sensation

Three Poems by KJP Garcia

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Three Poems

by

KJP Garcia

Stop By

Did you ring the doorbell?

This house is your house –

so to speak.

 

Open so long as you let yourself be heard.

But locks must be engaged, shutters closed

–there are some

that do harm –

 

Villains are not simply storylines, costumes, secret identities, powers

but will and win if not on guard

Feel free to come by, as (is) possible, you’ve come by before so unknown

So entrance was removed.

Time, this, as always will be different.

 

Afford

If on verge then do well to continue

Ceiling leaks, drops break in.

Mattress steals space from living.

 

And this teetering persists?

Make a go of it

– rest doesn’t go well

Fall, jump, get pushed

-expire-

afford a balance to repair’s value.

 

Which Side

Which side of the Hudson is for Verlaine

And which for Rimbaud after the break-up?

Not world enough / strong enough

to open petals

lay out

lyricism

illuminations

the way New York

can

with all the best pharmaceutical grade . . .

And two rivers and upstate to run to and Jersey

ready to back pocket

the written

on train out of here

to calm down.

 

So, Seine, which side is for Warhol and which for Basquiat

When done / decorated enough

to have back what is held close /

unwanted?

 

Poetic Statement: Experience is a plurality of convergences, interruptions, digressions, departures. These occurrences are the fragments which create larger memories and the narratives one attempts to convey to others. The closer one comes to examining the past, the more one notices how the present constantly interferes. The narratives one creates from the keepsakes of yesterday are shattered and forged again with new data – sensations, perceptions, insights, exemptions, the heard-words, the read-words, the thought-words, the dream-words, the images and ideas of having been inserted into a life of disturbances.

Bio: Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia is the author of This Sentimental Education, ROBOT and Yawning on the Sands.

Two Poems by Vimeesh Maniyur

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Two Poems

by

Vimeesh Maniyur

Lip

Long back

He was called for making Thajmahal

A good, dirty man with talents

He Went.

One day he saw the Emperor

Heard an unknown toungue

May be he was the first in kerala

Who heard that…

It is stone not a white sun

There were no friends

In work they spoke one

They were one lettered humans

kept stone  like his letters

That day he spoke to the king

In dream… in his stone realm..

The man of palaces didnt get his stone-lip

Beheaded that kingdom

Never cameback.

Saw his rustic speech in its silence

True, It is fear not whiteness

The white geometry

As always

I looked into my android

There came a white geometry

 

Here and there roads

Here and there malls

Here and there talkies,

Hospitals, banks, A T M,

Railway station, hotels, pubs,

Café, bars, bus stand…..

Nothing but a white – haunted piece

Of barren world.

Where is this one, the road?

Hospital? Schools? army camp? Small teashops?

Loitering goats and many more….

Are they too big to map?

 

I looked again

Where I am?

 

Bio:  is an established bi-lingual poet, novelist and translator from kerala, in India. He has two volumes of poetry and a children’s novel in his credit. He has also penned stories and dramas. He has bagged for many prestigious awards such as Culcutta Malayali Samajam Endownment, Madras Kerala Samajam, Muttathu Varkki Katha Puraskaram etc. for young writers in kerala.

Three Poems by Jessica Chickering

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Three Poems

by

Jessica Chickering

Again & Again

I know your body like I my own, every muscle, tendon, freckle, atom, and before you are near
me I feel you everywhere like the wind, all encompassing.
I knew the sound of your voice before you spoke,
and in the moment our eyes met I knew that I loved you
and could not stop myself from being with you,
and could not stop my hand from reaching for yours,
and could not stop lips from finding yours,
and could not stop myself from knowing you,
as I have always and will always know you, because we are one in this moment.

The moonlight streams though exposing every ounce of your flesh like a gift.
You have been waiting and I have been waiting to find ourselves here, intertwined by a lust old
as time, animalistic and humble.
There are no words, only the beauty of the feeling of my tongue on your tongue as I explore
you again and again, (ever undiscovered and discovered and longing).
You are tuned to me, your hands make music on my body and every note that we discover
makes the birds cry out in jealousy,
And until the earth ceases to spin, and the tide ceases to rise, and the birds cease their cries, until that day we will not be apart.
For as long as I breathe, you must breathe, and as long as your heart beats, my heart must beat.

Blue Raincoat Roadside

Lighthouse limelight shines,
Cedar chest lunchbox
and weathervane wine.

Knife chopping onions,
pink watermelon
shudders in the know.

The porch boards bend and
creak under the weight
of her unleaving.

My face is her face.

Hush – when I am old,
sideways and troubled
I will absorb home,

searching my memories
for a glimpse of that light.

Tasty

Cheiloproclitic at your feet
brush, touch, taste
Cheiloprocilitic at your feet
resuscitate, breath, heat
Cheiloproclitic at your feet
pucker, suck, bite
Cheiloproclitic at your feet
lick, swoon, punch
Cheiloproclitic at your feet

Brief bio: My name is Jessica Chickering. I live in Denver, Colorado. I am 34 years. Getting old is both awesome and terrible. I hate people who say cliché things about aging. I write, (say something self-effacing about my writing followed by something redeeming). I graduated from the University of Colorado – Denver with a BA in writing and an emphasis in poetry – I pay the bills doing something that utilizes little of the talents I crafted. I have cat named Girl Kitty, I call her GK for short. I am happy to be alive.

Poetic Statement: Poetry is amazing and undervalued. This is true for so many things I find important and worthy in the world as it stands at this moment. I long for a place where I feel more at home. I feel at home in poetry.

 

Looking to the Edge by Mark Fleury

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Looking to the Edge

by

Mark Fleury

Looking to the edge

Of the dawn-tinged mountain

Tops’ cliffed flaming skyscape,

The ladder to the brow of the morning

Star leans against the wall between

The night and day of a new year.

I peak over the sky, blue as the part

Of a candle flame that entrances

A child in Easter Sunday’s Grace

Before what’s thanked for is consumed

For weight toward Earth’s center.

And I see it’s the same primordial pool

Of fire and flame and lust that does

Dervish whirls from a screen door

To a backyard. April is draining

Its pain of birth, thaw and rust

As though the hinges

Of soil opened to houses

In the enclosed bark of trees.

Bio: Mark Fleury lives in St. Paul, MN. He has recently had poems published in Vext Magazine, Altered Scale, Clockwise Cat, Counterexample Poetics, Medulla Review, ditch, UFO Gigolo and the Original Van Gogh’s Ear Anthology. Mark also has a poem forthcoming in the September inaugural issue of Of/ With. Mark has a new 2014 book of poetry entitled The Precious Surreal Door Opened, published by Medulla Review Publishing.

 

Poetics Statement: My writing invariably goes back to the basement apartment where I lived when I had a nervous breakdown over twenty years ago. The different parts of the apartment symbolize various parts of my psyche; for example, the door leading into the apartment is the location of the pineal gland in the center of my brain. And the window across the room, which is the title of one of my books: The 4D Window, is the sensorium screen where my worldly experiences, including poetry, take place. I consider myself to be a student of Charles Olson’s Projective Verse essay.

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.

 

Six Poems by Juliet Cook And j/j hastain

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Six Poems

by

Juliet Cook and j/j hastain

 

Inside Out

Like a bee moth with bloody honeycomb lips.
Whose mouth will you sting next?
Whose mouth will become your own
next sticky chrysalis space?

Behemoth please don’t
lose yourself while you are busy
trying to find yourself.
Don’t treat your stingers
like they’re tectonic plates.

You’re not the whole surface of the earth.
You hover buzz above the mainstream,
but why try to create a new ovicide?
Are you attempting to kill
your own pattern again?

When will you help yourself
understand not every protrusion turns
into a broken down strand of tainted
confidence in the hyoid coincidence?

Are you too busy chiding biology to notice
your disembodiment tear apart like
flayed digits? You used to be pretty
as a snap dragon until you snapped,

and repeatedly ripped yourself
into too many different pieces.

Elated Excavation

I’m an incomparable mess with exaggerated streaks.
How do I narrow this down? During weeks
of drought–during weeks
of downpour–weeks upon weeks of
inauguration of weakness. Why is my flesh
made like this? Is it made for this? I didn’t
sign up but it might be time
to excavate and rearrange the flock.

Here’s my latest signature. I am glowing the more and more
sheep I let into this
dream state.
Sheep aren’t only a bridge, aren’t only
what to count in order
to get somewhere. When the moon is just right,
these sheep trigger out ectoplasm,

lots of different colors and
shapes, too many to count
unless we create a whole
different sort of order
reordering the borders while
wise men dream of dust bunnies
and other happenstance. Revamp
the squiggle dusters into ecstatic
elation, frenetic deviation
from the fur
or devotional pledges ensuring
the fur.

Fury dangling on the edge,
purring at you to count
yourself in

Cuckoo Loincloth

Why Lancelot? She asked
her other self
the one in the oculus

Why not a lion-sized lark
a lionized loincloth
chewing this month’s blood

in order to create sparkles
of bewitching lioness drips
as the creature learns to fly

When the full moon
is acting full out
in attempt at fulfilling

will you drink it
or will you pull out
the flying machete

and try to hit that moon
down? Because why try?
Why attempt flight?

It’s like the spasm of a clock
made out of milkweed
that might suddenly turn cuckoo

and then drip down thighs
and crawl out the door
again. Screech as the glass
breaks. Great gallbladder
gonads in a rococo arrangement
with lip gloss on top

Disinfectant or Douche?

How do we engrave an orifice?

Burn a bible, a bundle,
an American flag.
Coagulate all the swag
down our throats and then
gag ourselves and spit it
down the drain and
grab the Lysol.

You know what we used to advertise
that Lysol for?

Cleaning off the stick of the plunger
after anal.

Prepare for ocular penetration
and spray paint a ventricle
with gasoline.

Blowtorch the entire panel,
turn the whole party scene
into burning whoopee cushions.

Quiet now: just experience that sound.

Entire Group Slides to One Soft Side

Turbulent taffeta explodes into
Aberrant apparitions

Archetypal pilgrimage
Turns the wheel

Until it sticks
Into the snow
Leaving you to wonder

Will it sink
Will it melt
Will it grow
More wet confetti

More topaz along the lone river
Where tides push and pull
Where whitewater vibes
Where the wet suit strives

To pop out eggs
The shape of staves
With splinters

Because large sacs
And vertical hives
Are buzzing in between
Biting distance

Like the spots within
Spots in
A large piece of
Moon shaped pie

Hole craters reconstructed
With icing jags
Jugs full of lag time
and the heavy breasts

that memory-less men
now drag around
the floor like protruding,
misshapen ball gags

Tall and unforeseen
forsaken gowns
the whole room groaning
like a mutant pinball machine
Entire group slides to one soft side
a way to be free of plagiarizing a wave

After the slow dance, some of them turn into ghosts,
some into cheerleaders, some into mixed up bags
of more taffeta. Just try to dive bomb that.

The healing potion explodes

We were seeking
not
North
in other words the
womb
full of worms
the groom of
a returning blood flow
brimming with another line up
marooned brain waves

Replicate life force
The void?
The new cave?

Is the place in which you are engaged
full to you? Or are you another never
ending cascade? Bright red, dark red.

One side a positive
healing
fetish violence.
One side a negative
stab wound
fantasy/reality.
Never ending hemorrhaging hemisphere. Never
ending lavish
light

Poetic Statements:

Juliet Cook: Oftentimes instead of attempting to express my shifting, mixed up viewpoints with straightforward words, I do so with poetry and visual art (like painting/collage art hybrids) and then let others interpret it how they will. I am often very uncertain about how others interpret my body and mind; likewise, I am often uncertain about how others interpret my poetry/art.

Bird fetuses, other carcasses, abandoned flesh, used flesh, abused flesh, relationship issues, body based issues, and fear of death often infiltrate my mind in one way or another – and much of my poetry and art helps me express those infiltrations rather than repress them. I love creative expression, but sometimes post expression, I feel like my content might be overly repetitive about myself, mind/body, life/death and what is the point of it all.

*

j/j hastain: Word-based: Words are more than language to me. They are little bolts, jolts of light, symbols and systems capable of enabling. Words are ways to make little worlds in which resounding can occur. Words are matter by which to graft new forms of environment and safe space. I depend on words in so many ways. They are access to so much vibrating excess. They are how an intuition becomes a speaking image, a realm.

Body-based: I have synesthesia. Often sound and sight (image) exchange. There are other modalities too: color and vibration. How to articulate experience then? When I read and swallow in words, sentences, I often feel a buzzing just outside of the frame of my physical body, sort of like standing by a loud speaker as intense music blasts at a dance club.

***

Bios:

Juliet Cook is a grotesque glitter witch medusa hybrid brimming with black, grey, silver and purple explosions. Her poetry has appeared in a peculiar multitude of literary publications, most recently including Arsenic Lobster, Menacing Hedge, Mojave River Review and Tarpaulin Sky Press. You can find out more at http://www.JulietCook.weebly.com.

*

j/j hastain is a collaborator, writer and maker of things. j/j performs ceremonial gore. Chasing and courting the animate and potentially enlivening decay that exists between seer and singer, j/j, simply, hopes to make the god/dess of stone moan and nod deeply through the waxing and waning seasons of the moon.

Four Poems by Jesse S. Mitchell

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Four Poems 

by

Jesse S. Mitchell

 

Yorba Linda’s Cephalopod Blues

 

So, screech the cyanide strings

And glow the Baba Yaga shine

And love the lemon yellow sun

And dance the barbed wire whirl.

And always

Always

More and more

More sang rouge than Khmer Rouge

Because that’s blood

Blood

It’s heintei  twister girls

All cyclone breathing and never sleeping

Hot and heavy, until you cannot imagine calm.

Makes a hollow in the center, all the stirring, the churning, in the heart.

Just keep you spinning

Spinning

Like a rotating planet (big hairy knuckled rock) in orbit

Orbit

Orbit

Until you read your name in the obit.

 

gringolandia

 

I believed myself awake then but only half-drowsy and half-dreaming, oh merciful God, a certain kind of violence written across my brain, curved cursive handwriting and between the etched and entwining loops and spaces I saw a pause and for a moment the silences replicated stingy threads like DNA (proteins stuck clinging to each other, pornography) and through the pauses I saw visions, heaven help me.  There I dreamed of Mexico but no black Madonnas or border towns but Chiapas, Emiliano Zapata, there revolutions, honey spun, a thin strand of spider silk that connects to every corner, shaking like candy floss along the coast from Cardiff to Bristol or home Atlantic, some beach drenched lovers surely cryptic, in the sun, breathed too the same air in my lungs, fueled by similar oxygen and other molecules.  And all over my body I felt a breeze, a cool breeze from the north, an all over wind, a numbing that means complacency for I am on the rung American…but reaching upward always, grasping for the next.  So, all I know is smothered .  I cover my wounds with grease and ash and leave the faintest footprints, carrying away the rest.

 

Cartagena

 

And rainy streets that stumble down and sudden downpours that drench your feet and back alleyway-drifts that spring up in hectic fits

Fits

and corners stuffed with this independent business,

Tempting-changeling like bower birds, trying to make a go of it. Carnival barkers and newsprint shills, broken off words and movie deals.

And what heaven acquires…

Overcome and drowsy down, hazy trace and spirit bound.

Hell loses…

And tastes like blood-spit

The sort of thing that happens with busted lip.

And what Hell loses…

All sensation

And all gone.

Earth regrets…

And looks blurred green sky

The kind of distance that comes

With hard-crossed eyes.

And what Earth regrets…

Or with falling down and smacking face

Knocks you brutal all over the place.

Dazed

Man forgets.

From careful tedium, strolling soaked

Through tepid wet Cartagena

 

 

Pazzia

 

I had a dream that was the same as Romeo and Juliet.

Except in this case the hero of the story was a small coiling spiral

Of double helix DNA

And it was a tiny lump of highly protein encrusted couch fluff

To which it was conjoined.

And they floated together on hot air currents

Billowing around the world

Looking for a simple pool of their own in which to self-replicate.

And thoughts traveling wildly across their minds (what minds you could speak of, little synapse and sparkling little cell-buds and ganglia)

like how different would  Cabaret have been

If David Mamet had written all the lines for Sally Bowles

And how much they both hated the work of Paul Theroux,

And how much of the history of the human race on Earth

Is basically a big iron screw jammed in the middle

Of a large misshapen clay ball.

And how we all could use some more productive occupation.

 

Bio: Jesse S. Mitchell writes books, has a wife and kids, and dislikes
the slow disintegration of time, immensely.
Poetic statement: I mean to make noise, a great deal of noise, so much
noise it will be impossible to ignore.