerve.

You’re used to avoiding direct confrontation,

so you relate more with the broken fences, you’re ripped apart on a regular basis, you’re very used to running away from perceptibly insurmountable challenges, shying away from standoffs w/ crypto-delusions in the mirror.

 

Do. Not. Fall victim. To self righteousness, to fear, to apathy as a result of bearing down/trudging through. Slink back into the earth like something coiled w/ venomous teeth when the blood is cold. Be brazen and unassuming in matters of wisdom, stretch yourself against Cooper’s neck and stop fucking running.

 

Let yourself fall prey to being

carried off by a purpose bigger than yourself.

 

Bio: Frankie Metro is 1 slice of the pie and co-founder of Kleft Jaw Press, which celebrates transcendental realism (a fancy way of saying we like to put stuffed baby bears in t-shirts with the sleeves cut off and read poems in front of it.)

Poetic Statement: Transcendental realism is the equivalent of butchering your grandfather’s WW2 notebooks, but throwing a party for him afterwards, which includes every Decepticon you could possibly conceive, wearing baker hats and grilling your sensibilities/conventions with a fire that is only stoked by your capacity to see past moral ambiguity.

Two Poems by Glen Armstrong

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Two Poems

By

Glen Armstrong

World’s Fair 9

This jumper is close to that number

This laugh is close to that throat

 

Select visitors are invited to go

Behind the bridge

 

The yacht’s naked body

Elegant no longer hidden

 

Others discuss terrorism

Their clothes almost screaming

With short-term power

o

These students see the jumper

 

Not unlike the elegant yacht

They attract a wide range

Of nature and elevation

 

They freeze in yoga

Pants / positions / swing-the-statue

Postures

o

This is an amazing thing

A husky laugh

A magazine

o

The jumper sees the students

Any other person would have

 

Been frozen in the speculative voltage

And thus have overemphasized

 

Their interest in the supernatural.

 

Midsummer 5

 

Nature has its vein of gold

Cheese its bleu network

 

This feeling will never survive

Without a secret hiding place

 

The bee has its hive

Mind its subconscious

Face its subcutaneous tissue

 

On has its off

The cough drop box

Its odd bearded brothers

 

Cod its liver oil

Hat its tin foil

 

Lonely alchemists hide

In the alley

The only place

 

Their ongoing research on hiding

Makes sense

 

South of here

 

There is work being done in the canebrake

On the afternoon shadows

Cast by silos

 

Expose any aperture

And that other world

Starts whispering.

 

Also click here to read A Brief History of Meat at Sparks of Consciousness 

 

Bio: Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He also edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters. His work has appeared in Poetry NorthwestConduit and Cloudbank.

Aesthetic Statement: There’s a certain finality to a story that I can never quite achieve. Narrative seems so damn sure of itself, and that’s most likely why I lean toward the lyrical. The fragmented and broken still hums. It still resonates with the blow that destroyed it. Certain grammatical units remind me of my birthplace, Pontiac, Michigan, where there are scraps in the streets too abandoned and too interesting to waste time rebuilding.

 

Four Poems by Billy Cancel

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Four Poems

by

Billy Cancel

through the muzzle infused with lag

squawked counterclaims     incorrect
assumption     at bona fide onset
even marauding randoms     were
shard birds     beneath multi-track
sky i ushered in such provocation
spruced up allegiance to white hot
parallel     triggered a languish
harsh negotiations     helter-skelter
into union camouflage
          these sample
impressions spaced like obstinate     yoke
envoy     desire obtain neglect     so many
hybrids barely elbow room     fabrications at
their most copious     urbane sift
through imprudent splatter     deft
vitalization     signing off as
undercooked          throughout splice
influx pandemonium     maintain
rhythm of complaint     so steady
light don’t get     translated as mend

 

 

my illuminated zone peers     free thinking
& elongated switch     to neutral background
the question     who amongst us unmodifiable
low pitched entanglement ornamental
conceit profound barrier dismal permutations so
overzealous surveyor lords it     indeterminate
distance     where fools lurk     babble doddle
subnormal framework     their expectations of strange
happenings in meadowlands     meanwhile
imprudent bootlick myriad in active
thrive beneath          alienation     heavy stresses
adventure     protest
love
sex then     fatigued stalemate     addlebrained sprawl     shit
hole     no trigger     masqueraded humble as
we approached casual metaphor          luminous
glut look
closer am
sagging with
dismals

this smear founded upon radiating blotch
skewered rampage     meticulous
abandon     skewered abandon     deferred insipid recontextualised
essential     i floated through convalescence     exemplification
spin     floated through     ballistic moonshine contaminated
blossom     hardly a biscuit trip          at theatre of science
was out of joint     mimetic representation     didn’t know
wind picked up chlorine leak     vagueries pulsed something about
future abundance     remember me i tried to turn off chemical valve
either way turned this room bright oink it is today          undercut
by some uncommitted double     your worm eaten ships coming
apart     so come on all you crazies     ferry leaves in 10          that was luke warm with
ferals vs. imports one of my
favorite artists out of the short lived
cancelburg haze core scene his new
album pitched camp with swine is
out on frost surf & you can catch
him live on the 22nd at
g spot supporting i kind of
do performance
 

how to outflank the suburbs dvd bonus disk
moon glued top left     wide of dwellings     worked towards
passion circuit reroute     accumulated gaps in the
narrative     bastard flourish synced me up     why
i came     gauze eyelids     detritus swirl     snake
the road          brittle accumulating beneath digital sky
well groomed scrawl     unparalleled     interrogation
did you facilitate mash-up cut ribbons
into shine? or was it based up bemoaning such
disengaged patterns holding a lantern up to pensive
background sweet abundance of
whistleblowers          strained rapport i can see     festooned
with climbing ivy     me with co-workers     team
building at alligator church     each avenue
remorselessly turned towards production          out
of red grey
zag try to
fashion collisions     something
dropped by the hunt hangs on
my wall

Excerpt from 47 Venezuela

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Excerpt from 47 Venezuela

by 

Jesse S. Mitchell

There are stars up over the ocean
And I know because I have seen them.
Like words written mutely in the sky
And I know because I have read them.
Tiny sea beacons to guide all who between the waves still malinger,
Little dots shining bright
That the darkest of night
Cannot cleanly obscure.

To read the all of 47 Venezuela, click here.

Two Poems by Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia

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Two Poems 

by

Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia

For

. . . it’s tight around here. nothing’s changed. what’s ever been easy to come by other than space and dead hours past memory’s reach to resurrect?

* * *

believe

in

M            I               R             R             O             R             S

W            I               N             D             O             W            S

one        same

in

sight

encompassing

in biggest picture – minor part – but a role – in thought/deed

* * *

feel more

/sense/

* * *

come, be light upon keys

play soft

deliver gentle notes

into air

-correspond-

.

pluck a drop from sky

for drum’s head lonely

-incomplete-

pining

for touch

.

* * *

give it a try. what it? which it? give what to it? give it what? to what? to try. to try it. try it. try what? give.

* * *

this is the best pane of glass in town.                                                      this corner is awake and daydreaming.

* * *

sell the world. two for one. everything’s got to go.

felt on the lake

suede on the pond

velvet eddies in leather streams

silk creaks

cotton inlets

polyester reservoirs

nylon canals

merino wool rivers

rayon fjord

woven ocean

canvas clouds

showroom models

best looks left on hangars

 

Blurred

no promise

in possibility

exists for daydreaming

 

fear clings with its name given

-irreality

 

even as it is

forgotten

and overcome

 

when truth returns

to vision

blurred

 

Bio: 

The author of What Do The Evergreens Know of Pining, Yawning on the Sands, This Sentimental Education and Distilled! and A Northern Elegy was raised in Brooklyn, NY and has a degree Linguistics. Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia was a cook for over a decade and has studied several living and dead languages. Garcia’s work has appeared in BlazeVOX, ditch, Eccolinguistics, Caliban Online, Boog City, Barzakh and many others. Currently, Garcia’s nights are occupied by putting boxes on shelves while days are spent writing, reading and editing kjpgarcia.wordpress.com. You can also follow KJP at @KJPGarcia on twitter.