lyrical

Lodging by Stephanie Kaylor

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lodging

by 

Stephanie Kaylor

 

the other world rewards me

with memories

blank eternally

as a photograph,

shapes and colors

 

the remnants of their explosion

out of context

 

at land

there was a flock of starlings,

I could not tell you anymore,

 

not even if the creatures,

breathing,

surrounded me again, here,

 

now

I would only see a monochrome

grouping, I would only see

the whole

 

what more could you see

when one of us breaks

 

or cloaks herself in new silks?

the great changeover armed itself

in nothing but the delusion

that you were always master

and these are all your tools

 

far-sighted

I see myself at your side, eye

-to-eye, inside which is still a tincture

of the time before you and I

 

in my eye too

was the house, the glorious

overthrow of the ledger

the markings of our losses

 

I never saw

the inside but as spectator

I knew, with all the windows

leading to all the rooms

that I could house them together

there were no padlocks

here nor a single car

not a telephone wire, a time

or a name or a face misplaced.

 

Poetic Statement: Let me mourn. Let me dream. Let me see you not as how you present yourself to be but how I envisage. Let me write my story, let me turn the pages, let me bridge subject and object with my own brand of ink. It isn’t white ink, ink of life, the glorified rape of the canon, sowing its seed in anyone’s lap. It’s the red ink, the ink that transcends the permanence of the whole thing and rewrites, retells, the nagging voice in the background your history sought to cut out. It’s the ink that seeks not to hide glitches but to bring them to the center light.

 

Bio: Stephanie Kaylor is based in upstate New York where she is completing a MA in Women’s, Gender & Sexuality Studies. She is also a current MA student at European Graduate school, concentrating in narrative structure and desire. Though her musings are not political in content, she is an ardent supporter of activist causes, including sex workers’ rights and prison abolition.

 

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Three Poems by Tyler Dixon

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Three Poems

by

Tyler Dixon

 

Enough

One day when I’ve had enough
I’ll pack my bags and hit the road
hitchhike out past my life
and leave myself alone.

  Shouts Heralded in the Wind

Caustic moments left to rot
in trying times maybe we’re not
all that we say we’re meant to be
on burning ground from sea to see.

Shadows light the way today
in triumphant gazes that we make.
The heroes lie dead on the floor.
Nobody lives here anymore.

In the midst of all this hate
the drums, they beat a lying fate
to which we submit and bleed
and struggle for the ones in need.
To grasp at a moment’s peace
on our backs we salivate,
sweating in the noon-day sun
how much longer can this go on?

 

Caustic moments left to rot.
Silhouettes of what we’re not.
Crowded dreams shattered in
a broken down and beaten heap
of sun bleached bones and shiny crowns.
The jewels we fight for make us drown.

Weighed down and tied to stone.
No one suffers here alone.

 

Circles and Cycles


Faces scattered in the wind.
Some things seem to never end.

Unified in isolation
suffocating with shining sand
reaching for a helping hand.
Deep breaths void of oxygen
Disappearing into the ocean
One by One
Again and Again.

Some things seem to never end.

Random particles and chemicals.
Organisms composed of molecules.
Finite beings with infinite potential:
Owned and controlled by debt and capital.

Drowning in the deep end not knowing how to swim
Pulling each other down with the best intention.
Some things seem to never end.
Spirits scattered in the wind.

Game over… Start Again?

 

Bio: Hi, my name is Tyler Dixon. I’m from Vancouver, British Columbia. I’m 29 years old. I’ve been writing “poetry” for a long time, probably since I was seven or eight years old. I’ve self-published three books but have never sent anyone, anywhere, any poems to be considered for publication. If I had to classify this work I would call it Poetry Without Borders…

Poetic Statement: These poems, much like their author, are unpolished, uncensored, unabashed, and uncompromising. If you believe that poetry and politics don’t mix, or that abstraction and metaphor are the most efficient tools of the poet, these are not for you. These poems are as much a direct resistant action as they are a collection of literature. Our lives exist in a constant state of information warfare, and the poems you are about to read are weapons in this fight. This collection represents a battle fought for illumination, freedom, and love, against servitude and fear. Which side you choose is up to you..

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.