I stopped beside a pool reflecting on what it is inside me, this fear. This is the same pool where I lost my dog to the wild man at the bottom. And now, my golden ball, rolling freely at my side like a replacement dog, sits as still as a planet. I watch it as it watches me. And in the water I have no face.
The Return of the Agoraphobe
At night they came and removed it, my pale osseous framework. Made it difficult to maneuver, impossible to chase rabbits or the mysteries of the human heart. But mark me tonight: I am set on re-engaging. Their eyes are red lights on the horizon and I am on a quest. I worked for hours this morning to lift the shadow of my sword. Tomorrow the sword itself.
Corey Mesler: I have published prose and/or poetry in Rattle, StorySouth, Canopic Jar, Contrary, Pindeldyboz, Mars Hill Review, Pikeville Review, Arkansas Review, Stirring, Red River Review, Center, Small Press Review, Jabberwock Review, Orchid, Quick Fiction, Timber Creek Review, Green Egg, Poetry Motel, Raintown Review, Potomac Review, Poetry Super Highway, Big Muddy, Slant, Wilmington Blues, Drought, Rockhurst Review, Wavelength, Lilliput Review, Pearl, Aurorean, Lucid Moon, Heeltap, Sunny Outside, Fish Drum, Into the Teeth of the Wind, Mid-American Poetry Review, Independence Boulevard, Midday Moon, Turnrow, Now Here Nowhere, Dust, Cherotic Revolutionary, Cotyledon, Buckle &, Iodine, Snakeskin (England), Flashpoint, Freewheelin' (England), Pitchfork, Anthology, Poet Lore, Spillway, The Pegasus Review, Reverb, Kimera, Thema, Kumquat Meringue, Lonzie's Fried Chicken, Both Sides Now, Electric Acorn (Dublin), Razor Wire, Gin Bender, Blue Unicorn, Black Dirt, The Spirit that Moves Us, Wind, Red Rock Review, Art Times, Concrete Wolf, Memphis Magazine, Rhino, Visions International, others. I have a chapbook of poems, Piecework, from the Wing and a Wheel Press. I have work in the anthologies Full Court: A Literary Anthology of Basketball (Breakaway Books), Pocket Parenting Poetry Guide (Pudding Press), Intimate Kisses: The Poetry of Sexual Pleasure (New World Press) and Smashing Icons (Curious Rooms). I recently won the Moonfire Poetry Chapbook Competition and my chapbook, Chin-Chin in Eden, has just been published by Still Waters Press. One of my short stories was chosen for the 2002 edition of New Stories from the South: The Year's Best, edited by Shannon Ravenel. My novel-in-dialogue, Talk , was published by Livingston Press in 2002. Raves from Lee Smith, Robert Olen Butler, Steve Stern, Debra Spark, Suzanne Kingsbury, Frederick Barthelme and John Grisham. I've been a book reviewer (for The Commercial Appeal, BookPage, The Memphis Flyer), fiction editor (for Ion Books/raccoon), university press sales rep, grant committee judge (for The Oregon Arts Council), father and son. With my wife I own Burke's Book Store, one of the country's oldest (1875) and best independent bookstores. I have been suffering with agoraphobia, panic syndrome, social anxiety disease, for the past 6 years.
what he believed he knew what he knew was true, this for him pristine a church bell in a light snow layering metaphysics
once replete the contagious pact with reality reworked, the truth poser rang pealed the sanctity of doubt
with an immoral aroma of almost rain sat him down to one riddle at a time
The feeble written wit taps through the fog with an old man's cane, while the pompous elegant verse strides briskly past, seeking reality at the sidewalk's end.
… Silently surveying his gutter world the street urchin humbly wonders at the tense waves of cold damp grey such efforts bring the night.
Craig Kirchner: I live and work as a consultant on the east coast but consider myself a hobo of the universe. I write about what I know best and yet least - myself - in an effort to remove those labels.
Twisted images of man dancing in the gale white silk blown around and around
strange, this strange a kiss, a kiss a kitten barks animals explode
one limp horse so helpless and poor I try to help but it reaches nothing it fades away before my eyes
black to white lost in the snow these are disfigurements
Colin Van Der Woude: I was only 15 years old and less than a year after diagnosis I was writing this work, heavilly influenced by late nights and music of The Cure. I am currently a 27 year old from Hobart Tasmania, Australia who loves writing emotion down in notebooks.
This cement one sun or another has colored. The south wall of Saint
Cecelia's was to this color built. Winter is over. The wall is the same
every morning. Winter is over, the color is original. I photograph
debris and think it beautiful for it is grey. Color is morning.
Your travel one hand or another has driven. The stream of your wetness
was to this hand released. Barriers be through. The shudder is recalled
each morning apart. I photograph you bare for you will travel again apart;
for I think our hands beautiful in this winter that is over, in your wetness
that is new. Mine or your hand recall this to one in thought the other; for
the wetness released. Barriers be through for the sugar and the hand.
A man near death must tell his son "Go to labor your hands & build now a house; answer to not architecture, but bone of only your boy hands."
So a man has & I went the stone valley & saw all to burn that I may study resistance to wrath & for my home use the strongest ash as clay.
Imbalance of the river's casement dams in flood, a barb in the hand of an officer.
A blue mouth, white woman smoking on the east coast. Language of my foreign birth. Ein toter Soldat und sein Sohn. I have suddenly again become the man my father sought to raise.
It is like my dark hand again beside your face: here now
the sun is not where I am but it does not matter
what may here be seen:
my dark hand again beside                your face, a violet
in the window & the sun weak                on a brown house
Wife Poem: Text Fifteen
I will keep at your side if rooms are to fail, the ports submerge, the big guns manned blow into our home and level lanes & corner-                                            -stones shatter
I have by the barrel birthed fire, and there it will be I carry you for respite if your legs have buckled; there it will be I carry you, move in for warmth and keep at your side
the big guns steam                & hammer, the                gods skirt                further away.
Pedro Trevino-Ramirez is 19 years old and resides in Texas with his wife. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee and author of 'Origin's and Anonymity', an introspective chapbook published by Foothills Publishing. He is a monthly contributor to The Hold Magazine, a guest editor to MiPo, and his work is published or upcoming will be seen in the following: Cotyledon, Poesy, Tryst, Thunder Sandwich, Third Lung Review, Jack Magazine, Pilgrimage, Cokefish, Tamafyhr Mountain Poetry, Rock Salt Plum Review and Tin Lustre Mobile.
litmus test for liver: lie courage comes lily and yellow white feathers grace the headdresses of the chief accountant for the firm abdomen a section of a bug jackets yellow and tiger striped like the pants of prison inmates malfunctioning machine makes me mad don't drink and drive, my mother said said suspect slyly lies laughter of clowns always melancholic or alka-seltzer plop plop plop bird droppings on the bald man's pate- -ernoster prayed in genuflection like a real flexor muscle man lies and lifts weights in prison yard three feet under lying dead letter officials censor, cut before you deal the deck chairs too flimsy for the house a full one wins the hand- -yman prize for furnace installation art with yellow lilies painted
Millie Niss is from New York City, where she writes and does web design. She has had poetry and web art published in trAce (UK), Beehive, Sidereality, Milk Magazine, The Museum of the Essential and Beyond That (Brazil), The Buffalo News, Artvoice, Sudden Magazine, m.a.g., wordcircuits.com, Rhizome/hypperhiz, Furthetxt.org (UK), wordcircuits.com, bannerart.org, etc. Her web site is www.sporkworld.org
To: "M.K" From: email@example.com Subject: Re: my new-Attachments:
it's nice to be virtual again.. missed life somewhere.. well, not life, the image.. the one that's in time with the other lifetime that will never recover... oh well, it's not that bad ... there's hot and cold running water and a candle..
forever on a stick
To: firstname.lastname@example.org > From: "M.K" Subject: Re: your old attachments:
that's right left without a moment's notice or a catalogue to the show. how was it you expected me to follow the seed trail without the seeds? take care
mk don't think of it
To: "M.K" < email@example.com > From: firstname.lastname@example.org Subject: Re: my relapses:
you came in garbled, kind of smooth to the surface, but I could tell the real from the fake. and that's right I hit the skids again following a form oeuvre . . . there is more to tell, but I lost my metaheart in lala land.
love forever non-stick
buy a car quick, need to get a minimal cost plus am radio @ gateway to statistics
To: email@example.com > From: "M.K" Subject: Re: you paste or add on item
dear almost over
as I stated in our last Do Not Resuscitate, prepared for the worst, since you know... once one knows no one knows who I am, I can be that something happened once again, with new favors and big hitters. so I welcome you to the party with all the battery powered widgets, including all the Portable Wireless Peripherals you can stomach
mk I have the road map bite hard soon
To: "M.K" From: firstname.lastname@example.org Subject: Re: my compulsion is too hard:
frankly I wind up and fall down, I think it was a lie . . . with cards and PARADIGMS A banal through and through as runny as you know what . . . but every time I think, I crave the other side and a slow low return image.
as you remember me.
ps. this is it. I have hit the pavement.
kari edwards is author of iduna, O Books (2003) and a day in the life of p. , subpress collective (2002). edwards' work can also be found in Scribner's The Best American Poetry 2004 (fall, 2004), Aufgabe, Mirage/Period(ical), Van Gogh's Ear, Call, Fulcrum: an annual of poetry and aesthetics, and Pom2.