82. Respiratory System—a poem by Pikthall

as 

a precursor

a people

chamber the clefts

the apertures

the walls of

young gills

the primitive form

decomposed or burned

an unweaned child

taken into the lungs

then expelled

as man

_
Pikthall is a writer and the Editor of Imperative Papers. 

dominoes —a poem by Justin Hyde

i sent the lesbian

flowers

& the married woman

& the newly unmarried woman

& the dipsomaniac

the nymphomaniac 

the apiarist

with eleven toes

& the abacus

with raven blue eyes

& double-d tits

i sent flowers

to the mail carrier with a lisp

& ripped jeans

the beautiful

magazine intern

whose fiancé

was a law student at creighton

the bowling ball

who bought everything on credit

& told me

she liked men with long hair

i sent flowers to the woman

old enough to by my mother

who kept pill bottles

with names like risperidal

trazodone & seroquel

at the foot of her bed

like a moat

i sent another lesbian

flowers

a nascent widow

two more married women

& a hazel-eyed girl

with a kitten jaw

who'd already given her heart

to christ

the more

unavailable they are

the harder

i fall.

_

Justin Hyde is a poet and Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal. He is the former Poetry Editor of Thieves Jargon and the author of the chapbooks Down Where the Hummingbird Goes to Die (2008) and Another Casualty at the 34th St. Bus Stop (2009). His last collection of poems is An Elephant Hole (2014, Interior Noise Press). He lives in Iowa and works with criminals. 

the bow legged hispanic man —a poem by Justin Hyde

parks his big red truck
in front of my neighbor's house.

i've talked to him
but he's set in his ways,
my neighbor barb sighs
glass of riesling in hand.

he must hear something
because he's started alternating:

her house
my house
and the guy one down.

it's the only time
i see
or talk to him.

says he was a cop
twenty-years

parole officer for fifteen
before that.

i get two pensions,
he smiles broadly
swinging those bowed legs
like hinges.

sometimes
he swivels down the road
holding a young grandson's hand

don corleone
in the garden scene.

mostly
it's just that big red truck

quiet in the background

like a neighborhood tree.


_

Justin Hyde is a poet and Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal. He is the former Poetry Editor of Thieves Jargon and the author of the chapbooks Down Where the Hummingbird Goes to Die (2008) and Another Casualty at the 34th St. Bus Stop (2009). His last collection of poems is An Elephant Hole (2014, Interior Noise Press). He lives in Iowa and works with criminals. 

memories like jacks across the floor — a poem by Justin Hyde

that evening
after chemo
her headache came.

i drove us
through the
eastern iowa hills

her head
in my lap,
hot with fever,
mumbling fever dreams.

i drove
up and down gravel roads,
dead ends,
farmers' driveways,
almost into the
black lip of a lake.

the low gas light
flashed,
we barely limped into williamsburg
to refuel.

i drove
and drove
until my back
locked up

the only prayer
to release it

was reciting the alphabet
backward over
and over

until a purple sun
up from the rolling east
baked her out of the fever dream.

she peed
behind a barn

and kissed my shoulder

with cracked
red lips.

_

Justin Hyde is a poet and Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal. He is the former Poetry Editor of Thieves Jargon and the author of the chapbooks Down Where the Hummingbird Goes to Die (2008) and Another Casualty at the 34th St. Bus Stop (2009). His last collection of poems is An Elephant Hole (2014, Interior Noise Press). He lives in Iowa and works with criminals. 

bud —a poem by Justin Hyde

fistulated
is the scientific term.
a fistulated cow
with a big rubber plug in the side of his gut.
vet students pulled the plug out
to study his intestines.
a small slate-board
at the top of his pen read 'bud',
that's what we called him,
we latchkey kids from the abutting trailer park
ran motley through the vet school.
we fed him sugar cubes from the trailer park laundry mat
his big purple tongue leaving our hands
covered in white thick mucous
we'd wipe off on our jeans
or each other’s faces as a joke.
it was jay,
righteous bipolar jay,
stoked our sense of pirate justice. we all agreed,
bud should roam free in the woods south of the vet school.
gabe took lookout.  i opened the pen.
bud followed jay's fist full of sugar cubes
slimy purple tongue leading the way.
jay flung the cubes toward the woods.
bud trotted out there
into the wide green slant,
getting as far as the drainage hole. then
he was down in it. moaning
in a tone vibrating our knees up into our throats.
it also brought vet students.
two. then six.
they had ropes. boards. harnesses.
someone backed a pickup to the drainage hole.
then the old asian doctor
who often chased us out of the vet school
came calmly in blue scrubs.
he cocked his head,
held his arm out like a pitchfork;
& fired one shot.


_

Justin Hyde is a poet and Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal. He is the former Poetry Editor of Thieves Jargon and the author of the chapbooks Down Where the Hummingbird Goes to Die (2008) and Another Casualty at the 34th St. Bus Stop (2009). His last collection of poems is An Elephant Hole (2014, Interior Noise Press). He lives in Iowa and works with criminals. 

my first night as a co at the halfway house —a poem by Justin Hyde

it's curfew
& adams won't get off the phone.
there's a bank of six of them to the left of the control desk.
i call over to him: sir it's curfew you need to end your call.
he ignores me.
i say it a little louder.
more of the same.
hey man i told you get off the phone!
i put my pancreas & liver into it.
he just coils tighter into the receiver.
my partner warren
an old boy from louisiana
who wears snakeskin boots
puts his hand on my shoulder.
with his other hand
he flips a little toggle switch
that cuts power to the phones.
bullshit! adams yells
slamming the receiver down.
that's some bogus shit!
as he slaps his hand
on the control desk warren
reaches his finger up to a red button
that will bring a german shepherd
& an officer with a 9mm from across the street.
you ain't worth it,
adams says slinking backward to his room down the hall.
that's how you get shit done, warren says.
he whets his thumb across his tongue
& runs it in a clean line
down his snakeskin boot.


_

Justin Hyde is a poet and Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal. He is the former Poetry Editor of Thieves Jargon and the author of the chapbooks Down Where the Hummingbird Goes to Die (2008) and Another Casualty at the 34th St. Bus Stop (2009). His last collection of poems is An Elephant Hole (2014, Interior Noise Press). He lives in Iowa and works with criminals. 

in kathmandu —a poem by Justin Hyde

if your skin is white
hordes of brown children
swarm around you
hawking trinkets

'no hablo ingles'
i learned to say
pretty quickly
moving them
to the next white skin

but an older boy
selling silk scarves
for two hundred rupees
didn't miss a beat

replying
in fluent spanish

i waved him off
getting up into a rickshaw

he stood there
in my periphery
speaking beautiful spanish
fluttering a scarf
against the tip of my nose

he'd called my bluff
i should have bought the damn thing
on principal

but i'm a hyde man
by way of missouri

when we turn our hearts off
we can stonewall the nails
off our own toes

the rickshaw driver
swatted him away

hopped up on his bicycle seat

and pedaled us off
on the tiniest
impossible
legs.

_

Justin Hyde is a poet and Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal. He is the former Poetry Editor of Thieves Jargon and the author of the chapbooks Down Where the Hummingbird Goes to Die (2008) and Another Casualty at the 34th St. Bus Stop (2009). His last collection of poems is An Elephant Hole (2014, Interior Noise Press). He lives in Iowa and works with criminals. 

Vygotsky's Russian 1915-23 —a poem by Pikthall

the tragedy of joy

will be published

in the lights

a poem on 

private archives 

the process

multiple

_
Pikthall is a writer and the Editor of Imperative Papers. 

Proof —a poem by Dennis Paul Wilken

Life is not fair
The prettiest girls
Have the whitest teeth
And the taller a man is
The longer he usually lives
Bangladesh is always
Under water while
The casinos in Monaco
Seldom ever have
A hard rain;
It's obvious
If there is a God
He or she is
A front runner who
Always plays the favorite

_
"Proof" is excerpted from Wilken's impending untitled book of poetry (2017-18).

Dennis Paul Wilken is a prolific poet, sketch-artist, veteran journalist and Senior Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal. He studied at the University of Cincinnati and is a former Staff Writer for Cincinnati Magazine. His poem "Outcomes" was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2011. His first chapbook is called Sweat Off the Diamond (2009). His recent chapbook Poetry Factory (2017) is forthcoming from Imperative Papers.

I'm On the Bus —a poem by Dennis Paul Wilken

So many folks today carrying cell phones

To augment the ones at home

Me, a single phone MORE than enough

The jarring ring always

Interrupting thoughts, fantasies and schemes. 

Now, the added burden 

Of all your cell phones -

"I'm on the bus. I'll be home in five minutes. Love you too."

Around they go

Clutching the noisy little machines 

Scientists are saying 

Will eventually eat a 

Big cancerous hole

In their cluttered little heads:

All those mundane voices

At their fingertips

Squarely in the center of

Emptier and Emptier worlds

"I'm on the bus.

Love you, if you love me."

_
"I'm On the Bus" is excerpted from Wilken's Sweat Off the Diamond (2009).

Dennis Paul Wilken is a prolific poet, sketch-artist, veteran journalist and Senior Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal. He studied at the University of Cincinnati and is a former Staff Writer for Cincinnati Magazine. His poem "Outcomes" was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2011. His first chapbook is called Sweat Off the Diamond (2009). His recent chapbook Poetry Factory (2017) is forthcoming from Imperative Papers.

Cautiously Optimistic —a poem by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

I approach with caution.
I rather be elsewhere.
I walk through the door
and up the elevator and
walk to the cubicle of death.

I am cautiously optimistic
that things will get better.
They are just getting worse.
The grass is greener across
the street because there is

not a patch of grass in here.
I approach with caution
when I cross the street and head
to the park to clear my thoughts.


_

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal is a poet and long-time Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal. His poems in English and Spanish have appeared in many online and print journals. His first book of poetry, Raw Materials (2004) was published by Pygmy Forest Press.  His latest chapbook, Make the Light Mine (2016) was published by Kendra Steiner Editions. Luis was born in Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mexico, works in the mental health field and lives in Los Angeles CA.

Go Home and Take Care of Yourself —a poem by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Go home and take care
of yourself.  This is what
a co-worker told me
on the elevator as we
we headed down and
out of the office.  It is
the wisest thing I have
heard in years.  It made
the long day better.
It gave me hope and
advice to take care of
the person that should
be the most important
person, myself.  If we
do not take care of
ourselves, who will?
Work will suck the life
out of you and some
co-workers will do the same.
Not all of them have
the presence of mind
to give you sound advice.
Go home and take care
of yourself.  I like that.


_

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal is a poet and long-time Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal. His poems in English and Spanish have appeared in many online and print journals. His first book of poetry, Raw Materials (2004) was published by Pygmy Forest Press.  His latest chapbook, Make the Light Mine (2016) was published by Kendra Steiner Editions. Luis was born in Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mexico, works in the mental health field and lives in Los Angeles CA.

Life Eats Life— poetry by Pikthall

'Roots Traverse' - Digital Photograph (2016)

Roots traverse
The water table and the sky
Life eats life
Survival and violence
Grafted here in copulation
Convexed in a condition
Of pure exhibition 







_
Pikthall is a writer and the Editor of Imperative Papers. 

Belated Elegy for a Tough Jew —a poem by Howie Good

Belated Elegy for a Tough Jew

If it were now,
you would’ve gone
to the police,

but there were
no laws then,

just this guy
in a leather jacket,

and when you
wore that,

nothing bad
could happen
to you.

_
Howie Good is a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, the author of five poetry collections, and a Contributing Editor for The Commonline Journal. His most recent book is Cryptic Endearments from Knives Forks & Spoons Press. Other books include Elephant Gun from Dog on a Chain Press, Strange Roads from Puddles of Sky Press, and Death of Me from Pig Ear Press. His poetry has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net anthology. Access his blog Apocalypse Mambo.

Neither Sun nor Death —prose poetry by Howie Good

Neither Sun nor Death

They are beating the cars with metal bats. I think, “Am I supposed to be here?” That thing is on fire in a big way. I don’t get outside as much anymore. An illegal string offset “echo” has disappeared into the archive, to be handled by only people who wear white cotton gloves. I’m left to just cry. You need to be careful in interpreting that. Every day I confront the same choice: stay inside or perish. Somebody grabs Suzanne’s hair and twists her neck. We make eye contact. I know tulips aren’t spelled two lips.

_
Howie Good is a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, the author of five poetry collections, and a Contributing Editor for The Commonline Journal. His most recent book is Cryptic Endearments from Knives Forks & Spoons Press. Other books include Elephant Gun from Dog on a Chain Press, Strange Roads from Puddles of Sky Press, and Death of Me from Pig Ear Press. His poetry has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net anthology. Access his blog Apocalypse Mambo.

I Dream of Loving —a poem by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

I DREAM OF LOVING

I fix myself a drink.
I don’t bring roses.
I set them ablaze.
I lay in bed all day.

I dream of loving
those that are kind to
me. I let my mind go
wandering down the road.

I get struck by stars as
I leave the earth and
float high in the sky.

The bright lights blind me.
I fall from the heavens.
I shine as I go down.


_

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal is a poet and Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal. His poems in English and Spanish have appeared in many online and print journals. His first book of poetry, Raw Materials (2004) was published by Pygmy Forest Press.  His latest chapbook, Make the Light Mine (2016) was published by Kendra Steiner Editions. Luis was born in Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mexico, works in the mental health field and lives in Los Angeles CA.

AN OLD SUIT — a poem by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

AN OLD SUIT

I wear an old suit that
would not inspire envy.
It does not pretend to
be more than it is.

This old suit fits me well.
My worn shoes need new
soles. They would not mind
if a bandit absconds with them.

I know who I am.
I know where I want to go.
I am without ambition.
I’m just living this life
as fierce as it could be.
I toast to the time I have left.

_

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal is a poet and Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal. His poems in English and Spanish have appeared in many online and print journals. His first book of poetry, Raw Materials (2004) was published by Pygmy Forest Press.  His latest chapbook, Make the Light Mine (2016) was published by Kendra Steiner Editions. Luis was born in Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mexico, works in the mental health field and lives in Los Angeles CA.

NATURE — a poem by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

NATURE

The moment you pound your chest
the plants laugh at fake toughness.
No one is as tough as nature. It is
nature that always remains alive.

Nature can make a man seem small
as a boy if it so desired to do so.
Puddles could turn to pools and
have you struggling for breath.

So, take the time to praise the trees.
Take a walk along the orchard and
touch the trunk of every tree. Take
a lemon home and taste its flavor.

Don't think yourself better than
nature. Admire the birds that sing.
Watch them fly in the vast sky.
The rain that falls is real. Gather

the tender leaves on the grass.
Feel the fresh air on your face.
It is nature's kiss. Feel the wind
with your head sticking out the

window. Catch the rain with your
open mouth. The sweet scent of
fruit fills your nostrils and palate.
Nature is the miracle of miracles.



_

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal is a poet and Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal. His poems in English and Spanish have appeared in many online and print journals. His first book of poetry, Raw Materials (2004) was published by Pygmy Forest Press.  His latest chapbook, Make the Light Mine (2016) was published by Kendra Steiner Editions. Luis was born in Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mexico, works in the mental health field and lives in Los Angeles CA.

THE OTHER WORLD — a poem by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

THE OTHER WORLD

In seclusion,
you talk to your travel agent
about your desire
to leave this place
and this world all together.

You know you don’t
plan to stay here much longer.
You know you don’t want
to live in the streets
or in a place like this one.

In restraints, you
can’t even scratch your itch.
You tell your travel
agent to make plans
to take you to the other world.

In seclusion,
the hospital medicates you.
Their goal is to kill
your travel agent and
your dreams of traveling

to the other world.
Soon you will be out of here.
You will settle for
a normal life that
you never wanted or asked for.



_

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal is a poet and Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal. His poems in English and Spanish have appeared in many online and print journals. His first book of poetry, Raw Materials (2004) was published by Pygmy Forest Press.  His latest chapbook, Make the Light Mine (2016) was published by Kendra Steiner Editions. Luis was born in Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mexico, works in the mental health field and lives in Los Angeles CA.

anatomy — poetry by Justin Hyde

anatomy

he doesn't drink for two paychecks
slides a hundred dollar bill onto the table
says baby
what you want to do for your birthday?

she wants simple
a nice dinner

you got it baby
he's prepared
a gentleman
done everything right

that morning
she's changed her mind
wants to go roller-skating
or bowling instead

no baby
he rolls over in bed
we agreed on dinner
that's the plan
i don't want to go bowling or roller-skating
we agreed on dinner
i'm ready for that

she goes into the living room
phones her mom
then her sister

back to the bedroom
she tells him
get out of her house
nothing new --

he says ok
but i'm going to get some condoms
out of the closet
if you won't let me be the man of this house
i'm going to be the man at another house --
same old trope

she slams his hand
in the closet door
blood pools at the knuckles
down onto his sweatpants

he grabs the blade
off the dresser

slashes
her cheek

her forehead

the cord
of every electric appliance
in the house.



_

Justin Hyde is a poet and Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal. He is the former Poetry Editor of Thieves Jargon and the author of the chapbooks Down Where the Hummingbird Goes to Die (2008) and Another Casualty at the 34th St. Bus Stop (2009). His last collection of poems is An Elephant Hole (2014, Interior Noise Press). He lives in Iowa and works with criminals.