End Game — poetry by Dennis Paul Wilken

End Game

Sitting in the dark,
An old spider
Losing it's venom
But still willing,
If disturbed,
To try and land
A painful bite for
Old times sake



_
Dennis Paul Wilken is a prolific poet, sketch-artist, veteran journalist and Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal. He studied at the University of Cincinnati and is a former Editor of Cincinnati Magazine. His poem "Outcomes" was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2011. His last chapbook is called Sweat Off the Diamond (2009). 

Outcomes / Poetry by Dennis Wilken

Never say never
Never say, I’ll never
Be too withdrawn
And alone
Like my poor bachelor
Uncle Bill;

Presto, fifty years pass,
Some very hard years,
Breaking boundaries
Inside your head
And now, you sit,

Often alone,
Reading travel books,
Maybe some of the same ones
Old Bill dreamed over
As he waited to die;

We often become
What we fear,
Or loathe,
At least as often as we become
Who we always wished to be
And sometimes, all too briefly,
Were.



__
Dennis P. Wilken is a veteran journalist and former writer for Cincinnati Magazine. Most recently his poetry has appeared in Word Riot and Madswirl. He lives in Seattle, Washington.

'DRIFT' a poem by Dennis Paul Wilken

The meanness pours off some faces
Like a bullet speeding from the barrel of a gun,
Just as beauty shines out of other, gentler eyes;
We are a species owing much
To both heaven and hell
Without truly knowing
Which camp is ours,
Often ending up
With whatever side
Will have us.


-
Dennis P. Wilken is a veteran journalist and former writer for Cincinnati Magazine. Most recently his poetry has appeared in Word Riot, Madswirl and his editorials in Pacific Publishing publications. His last chapbook, Sweat Off the Diamond, was published in 2009. He lives in Seattle, Washington where he is a Contributing Editor for Commonline.

last note —a poem by Justin Hyde

drop by
your ex wife's
middle of the day
to grab some
final belongings.

two wine glasses
in the sink

and your wedding photos
which only last week
still hung in the hallway

are gone.

you smell
the sheets
and pillows
in her bed

then you find
a used condom
in the
bathroom garbage

as your heart
fills with
concrete

dropping down
into your
ankles.





Justin Hyde lives in Iowa where he works with criminals. He has a web-page here: http://www.nyqpoets.net/poet/justinhyde.

'LEAP' Micro-Fiction by Jennifer Hurley

My father tried to jump off the bridge again this week. He’d climbed most of the way up the fence and had one leg over on the other side before someone noticed him. I heard about it second-hand, through Maureen, my father’s wife. My mother is dead, and I am my father’s only daughter, but we barely know each other. I live in a different city and see him only on holidays, and we pretend everything is fine. We exchange impersonal gifts and discuss the weather and his roses.

Before my father started trying to jump off bridges, he was a banker. Initially I thought he must have lost money in the financial crisis, maybe his money, maybe somebody else’s. Perhaps he was pushed to despair by the loss of my inheritance. But Maureen told me no. She said the demon had gotten its claws in him long ago. That gave me a weird hope that someday he might cast off the demon and emerge as his true self.

Maureen always insisted that my father wasn’t that bad, and it was true: I had never seen him do anything deliberately cruel. But whenever I encountered other fathers in the world—even just a man on the street carrying a baby on his back—I felt cheated. I wanted to trade my father in for a new one, for someone who would ask me a real question, like why I hadn’t gotten married, or whether there was something else I wished I were doing with my life.

Wise as she was, Maureen said there was no use wasting your life wishing. After that I put my father out of my mind. But when she called to tell me about his most recent attempt to jump off the bridge, I started thinking about him again. That afternoon I drove out to the bridge in my city, which was far out of my way. It was a cold winter Sunday, and hardly anyone was on the road. I put my emergency lights on and got out of my car. I gripped the fence with both hands and looked at the water below. It was such a long way down. I stepped back, lightheaded, nauseous. I couldn’t imagine the kind of pain it would require to make that leap.

I heard something behind me. A man in a brown suit was coming towards me. Stop, miss! he shouted. No, I said. I’m not—I stopped speaking. I was struck by how worried he looked. There was sweat all over his face despite the cold. Please, think of what this would do to your parents, he said. I thought that was funny, so I laughed. How can you laugh? he said, his voice hoarse and full of emotion. I’m sorry, I told him. I made a motion as if to climb the fence, just so he would try again to stop me.


-
Jennifer Hurley's short fiction has previously appeared in The Mississippi Review, Stone's Throw Magazine, and Slow Trains, among others. She is an alum of Boston University's graduate creative writing program (which was then an M.A.) and currently works as an Associate Professor of English at Ohlone College in the San Francisco Bay Area.

'NINA SING' by Ra Scion

Air of inequity is thick in my circumference
Untouched are none when they’re summoned up to punishment

Sons sent to war for the grunt work of the government
All debts repaid on the last day of judgment

I’ve heard purported it’s approaching with celerity

Proselytes testify with utmost sincerity

I don’t think he’s comin’ y’all – try me for heresy
But what’s all the stallin’ for, a little more disparity?


Beckon the Armageddon, tell ‘em we exhausted
Every option since the trade winds laid claim to caution

Damned since the Gnostics allied with the sergeants 

Yo I’m tired of waitin’ – slide the blade across it now


Another demonstration staged on the proscenium 

Curtain drawn, who’s workin’ behind ‘em with the medium?

Road blocks, keep throwin’ rocks at the imperium 

Hell yeah, a long march, staunch grown wearisome


Seein’ fam fallin’ through the cracks in the variance

Famished on a barren land of AIDS and malaria

One percent could fix it with a tenth of their inheritance
Freedom buried in the treasure chest of the nefarious 

Terrorists with pipe bombs, who’s sittin’ on the megaton?
FEMA slow to respond, blame it on the weather, wrong

Billion-dollar telethon, tell ‘em where the cheddar gone

And wonder why my people keep their weapons drawn—
Click.



RA Scion is one half of the critically acclaimed hip hop duo Common Market.  He now preforms under the pseudonym Victor Shade (alter ego of Marvel Comics' West Coast Avenger, The Vision) and has released his debut effort Victor Shade (SCIONtific Records).  The poem "Nina Sing" has been adapted from a live version of "Nina Sing", a song from the 2008 album Tobacco Road.

'CONFORMITY' & 'RIGHT RESPONSE' by Geordie de BoeR

Conformity

means being on
the same page,
as though reading
with slow learners,
or learning from
a sage with one
message, or being
a part of the club
and beaten mute
by a person in
a clean green
suit, always in
a pristine suit.


Right Response

A nudge in the ribs,
or just a word,
makes them over-budge,
so to speak,
makes them absurdly
angry, show their
meaner streak; or,
hold their hatred
close to the heart,
so when you
start to express hope
you get a depressing
retort in return.
Turn the other cheek
means Shoot them
the moon, full,
no quarter.


-Geordie de Boer, a rambler and writer of fiction and poetry, lives in Washington State. He has been published most recently by Leaf Garden, Bird’s Eye reView, PANK and Right Hand Pointing. Visit him at Cockeyed Fits.

'FEATHERED ALPHABET' by Annie G. Rogers (2009 Pushcart Nominee)

The snow begins
it falls and no one can stop it
it covers the back fence and flings itself
outward, a lost thing—
erasing time and memory in its great silence.

A running figure
on the last scrap of day
a rope of footfalls writes the script
wind turns to smoke and threads—
that double what the voice can say.


_
(A version of "Feathered Alphabet" first appeared in Annie G. Rogers' book, A Shining Affliction.)

_
Annie G. Rogers is a poet, as well as a writer of memoir and fiction. She has published two books that combine her clinical work in psychoanalysis with memoir: A Shining Affliction, and The Unsayable. She has edited a volume of short fiction and memoir writing from her workshops with writers in Ireland, Charlie's Chasing the Sheep. She is currently working on a book of poems, Approximate Names. She is Professor of Psychoanalysis and Clinical Psychology at Hampshire College in Amherst, Massachusetts.

5 POMES from LITTLE COMMENTARIES by Suzanne Buffam

ON LA GIOCONDA

Crowds press in to glimpse her terrible smile.
What diet of secrets sustains it?

The crowds soon tire
And retreat to the buzzing café.

Aloof behind her varnish and her bulletproof veil
She casts her gaze on nothing now—

The greatest, said Da Vinci
Among all great things found here among us.

-
ON INVERSE RELATIONS

The pleasure I feel
When I say the word “trousers”
Is equal, exactly,
To the discomfort I feel
When I say the word “slacks.”

-
ON SPACE TRAVEL

Not to see the frozen heavens up close
But to see our leaky planet from afar.

-
ON IMPOSSIBILITY

I try to write “automatically”
But keep stopping to look at the sky.
Birds are in it
And a great blue silence
That fills the distance between.

-
ON AD CAMPAIGNS IN THE UNDERWORLD

Bet you can’t eat
Just one
Smiled Pluto
As he held out his handful of pain.

--------

Little Commentaries is the central sequnece of Suzanne Buffam's second book, The Irrationalist. It is forthcoming this spring from Canarium Books. (www.canariumbooks.org/wp/home/).
--------
Suzanne Buffam is the author of Past Imperfect (Anansi, 2005), a poetry collection which won the Gerald Lampert Memorial Award in 2006. She teaches creative writing at the University of Chicago.

2 Poems by Rod Tipton | (2009 Pushcart Nominee)

MY FATHER
IN A MOTEL

I had never seen
him without his teeth
but he is sitting
on the corner
of a bed in a motel
lips caved into his mouth
until they are almost gone

his skin looser
and more transparent
than last time
he came through

In the 1950s and 60s
he smoked Luckies
wore his cap tilted back
and just off center

Taught me about fishing,
car maintenance,
airplanes, his temper
and that life is always work

He loved to move then
always traveling
but age has caught
him in mid stride

and when he should have
a wife, home and comfort
they have left conjured away
by disease and the banks

So he still travels
sleep walking through cities
his body becoming inert
falling in on its self

Right now he is slouched
next to a pink lamp
on a white spread, laid over
a commercial grade mattress
and will not budge

Will only make indifferent
noises to every suggestion
with small lifts of his shoulders
as if his words have lost
their power and been pulled
into a final nothing
gone with everything else
that had been his



---



BAR MUSIC

something charming
on the piano

a rolling tune
to make you think
of a small circus

a slender woman
on the rope

agile, balanced

wraps her leg
like a snake

and hangs
in arched glory
at a dangerous height

then snaps and twists
and lowers herself

uncurling her body
onto the stool
next to yours

“bravo” you shout
and quickly check
your wallet

hoping you have enough
to buy her a drink




--
Rod Tipton is a poet and filmmaker from Seattle, Washington.

'FOR THE BARREN ORANGE TREE' a poem by Lisa Marie Basile

I do not want to write
like Lorca does,

in misery.
Free me from the torture of seeing myself fruitless.
I have blood
unending,

and I am furious,
maddened, the color
of the sun. I am

nothing but prayers
and flesh, and like Lorca,
I fear becoming a barren orange tree


-

Lisa Marie Basile is a writer and journalist from Brooklyn, New York. She has been published in several publications, including Billboard, CosmoGirl!, Knocks From The Underground and Maxim. She has won six writing awards from Pace University's Annual Writing Contest, including 1st place Poetry and Fiction. She is graduating in December 2009 with an English Language and Literature degree along with a concentration in creative writing and has served as Editor-in-Chief of The Pace Press and as Associate Editor of Aphros Literary Journal. She is the Editor-in-Chief of Caper Journal, an online literary, art and music collection. She adores Cesar Vallejo, Jorge Louis Borges, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Albert Camus and Christine Korfhage.

'MAN TITS' & 'A LIBERTINE IN ALBANY' by Rebecca Wolff (2009 Pushcart Prize Nominee)

Man Tits

Look at that pair,

on the one over there.
He's young, skinny, low
muscle tone, poor, white, under-
educated . . . not looking
at a
path

on the little patch
of yard in front of his
unfavorably located
rental where he stands, hands
on hips, mutable, conceivable
speculation on the next weekend
chore.

But his tits are the good
kind: fat, conical, pale against
the brown of his wife-beater tan,
nipples slightly shiny,
aureolated. Bouncy, native tits
like the ones you like to see.



A Libertine in Albany

At the stoplight
no one looks
when I whip
it out

even though I guessed
Elvis Costello next

even though
I can always tell Led Zeppelin's
coming on

These are my rewards

Next to me in line for comestibles
my grandson

might as well be.

Teach you how to act
by the look in your eyes

like you want to fuck, stupid. Even old
sleepy eyes, in the coffee

line, manifests in the end zone
as a loser in a minivan.


------------

Rebecca Wolff is the author of three books of poetry, most recently The King (W. W. Norton, 2009). Her novel The Beginners is forthcoming in 2011 from Riverhead Books. She is the founding editor of Fence and Fence Books, and a fellow at the New York State Writers Institute. She lives in Athens, New York.

Poetry by Rob Plath

One Upmanship in Suburbia

I hear teenagers
in the schoolyard
next to my apartment

their stolen beer bottles
clinking, the boys cursing, punching
one another, trying to impress
giggling razor-thin girls,
who are secretly deciding
who they'll blow
behind the dumpsters

while the August crickets
rub their legs together
in a frenzy
trying to outdo the others
for a mate.

I turn up Tom Waits
to drown them all out
and pound out another
fucking poem.


_


my words are war whoops against the womb

my
every
word
is
a
war
whoop

my
every
poem
a
campaign
waged
against
the
dumb
womb

the
most
destructive
bomb
of
them
all

exploding
life
into
the
world




_

Rob Plath is 39 years. He has published about 150 poems in 50 magazines and journals in print and online. He has one book of poetry called “Ashtrays and Bulls” (liquid paper press--home of the nerve cowboy) and two forthcoming, one from Cat Scan Press in the UK called “Sour Milk” for the soulless and another from Pooka Press in Canada which is not yet titled. He once studied with Allen Ginsberg at Brooklyn College from '95-97 and performed on a spoken word CD “Northport celebrates jack” --a tribute to Jack Kerouac. Since he has just become poetry editor of Whirligigzine - JD Finch's fiction and poetry magazine, which is in print and online. Rob lives in New York.

The Lost Thing —a poem by Stephen Dunn

The Lost Thing 

The truth is
it never belonged to anybody.
It's not a music box or a locket;
it doesn't bear our initials.
It has none of the tragic glamour
of a lost child, won't be found
on any front page. It's like
the river that confuses
search dogs, like the promise
on the far side of the ellipsis.
Look for it in the margins,
is the conventional wisdom.
Look for it as late afternoon light
drips below the horizon.
But it's not to be seen.
Nor does it have a heart
or give off any signal.
It's as if . . . is how some of us
keep trying to reach it.
Once, long ago, I felt sure
I was in its vicinity.

_
Stephen Dunn was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for his collection Different Hours. He has also been a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award and has received an Academy Award in Literature from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Dunn lives in Frostburg, Maryland and teaches at Richard Stockton College in New Jersey.

* "The Lost Thing" is from Stephen Dunn's book Everything Else In The World. It was first published by The Gettysburg Review and has been republished here with the author's permission.

Reading a Swedish Poet —poetry by Lou Lipsitz

Reading a Swedish Poet

This man, Werner Aspenstrom, was born
in the country but lived in the big city for years
and was never entirely comfortable anywhere.

That’s good. I like that. He went out
into nature, as we call it, the farmland,
thick forests, river valleys where
the torrents of snowmelt roar along.
He saw the black butterfly
with orange stripes on its wings alight
on a pile of deer droppings.
He noticed the spot of sunshine
that edged its way into a clearing
among the great fir trees. Some people
say such things help to heal us.

The Swedish poet is not so sure. I like that.
Ok, he says, this helps a little. We quiet down.
And a poem can help too, insinuating itself
into our chaotic and bewildered psyches
like a tiny man we make out on a distant hillside
waving his arms. He wears a bright blue shirt.
Is he signalling us to stop, to come over?


We begin to drive in his direction, but then
we lose sight of him and realize
we have to get back soon. We don’t
have time to keep looking. It’s
starting to snow. The tunnel’s
coming up; the glare of those headlights. Our
own headlights racing toward us from the future.

_
Lou Lipsitz is a writer and psychotherapist living in Chapel Hill, NC. His most recent book, SEEKING THE HOOK, is being republished and will soon be available on Amazon as is his first and best known book, COLD WATER. His website is loulipsitz.com.

Lou's recent poetry has taken a strong turn toward psychological issues and the realm of men's feelings. His poems have appeared recently in The Sun Magazine, Southern Poetry Review, The Best of the Bellevue Literary Review and Kakalak, 2009. The poem "Reading a Swedish Poet," is from his latest (and as yet unpublished) book, IF THIS WORLD FALLS APART.

* "Reading a Swedish Poet" was first published by The Sun.

My Last Battle (2009 Pushcart Prize Nominee) —a poem by Paul Hellweg

My Last Battle

All my life
the censors have
circumscribed me
telling me what to do

and what not,
what’s possible
and what isn’t,

dictating all that’s

expected,
normal,
accepted,

and for years I’ve struggled
to break free of

parents
religion
society
government
editors
girlfriends

always the girlfriends,
other friends too,
finally,
after years
of
struggle,
I no longer heed those voices
or their limits,
and
now I’m
free,
mostly,
just one voice remains,
the
biggest
meanest
toughest of all
but I’m on it
I bribe him with
promises of

Paris,
Amsterdam,
Palermo,

(or at least the Bunny Ranch),
I distract him with beer,
I threaten
suicide,
but to no avail,
that son-of-a-bitch
still hasn’t figured
out
who the fuck
he
is.


_
Paul Hellweg has felt his whole life as if he didn’t belong. Then a few months ago he discovered a whole new world of kindred spirits in the poetry universe, both online and at readings throughout the Los Angeles area. He’s thrilled to have finally found a place where he fits in just fine, sober or otherwise.

Stopping by Red Lobster on a Snowy Evening (Literally inspired by Leviticus 11:9-12) —Poetry by Mike Tauser

Stopping by Red Lobster on a Snowy Evening
(Literally inspired by Leviticus 11:9-12)

It was quiet at Red Lobster
When I walked in the door
I was simply there to speak the truth, nothing less and nothing more
I held my nose as I looked at the tables, quite certain what I’d find there

With God on my side, I strode past the hostess
For I had a message to share.

At table seven were two young men on a date sharing a bisque
They seemed to enjoy the meal to the full. They were unaware of the risk.

“I can see that is lobster you’re eating. It has neither fins nor scales
If you keep this food in your diet
No number of prayers will prevail.

Put down your fork and your knife now
Flee this restaurant while you still can
This seafood abomination is swimming across our fair land.:”
I moved to a table, eleven I think,
Where there sat a family of five
They seemed quite content, but I must declare
“Those people should not be alive!!

“Sir, you’re eating salmon which has scales and fins it’s true
But your six year old old popping popcorn SHRIMP! Tell me what kind of father are you?!

Put down your fork and your knife now
Flee this restaurant while you still can
This seafood abomination is swimming across our fair land.:”

My job’s far from over. My mission it is clear
A Pappadeaux’s here
Long John Silver’s there.

I’ll take it where ever He leads me
E’en Maine if that be the Lord’s will
Wherever they’re eating the finless and scale less
Wherever the butter sauce spills

Put down your fork and your knife now
Flee this restaurant while you still can
This seafood abomination is swimming across our fair land.


_
Mike Tauser who resides in Houston, Texas is known as the Royal Worm in some circles. He has written haiku in Japanese, Twitter Ku in English, and occasional melodies on his guitar so his poems will be a bit more interesting or at least easy to listen to.

2 Poems —by Michael Shorb

Warning Label

Do not expose yourself
to sunlight while
using this material,
there are substances
lurking underneath
this text known to cause
depression, anxiety,
remorse and nausea,
if you are reading this
line in English,
exercise extreme caution
while engaging in
full frontal nudity,
whatever you do
don’t search for
metaphors or contemplate
the global crisis
within earshot
of this song,
in other words,
as the old saying goes,
just keep your mouth shut
and you won’t
get hurt.


_


Crime Scene

There wasn’t enough
pressure in the hoses
to wash all the blood
away, so we could see
places where it spattered
as far as the feet
of the monumental angel.
There wasn’t enough yellow tape
to surround places
where children met the same
stony end as hardened criminals,
dreaming of a scrap of bread,
fantasizing the feeling
of cool water running
down their parched throats.
We combed the waste
with ultraviolet light
but could not determine
who the killers were,
sheltered as they were
by oceans, by abstractions,
by the blissful ignorance
of luxury.


_
Michael Shorb's work reflects a satirical focus on present day trends and events. His poems have appeared in The Nation, The Sun, Michigan Quarterly Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, Rattle, and European Judaism, as well as other publications and anthologies.

ODE TO THE GOD OF THE ATHEISTS —a poem by Ellen Bass

The god of atheists won't burn you at the stake
or pry off your fingernails. Nor will it make you
bow or beg, rake your skin with thorns,
or buy gold leaf and stained-glass windows.
It won't insist you fast or twist
the shape of your sexual hunger.
There are no wars fought for it, no women stoned for it.
You don't have to veil your face for it
or bloody your knees.
You don't have to sing.

The plums that bloom extravagantly,
the dolphins that stitch sky to sea,
each pebble and fern, pond and fish
are yours whether or not you believe.

When fog is ripped away
just as a rust red thumb slides across the moon,
the god of atheists isn't rewarding you
for waking up in the middle of the night
and shivering barefoot in the field.

This god is not moved by the musk
of incense or bowls of oranges,
the mask brushed with cochineal,
polished rib of the lion.
Eat the macerated leaves
of the sacred plant. Dance
till the stars blur to a spangly river.
Rain, if it comes, will come.
This god loves the virus as much as the child.


_
* "Ode to the God of Atheists" was originally published by The Sun.


Ellen Bass's poetry books include The Human Line (Copper Canyon Press), named a Notable Book of 2007 by the San Francisco Chronicle and Mules of Love (BOA, 2002), which won the Lambda Literary Award. Her poems have been published in The Atlantic Monthly, The Kenyon Review, American Poetry Review and many other journals. Her non-fiction books include The Courage to Heal and Free Your Mind. She teaches in the MFA program at Pacific University and at conferences and retreats nationally and internationally. (http://www.ellenbass.com/)

Poetry by Tim Alexander |

ballad of a mad genius

i am told
the youngest person
to write a novel
was a boy of only four.
“the genius!”
they cried.
“what astonishing
clarity and precision
with which he must view the world!”

when he was five,
he loaded a gun
and emptied his head.
as it turns out,
they
were
right.