the sky is falling    well, maybe not but everything looks    underwater and these are my    good shoes i need time    to think the phone keeps    ringing & i know it's about bills    or some big mistake on the government forms    how many ways can you define    need anyway?    so, i'm in the dictionary scrawling margins with questions    they say there is a time    in everyone 's life    when the question starts being as important    as the answer it seems false    that prayer should have gone    this far unanswered    i'm terrified of predictions    and riddles that end    with my leaving    unsolved perhaps, these notions    are unjustified but    they make the skin jitter    in time with the lightening    and my blood    is full of house sparrows    all darting on cue    in the same direction
How Public Like A Frog
it comes down to this i make lists to convince myself it's time to buy land i am not a first day fraud i don't need a morning smoke debt was worth it in my renegotiated role of education i should relocate since saints often get cancer and need to be fed ice chips in this Andrew Wyeth field i stare at silhouettes of crows homesick with these muted colors across acres of farmland
Candy from Strangers
too early for murder when the van
picks you up the very air accumulates
morning energy in the alarm clock ring
free from the moorings the villainy
the village the weird night time occurrences
back to the script polka-dotted with Maxwell
House stains & breakfast meat grease
these things don't sit well with me at thirty
like tequila and garden pizza have ecstatic
effects i hear as the happy man dances
with his hammock before the rooftops at the party
he throws for the voice of the people
Tim Martin is a writer from Bryn Mawr, PA. His plays Once Upon A River, and Tales From Turtle Island have been produced by the Hedgerow Theatre and One's Self I Sing was recently given a reading. His poetry has been seen in In Words, Autumn Leaves, Orange/Blowmoney 2 and other small magazines. He is the founder of King of Mice Press and a member of the Curio Theatre Company and the Big Mind Collective.
cecil taylor trio @ castle clinton - 7/29/04 ( for (e) shadow )
tell this   dy /// nam   is mos useless blues & pinks                 in mentus this is daylight when we most need it when there is no day left this is river in a shadow shadow against an even/ing when tree become sky
no mental can the shadows stay this silent for so>long    the bricks that never saw the war they fought for
it is a yellow in the eye                 useless magenta that crosses our lives
the sun is behind me the sun                           it heats my neck
dy na mis mos    contrarios                           one immigrant says to another                      i passed thru here                           (too)
vialavitsef    feast    & live                      tale tail's tale      to taste                 aventus      creatus rowldtercompat
the act of natural act of..................                                     i've come thru here too                                     the shadows never move              the trees & sky are one              glass & stone & steel a blding make              fingers make things happen one immigrant says to another              glass stone & steel              are the building blocks of this world
trader trapped inside the gullum is a wink    the paper asleep i crumble                  in uniform your day begins      like this:      shadows never move                  sun behind your back                  useless magenta                  bricks that tell a tale                  fingers make things happen
running spotlights cannot function before the nite arrives it is really not the clock that determines transition that crosses our lives one immigrant says to another                  it is when the sun crosses our backs like a river          a festival a world -
sonic      tellin      panic                  when the light that was created              becomes the light that was invented          a bet earned      a wise trade      a gorge traversed
2(      money      is the (M) angle          we will not be fed by sunlight    a    loan              even now as evening turns    snurt the concessions          no time for this/that      it's obligat(o)ion 0bliGate                  it's now dark it feels
one immigrant says to another feel my neck it passed this way this is no joke          privitize my sacrament it's cool now      hands on          it's cool now              the useless magenta adds to the piano's song                  this world was built by hands                  tree & sky no longer touch                  the shadows have become a river                      that does not flow                      brick is what i call your face                                  i remain attached to my allegiance                                  tea is a drink for two (3)                                          this shifting desire is a wedge                                                  between the clock & the hrs clamusin          tourista          raditsula          bo          ard
such useless appendages these hands              against the unmanacled day.
i am possessed i definitely know now that i am possessed by my/ self
we all have to pay eventually for being on the guest-list if i weren't here i'd have the tor- ment of being some/where else even the dessert isn't any good the water is about the only thing worth tasting
i know now that i am possessed posed poised posssed perferated a stones' throw away from a stone ('s)
they took it down they blew it up they took it down they blew it up
Steven Dalachinsky: my name is steven dalachinsky i am a poet among other things who has lived in ny my entire life i have been battling mental illness for lack of a better term most of my life tho most find this hard to believe. i was hospitalized when young and put thru the ringer in many ways
I found a terrible wound in the street. It looked like a pothole, overflowing with blood. Everyone stepped carefully around it. I picked up the wound and brought it to the hospital, but there wasn't anything they could do. "It's a bad wound," the doctor said. "But it doesn't seem to be hurting anyone." I left the hospital, holding the wound, not sure what to do with it. There was blood all over my hands and clothes. The wound quivered and trembled. It squirmed like a jellyfish and was difficult to hold onto. I threw it back onto the street where it bled and ached without hurting anyone.
Jason Heroux lives in Kingston, Ontario, Canada. He worked in a fast food restaurant for ten years, and currently works as a civil servant. His first poetry collection "Memoirs Of An Alias" will be published by The Mansfield Press later this year.
Every Sunday somebody... or someone sends me guiding light every minute so it seems the duration of happiness is hard to seem dear to break it from my mind Oneday. Soon. I will find who does this with pleasure.
Paths shall always meet today I thought I saw you - sitting alone, on a seat.
Of course I remember you - it's a glittering reversal of how I didn't know you Touched that sensual memory you placed it back in my mind not many could do, only less than a few
How we first met? I was ashamed to forget but you somehow noticed and changed the path.
Standing, oh walking I say! you asked me something that added to a word - may?
fascinated, you were, don't lie; how else could you remember - or is it that I'm an ugly guy? You worked with your third eye bring it back! why?
"Keep quiet!" said the saint "Or, I won't let you stay!" Look at my face - "Forget the past!" he said a video to watch so lost, but again the girl the one with the imaginary gnome It was real but nothing is real never is never will be and never has been 'real' just a silly word to me and her tell the truth I hear the positivity all around go home - keep secrets?
The guitar will begin to play... by itself in a strange way dancing, jumping all around "My feet never hit the ground?" where did I remember? probably that innocent September before the October when everything began to fall over
Reggae is sweet and uplifting it is playing while I write Nineteen Eighty Five seven eleven the special time it always use to show
Call this eccentric or crazy or weird but the backward clothing is being worn only by YOU open those EYES SPEAK OUT.
Cleaning up. Speaking my sub-conscious the leaf was sweet while others had a bite to the already distorted flavour Babylon changed its ways never would I know - I just speak the seeds I always sow
Decision - unknown to my eyes? roads lead everywhere you don't have to see them but there is always a path, sometimes many, narrow some may seem, others are uphill but you always reach the end.
Prolific, not what I would say! If you have the special feeling spend what may take a day.
look back on the work it may surprise and so much it may feel a lie.
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.
Poem about an angel          Strolling down a street                  Hearing each of the inner voices                          That passes.
Like Stewart in "Rear Window" - Crippled, he enjoys sitting At the back window of his apartment Watching all those aquariums of lives.
Honeycomb - we're feeding                  At a nest of light, inside          A cathedral - stained glass yellow                          Of the goddess of grain                          Streams off your face                  You swim to me on water light . . . . .
"you must be in a very good mood, everything is perfect" - white tree
Yes, White Tree, Everything is perfect, Both the heft of her hips And her disregard for the colossally Vulgar. It's as if she was sent
To rearrange My estimates Of myself. Here in Indiana, where the whole Saturday Has been overcast except for a few brief glimpses -
You can trust her. She's Real. It is impossible To play hound dog upon this Field.
She smiles a lot, A cracked, stoned smile - like Kate Hudson, yeah,
Kinda like that          buttercups
Lit up her chin when she smiled
So, the Koi fish may live to be 300 years old. If I were a koi swimming in the same pond
for 300 years, I'd fight when death came. The owners would think they were scooping
a bowling ball out of the water if they tried to fish me out, I'd mess with them by flapping
my fins, waggling my fish tail and pretending I still had air in my gills. When they finally
maneuvered me into the net, I'd pucker up my fish lips and blow them bubble kisses.
Jenni in the grass
We met at a hotel outside of Austin. It was hot truckblown dust swirling up from the highway.
her eyes blinked sharply blue I felt emptiness in my stomach. She was too good
I spoke like real tentative . About bullshit metaphysics then clutched inside . I need a drink I said
wandering back out where I had been sitting before the deserted motel pool, on a lawn chair reading Heraclitus. She sat on the next chair over. "Can I have a sip of that?" I handed her
my bottle of Old Crow. Ummmmm she said she arched her throat back a little bit to drink it. Fuck I thought
what does Heraclitus have to say about this
I flipped to a random page:
"If you do not expect the unexpected, you will not find it; for it is hard to be sought out and difficult."
Hmmmm. I said "It's really nice out here. I have not yet solved the problems of life or death. I have not been able to put to rest the questions either. My life is a continuous burning. Whatever I write is like scorch marks."
She said, "let's go on a walk."
I followed her with my bottle as she walked past the front entrance of the motel past downtown Austin out into the scrub land past purple scorpions past the landfill wheeling with seagulls until we got to a place where the bottom of the sky - a large tarp of canvas painted black with dots of white - shuddered against the rim of the earth where it was latched by a metal hook. She leaned down to it. "Dare me to unhook this?" She said. Before I could answer, she did
I woke up alone in the motel room. The bottle was knocked over near the TV, empty. No smokes either. Well.
In my mind, I tried to recall what happened after she unlatched the hook.
What I saw was a field of flames, the moments running by slower and slower, the tint of the flames being adjusted, scaled over slowly from red to redpurple to purple to purpleblue to blue to bluegreen to green the time freezing
also, the angels were being painted over till they were people