Thursday, November 02, 2006

Issue 21

Michael P. Workman

Price's Tomb

i know i am a villain now (i come from a country hill)
when i used to think
arriving everywhere let us say ilona carlon-plitt's house
or elizabeth de la rosa
wet-thighed bruhas
believing myself to be containable against open stretches of summer
but lost
always i remember stealing her old david bowie CDs
while her mother and her picked spinach and rhubarb down outside
cutting my wrist on the broken plastic and rubbing the blood on her
young breasts
later at my dad's house (that was in 96? on the mileground as it was called i also stole bikes and the emblems of cars
as there were at least 6 or 7 used car lots)
i loved her but she was cruel and later i was cruel
as she did not love me

she showed me the flowers she stole from dorsey avenue graveyard
the rain made it smell good there
it lit up the honeysuckle and the wet earth smelled good
and oddly familiar like the smell of any book
we fed each other tulip petals
on top of Price's tomb
and the rain kept coming and she talked about the different pills she had eaten once in Pittsburgh
with some other boy who i hated at once

and then i gave a prophecy, to myself only, petalmeat on my face:

"she will haunt that graveyard better than any ghost
we will find her dress beneath the old virgin statue
and wonder if that woman died a virgin"

but i haven't been back to the graveyard yet so i don't know.
i doubt i'll ever go.
her hispanic/irish lips aren't blowing like tumbleweed there;
her underwear won't whistle in that wet dark.
and Price was always a dead bore.

Adrienne's Arch

Is there anything more than this, Adrienne?

If day is piled on day
and even carefully plotted
one day removed at a time
Adrienne, could it collapse the whole arch?

The ferrydiddles chatter in Whitmoore Park even as
their cheeks bulge--
like Botticelli breasts--
and retreat down the fronded gully
towards the reticent birch,

prolonging its
extension towards the sun.
Priapic and sprawled like a whorehouse joke,
and the bark always peeling, always peeling,
like the cooking girls who must have wept
at Birkenau
(from the onions).

"Raus, little muskrat:
and the pike seized the wretched stoat."
Adrienne, your golden legs unshaven,
Adrienne, all singing of a goat.

You got away once down Decker's Creek
like a flooded rainbow trout.
The slag and greenglass cutting your toesies.
You got away I didn't know what about.
I was stumped, I just listened to music.

Adrienne tell me, where this wall is going?
Adrienne tell me, why the Reich is falling?

You were Vichy but Roman and tall.
I remember some mumbling, that's all.

Verking on the miletowers.
Milles borne, I fucked your cousin at the tip of the Po,
but you hardly see a lady round here.
We are doing this for the arrogant tits of Roma,
her dugs tumored, as the piebald limestone
is quarried.

"Raus, Verkman, use both hands!"
I remember my name is an honest one.

But I am just here for the Mithril.
So don't cock your Corsican pistol.

My men today would rape you in Calabria,
but let you live.
Stuff you in the boot of a Volkswagen,
huff the fumes,
be us a sybil.

I guarded the hill by the Rhine.
My eyes were an oily black
like Pennsylvanian coal.
You came back tanned, having
fucked every man in Naples,
gargling cum like the head of Orpheus
drowning in the rhythms of the water
as his body bobbed by the dykes.
He took you justly and his wisdom
storms you now.
He shares the river with your aborted roe.

Adrienne, by gosh, where does the next stone go?
Adrienne, by nelly, how far do these fablers throw?

Moses, smell the roses, and tell us by your nose--
How crooked is this ambling arch that grows?
Mothers of mother mary, who shooketh the sea?

At the meeting outside the temple, you serve me green tea.
Men ask after your ethnicity, hazarding Italian,
begging glances.
One day at a time?
I finger a red pebble as you ramble
At the ex-coke head and gambler
With a scorpion tattoo on his foot.
I pull the wrong day, from a series of days,
And sun falls back in the dirt.

When I'm back from hell,
My prettiest bell,
I will wipe my nose on your skirt.

what's happening?

i am streamlined but boxy with a shaven head and black square geek frames.
i don't feel anything yet.
when will i like people in a quiet way?
i'd hate to die.

i don't feel nothing but yawns.
i stay still as i do it.
afterwards i tremble a little.
these are connections.

a lot of people must have done a lot of things.
think about it.
thing about it is:
it's history.

i never wanted to stop doing anything.
not even the ones that hurt.
i've been around this town for too long.
around the buildings and roads.
time limits.

i had a prognosis:
do things, it will not seem like forever.
close your eyes at night.
work your holes.

fought some kind of battle.
they all come out the same way.
drink this, cure the cough.
cough it up.
see what happens.

Michael P. Workman was born and raised in Morgantown, West Virginia. He writes sporadically and has been published not recently on other e-zines, such as Duct Tape Press. He hopes that his writings, taken together, will some day exhibit a very full range of sometimes extreme, but always human, experience and emotion. He posts at Salty Dreams Poetry Forums.

Michael P. Workman Lois Marie Harrod Joel Fry Steve Dalachinsky Aldo Tambellini Charles Frederickson Stan Dunn

Lois Marie Harrod

Depression's Sonnet

No matter that the moony gourd of night
has spilled black wine into the stars,
by morning the sun will wipe it up
and the sky will come clean again as a sheet.

This is not the easy comfort I give to children
but to the dark liquid itself as it pours over me,
wait until morning, the body will find its rag
to mop the spill, the reddest wine returns to water.

But, no, this is no miracle I can guarantee
even to myself nor can I explain
the way time has become distorted,

my night lasting most of the day and the day
passing like the slipper of a small star,
I know how darkly I could die.

Lois Marie Harrod's chapbook Put Your Sorry Side Out was published by Concrete Wolf in 2005, and she won a 2003 fellowship, her third, from the New Jersey Council on the Arts for her poetry. Her sixth book of poetry Spelling the World Backward (2000) was published by Palanquin Press, University of South Carolina Aiken, which also published her chapbook This Is a Story You Already Know (l999) and her book Part of the Deeper Sea (l997). Her poems have appeared in many journals, among them American Poetry Review, The Carolina Quarterly, Southern Poetry Review, American Pen, Prairie Schooner, The Literary Review, Zone 3, Green Mountains Review. Her earlier publications include the books Every Twinge a Verdict (Belle Mead Press, l987), Crazy Alice (Belle Mead Press, l991) and a chapbook Green Snake Riding (New Spirit Press, l994).

Michael P. Workman Lois Marie Harrod Joel Fry Steve Dalachinsky Aldo Tambellini Charles Frederickson Stan Dunn

Joel Fry


Come to me now
while sunlight pillows
a black-turned field.
Earth's slow simmer
is summer blood mixing,
you and I
shoulder to shoulder.

Hard crusts
and leaf rims
with every step.

And the creek,
listening with sharp ears,
turns new
on silver sides.


For today, I live in the legend
of the present, past rows of hedgerows
and houses deep in flowers and gardens deep
in spring in the reach of all unknown
that is whispered into the earth.

I live alone for now,
still waiting in the room
but not for a call.

A woman moves past me.
In traffic she is my friend.
When I kiss her hand I have
known her.

When she wakes me up
at night I expect her.
When she hands me
our son after son,
the long line stretches
past war and death,
through plane flights
to Nashville and Christchurch.

I am almost her.
She waits for me to come home.

Joel Fry: I live in Athens, Alabama, and I work as a mental health worker in Decatur, Alabama. In my work I try to improve the lives of the mentally ill and mentally retarded. I have had work published in the Melic Review, Stirring and Eclectica.

Michael P. Workman Lois Marie Harrod Joel Fry Steve Dalachinsky Aldo Tambellini Charles Frederickson Stan Dunn

Steve Dalachinsky

blood blossoms ( with a nod to John Ford's Perkin Warbeck )

i am a man without parents
an orphan
a stone stoppeth in my bladder
pink-flecked against pink tiles
a huge spider
i brush my teeth
rain slowed
mist breathing
absorbed by mts.
dream an affliction
as bad as money
as passionate as the kinsmen that
beshrew me
with their (objective invectives)
i am struck by abject lowness
must try to unlearn myself
again & finally
i feel like stitched preferment
a pledge of truths
a pith of contradictions
& henceforth a princess
NAY of blood
no pawns
untainted & drawn upon
take my head, kind sir
whilst my tongue can still wag
tis fit
i overpass in silence
the rain begins to pile upon itself
i am struck by prerogatives & stragglers
rogueships & familiarity do not come cheap
sentiment ever cease pithy imposture
screwed to distraction, persecution & torment
i commend thee to importunity reprieved
t' endangerment the harness & digest derision &
blood blossoms from my eye-lets
my skin punched full of
i live mutt'ring creeps
let me die in this lousy hole of hunger
i blow on the spider
it animates & scurries into a corner
feeling unseen
pink on pink wall
i feel contrary concealment
a studious thief of candor
such another treasure the earth is bankrout of
i owe a fee of thankfulness to destiny
& oratory
to intolerable cruelty
& death
most of all to death
& its voluntary compulsion
i have the charm of witchcraft
blood shed
& stiff neck'd arrogance
this day of the week is ours
i soon travel home
the day of battle will be Monday
& let us pray the butchers spare us
coarse creatures are incapable of excellence
let the hangman come
tis most fit that my ripeness be the ambition
of your mercy
i am a man without parents
an orphan
a stone that might become polished glass
if harvested well
i must thank you who have infringed upon my liberty
brute beasts who have both rock & cave to fly back to
i dare both motion
herald sound
these birds that speak even thru the dense rain
it is my pleasure to dine with you next week
the fabric of my designs is tottering
my judging eyes blossom counterfeit tears
tis fit i overpass in silence
desperately miserable indeed
tis wise that i suffocate these obsolete phrases
tis brave i interrupt these obsolete words
for today
for right now
our bodies when purged of corrupted blood
can rise in good health
let me rise - an orphan - a man without parents
find a place where i am welcomed
& beshrew the knowledge of our natures
for no more are we impassioned wild runagates
& the spider too shall one day vanish from our sight
dine with me next week
the hangman comes on tuesday
tis fit
tis only fit
that i should overpass in silence.

steve dalachinky sasebo city, japan 5/19/06

Bud Powell - for Yoshiko Otomo

ho ho keh kyo ho ho keh kyo ho ho keh kyo oh oh Yo shi ko
oh oh Yoshiko
- throat is gloved    & we are so full of self-pity
                      taut urges   diminished

nightingale singing outside your window ( oh oh Yo shi ko oh oh Yo shi ko )
followed unexpectedly i send you my twisted fear & young man's love
strutting like a wild bird of desire in the dense rainy morning
& breaking down - stroked & diminished
( your appetite still full like your smile )
i kiss you gently on the lips & say goodbye
you chanson me with your tiny voice & utter Bud Powell
i kiss you again on the forehead - yup that Bud Powell is really sumthin -

you die on a beautiful spring morning
slight wind
scent of flowers in the air
one canary yellow sock on - the other off
there on the floor beside you in the kitchen where you had fallen
it is Mother's Day
what is this strange gift you give us @ 9 a.m.?   Ah Yoshiko
the talking doll that kept you company
sits on the kitchen table
mumbling unintelligibly in its funhouse voice -
i break with the room
pull away the table
& become that brilliant partner
soft stuffed lizard of a doll with its programmed emotions
i'm not allowed to eat bad food   but i do
the day smells of perfume
the women break down then the men
i send you my slippers
my lonely selfish consciousness
pudding - french toast
& romantic french cinema
wrought iron roses - linked arms - & a kiss on the lips every day
soft pale lips -   OH   OH YO   SHI KO OH OH YO SHI KO
a tear falls on my shoe - single voice clustered harmonies - ghost of a chance
there is a perfumed wind as you cross the channel
a slight mist hangs over the mountains
this one's about grey hair   i think
Bud Powell splashed quick & delicate around the kitchen
i missed your departure but saw you lying there breathless
a shy & breathless dignity that even death could not dismiss
a slight wind & i hand out tissues to everyone
as we weep        a tear falls onto my shoe     it is Mother's Day
everything but death is in a language i don't understand
but maybe death too
alright i'll stop crying - a perfect gift for us all on this day of mothers

we all write our own stories
the emergency room is one legged bleeding fingers
teeming with LIFE
it's Mother's Day
did we push your innocent smile too hard?
Oh oh   Yoshiko   Oh oh   Yo shi ko
i pick up your tiny sock & place it on the chair
push the table back into place
this time it was death that brought us here
not good food - scenery - or strong constitutions
those these are in abundance
clusters of notes fall
you must learn to live for others
if you've given up living for yourself
don't wear red on red days
breathe   Yoshiko    breathe
this is a perfect gift you give us on this day of mothers
even the doctor must feel blessed

mist rising   &   exploded
wind exploded
tears falling     exploded
smells     exploding
your heart full     just exploded

i touch your brow - break down
                                  Bud Powell
        i whisper
                   Bud Powell

mist rising from my eyes     Ho   oh   Yoshiko   Ho oh Yoshiko Ho oh Yoshiko

steve dalachinsky sasebo city japan 5/14/06

steve dalachinsky was born after the last Big War & has managed to survive lots of little wars. his poems have appeared extensively in journals on & off line such as, Big Bridge, Milk, Unlikely Stories, Xpressed, Evergreen Review. Long Shot, Alpha Beat Soup, Xtant, Blue Beat Jacket, Unbearable Assemblage Magazines, NY Arts Magazine, and the Lost and Found Times. plus such anthologies as Beat Indeed, The Haiku Moment and the esteemed Outlaw Bible of American Poetry. He has written liner notes for the CDs of Anthony Braxton, James "Blood" Ulmer, Matthew Shipp, Roscoe Mitchell & many others. His 1999 CD, Incomplete Direction, a collection of his poetry read in collaboration with various musicians, such as William Parker, Matthew Shipp, Daniel Carter, Sabir Mateen, Susie Ibarra, Thurston Moore (SonicYouth), Vernon Reid (Living Colour)has garnered much praise. His most recent chapbooks include Trial and Error in Paris (Loudmoth Collective - 2003), Lautreamont's Laments (Furniture Press - 2005), In Glorious Black and White (Ugly Duckling Presse - 2005), St. Lucie (King of Mice Presss - 2005) Are We Not MEN & Fake Book (2 books of collage - * Page Press -2005). Dream Book (Avantcular Press - 2005). His latest book is The Final Nite (complete notes from a Charles Gayle Notebook - Ugly Duckling Presse - 2006). His latest cd is Phenomena of Interference with pianist Matthew Shipp (Hopscotch Records - 2006) He has read his work extensively in the N.Y. area and throughout Europe.

Michael P. Workman Lois Marie Harrod Joel Fry Steve Dalachinsky Aldo Tambellini Charles Frederickson Stan Dunn

Aldo Tambellini

November 5, 1990

met garcia lorca
standing under
the gigantic
dish antenna
the signal
bouncing off
the bloody moon &
back past years
into a jungle
lorca tells me
of the people
vomiting on
new york streets
while famished dogs
tear off the liver
of the homeless
living in subterranean tunnels
then I see
lorca's skeleton
passing by silently
then I say
I know you
from the underbelly
below the brooklyn bridge
they killed you
for being a poet

"He has done more damage with the pen than others have done with the pistol." Alanzo Ruiz, the Falangist who came to arrest Lorca. The squad executed Lorca at the Fountain of Tears, July 1936

Aldo Tambellini was born in Syracuse, New York in 1930 his father from Brazil, his mother from Italy. At eighteen months, he was taken to Italy where he lived in Lucca, Tuscany. A survivor of the bombing of his neighborhood during World War II, Aldo, at an early age, experienced first hand the oppression of the Fascists and later the terror of Nazis in Italy. He returned to the United States in 1946. He received a BF from Syracuse University and an MFA in Sculpture from Notre Dame University. Active in the 60's Counterculture Movement in NY. He pioneered in Video Art and Multi-Media Performances. He co-founded The Gate & The Black Gate Theatres in the Lower East Side, NYC in the 60's for experimental films, radical plays and performances. He became a Fellow at the Center for Advanced Visual Studies at the MIT. His art, films and media work have been featured widely nationally and internationally. Since 1984 he has concentrated on writing and performing his Social Poetry in numerous venues. In 1998, he founded and hosted the venue "The People's Poetry" in Cambridge, MA. His poems have been published widely and translated into Italian, Sicilian and Russian His most recent work is a computer generated movie, "Listen," a political stand against war, screened at several International Film Festivals, won the 2005 New England Film Festival in the Short Film by Independent Filmmaker Category and First prize in the Syracuse Film Festival for Best Experimental Short Film. Aldo's visual poems are currently in exhibit at the Guerilla Art Show at the Altered Aesthetics Gallery in Minneapolis, MI.

Michael P. Workman Lois Marie Harrod Joel Fry Steve Dalachinsky Aldo Tambellini Charles Frederickson Stan Dunn

Charles Frederickson

Chanted Blessings

Calling saffron robed monks to
Order cast tongue-tied clapper resounds
Bronze wind chimes gold leaf
Coated playfully tickling gentle breeze

Dangling knee crossings awkward lotus
Position bent pretzel limbs benumbed
Suffering discomfort taken for granted
Tucked under barefoot ignoble truths

Clockwork precision temporarily loses face
Hands raised in noontide “wai”
Timely cogwheel mechanism on hold
Skipped heartbeats dispelling cerebral thought

Spilt darkness dusk evaporates midnight
Twelfth of nevermore or less
Almost normal anxious moments collide
Impossible dreams laid to rest

Eyelids sag butterfly lashes flutter
Pious flesh committed to self-denial
Exposed indulgences tripping over themselves
Leaning on crutches embedded slivers

Novice goldfish explore underwater depths
Surfacing for breaths balanced keel
Stony willful free spirits petrified
Ticked off secondhand promises recycled

Continental Drift

South America and Africa once
Fit snugly puzzle pieces conjoined
Supercontinent called Pangaea jigsaw giant
Leavened bread rising above crust

Map constantly changing slowly reforming
Avoiding ethnic purges moral collisions
Acoustic tectonic faults dissonant counterpoint
Bullyragging push comes to shove

Split personality wedges floating icebergs
Enormous chips off polar block
Bottom heavy global warming meltdown
What lies beneath surface enigmas

Conical peaks eruptive liquid core
Lava wake blinking false eyelashes
Mascara running down dimpled cheeks
Molten teardrops steamy demonic wraiths

Mass exodus inhumane forced migrations
Stranded refugees anywhere else bound
Fleeting dreams too soon forgotten
On edge destinies inextricably linked

Desert Oasis

Sahara from Arabic signifying desert
Barren arid wasteland borderless space
Eternal life straddling halfway equator
Edgy horizon yields diminishing returns

Spiritual exile invoking stillborn vespers
Dunes hewn by relentless gusts
Buried alive fossils protest smother
Peregrine falcon talons swooping prey

Sandscape contains nothing but distance
Serene oasis craving left aloneness
Fertile green spot tenting tonight
Mineral springs contemplative silent reflection

Nipped buds prematurely forced open
Crushed petals potpourri alluring scents
Perfuming air frankincense myrrh incensed
Black gold hubbly-bubbly pipe dreams

Blinding obsidian squint blurry shuteye
Dilated pupils refocus star-chamber heritage
Ripening date clusters palm fronds
Feather dusters fanning torrid swelter

Du’a supplication five times daily
Prayer rugs directed towards Mecca
Parched lips whisper eventide devotion
Seeking divine atonement bowing Salaam

Dr. Charles Frederickson is a Swedish-American-Thai 4midable, 10acious, cre8ive 1derer who has wandered intrepidly through 206 countries, an original sketch and poem for each presented on He is a member of World Poets Society, based in Greece, with credits including 100+ publications on 5 continents, such as: Ascent Aspirations, Auckland Poetry, Blind Man’s Rainbow, Caveat Lector, Cordite Poetry Review, Greatworks, Green Dove, Indite Circle, Listen & Be Heard, Living Poets, Madpoetry, Melange, Newtopia, New Verse News, Planet Authority, Poetry Canada, Poetry of Scotland, Poets for Peace, Poetry Superhighway, etc.

Michael P. Workman Lois Marie Harrod Joel Fry Steve Dalachinsky Aldo Tambellini Charles Frederickson Stan Dunn

Stan Dunn

About the Bug

            from words found in The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka

Gregor's armor plated back,
legs waving helplessly,
brown fluid issuing from his mouth,
dripping on the floor
isn't what brought
his parents
to the the brink of
it was his success,
translated into their coin;

Now UngezieFer -
family suppressed disgust,
exercised patience, a little,
yet thought him
the root of trouble;

Shedding his
human background
opened before him
the unknown
nourishment craved: Father.

The rage
brought a melancholy silence,
a vacant and peaceful meditation,
the last faint flicker of breath
from the unfortunate son.

*UngezieFer is German for vermin, or bug.

Stan Dunn is better known for his work in abstract experimental art for which he holds signature membership in the International Society of Experimental Artists. His poetry and art play off of each other, challenging the reader to reflect on subjects that are often less than pleasant.

Michael P. Workman Lois Marie Harrod Joel Fry Steve Dalachinsky Aldo Tambellini Charles Frederickson Stan Dunn

Sunday, July 02, 2006

Issue 20

Image hosting by Photobucket

Image (Copyright © 2006 Christopher Kelen)

Christopher Kelen
Ben Kemp
Christopher Barnes
Kenji Siratori

Christopher Kelen

on five acres

dawn is all travels
night's snout had at ground

last of frost
dawn's glint fires paddocks
brings the Myall to light

see timber
crouched in cold
piled cut
the lizard already begun

setting out by breath alone
I stand in weather
the odd man tinkering breezes

o how may I be lost as them?

o thanks you gods I am


the wild winds
prefigure spring

birds sing in my chest

go out walking
and the grass gets deeper

after a while silence falls in
gives its rhythm
ambling day

forest falls
foot after foot through me

hides like a hammerstroke
in distance cleft
sun shelters from sight

fence says
climb under
climb over
climb through

ducks rise at my passing
by this means I hail them

when the tracks grow thick
to vindicate making
puzzle a way in my limbs
as roos do

birds half bright half dull
make my circle

a track says
and this way
and pause
tune an ear to this silence

green and yellow among
grey over

every creek I pass
keeps time

sky full of it

always beginning
tapping a way blind over roofs
to come clean

it hears itself
paints over the land
runs ink out of meaning
shines me once
for luck again


between it
I smell the ants working
sense dark structure to the day

leaf and tip and horded light
green hive of a home soaked still

cheers the frogs
till the prayed for sun
taps on my shoulder
the argument leading
down to the lowest

trickles down
good fall in which are voices lost
like rat's feet over what was to sustain me

Christopher Kelen is a well known Australian poet whose works
have been widely published and broadcast since the mid seventies.
The Oxford Companion to Australian Literature describes Kelen's work
as "typically innovative and intellectually sharp". Kelen holds
degrees in literature and linguistics from the University of Sydney
and a doctorate on the teaching of the writing process, from UWS
Nepean. Kelen's first volume of poetry The Naming of the Harbour
and the Treeswon an Anne Elder Award in 1992. In 1988 Kelen had won
an ABA/ABC bicentennial award with his poem "Views from Pinchgut".
In 1996 Kelen was Writer-in-Residence for the Australia Council at
the B.R.Whiting Library in Rome. In 1999 he won the Blundstone
National Essay Contest, conducted by Island journal. He also won
second prize in the Gwen Harwood Poetry Award that year. In 2000
Kelen's poetry/art collaboration (with Carol Archer) Tai Mo Shan/Big
Hat Mountain was exhibited at the Montblanc Gallery in Hong Kong's
Fringe Club. And in 2001 another collaboration (essay and
watercolour) titled Shui Yi Meng/Sleep to Dream was shown at the
Montblanc Gallery. Both exhibitions have been published as full
colour catalogues. Kelen's fourth book of poems, Republics, dealing
with the ethics of identity in millennial Australia, was published
by Five Islands Press in Australia in 2000. A fifth volume, New
Territories "a pilgrimage through Hong Kong, structured after
Dante's Divine Comedy" was published with the aid of the Hong Kong
Arts Development Board in 2003. In 2004 Kelen's most recent chapbook
Wyoming Suite "a North American sojurn" was released by VAC
Publishing in Chicago. In 2005, Kelen's long poem "Macao" was
shortlisted for the prestigious Newcastle Poetry Prize and a
re-edited version of Tai Mo Shan appeared in Southerly. Apart from
poetry Kelen publishes in a range of theoretical areas including
writing pedagogy, ethics, rhetoric, cultural and literary studies
and various intersections of these. Kelen is an Associate Professor
in the English Department at the University of Macau, where he has
taught Literature and Creative Writing since 2000. Kelen is the
principal investigator in the University of Macau's "Poems and
Stories of Macao Research Project" and the editor of the on-line
journal Writing Macao: creative text and teaching.

Christopher Kelen Ben Kemp Christopher Barnes Kenji Siratori

Ben Kemp


The sound of a piano is ringing through this ocean,
4 simple notes along side,
They are tied together by the fisherman’s knot,
With the ends neatly clipped,

The tide is low, shallow in this sink,
The shoulder of the coast is no longer submerged,
My belly rested on the seabed,
I have not the strength to ask, but I am listening…

The piece of music is biological,
An algorithm with an end,
4 primary colours on a palette that is the arm of the painter,
I am your brush…

The bed upon which my belly rests is warm,
Finer than feathers…
A casket around my body, but no dark hole…

Gentle hands & a rocking chair,
        &From their palms the same 4 notes,
        But not a piano…
        A gut string guitar…
        Handed down through 4 generations,
“Infant, girl, woman & grandmother”

The branches of my whakapapa are being clipped,
With secateurs,
& Musical instruments, unfretted,
My carcass is made up of leaves that fall in spring

How far have I travelled?
The miles have collapsed, but the seawater is made up of tuku tuku panels,
Navigating our way through the whare,
I am inside…

She is wailing, weaving freshly picked flax between the 4 notes,
My ears tell me she is beautiful…
For there is no seam in her voice…
I drink…         But my vessel is almost dry,

We are one tree, one body…
Fed by the same root & connected by the same fisherman’s knot,
I am my brothers & sisters & they are me…

My skin is growing cold, dry,
Spilling a glass of clear oil that is swallowed up by the sand,
        The oil is the mystery of consciousness,
        An undefined quantity that now runs through their fingers,
I did not ask, but I am grateful for their help…

I have never seen without the lens of seawater,
The undulation of the ocean is like a pulse,
I have fallen…         but the music has not died for the instrument is now a bamboo flute,
               & a child…

My mother is near me, but she is dead now,
dissolving into the tuku tuku panels,

They are crying for what has been spilt,
& they will cry for me too…

Gentle hands, & the rocking chair, carved from the finest tree,
Crafted by the most gifted of makers…

I did not ask…         & you came…

I can see into…

1.        The song of a bird,
           rested in branches,
           laden with blossoms & his cleans words,

2.        The closet with broken doors,
           an oak groan,
           from the old man within the wood,

3.        the clouds,
           passing overheard on their way
           to what I imagine,

4.        Your thoughts,
           guiding your hand through
           the prickly bush to the clay,

5.        The grimace,
           rubbing rusted nails between the
           palms of my hands…

6.        love,
           the silence inside the apple,
           still swelling on the tree,

7.        the guitar,
           sitting in the corner,
           a landscape waiting to get out,

8.        tears,
           the tributaries leading to the sea,
           godliness & a newborn baby,

9.        gaps between concrete constructs,
           brothers on either side,
           embalmed in caskets of man-made stone,

10.      the crossing,
           onward into the sun,
           birds on my back,

           & all this space…            that listens to me.

I need not build a bridge,

High over tree tops, heads & eyes looking upward,
The wind swift through the branches,
Cascading molecules, impatient & bitter,

I need not dig this tunnel,

Connecting light to light,
Through solid darkness with knuckles like dead men,
           So sweet is death I hope,
           The earth is my saviour, my mama I know,
The shovel, your angry words I now realise are mine,

I need not light the match,

All the iridescence I need is amongst the pines, the hills,
the tongues of those that wag like dogs tails,
           the words that tender my…     soul, the heels beneath my ankles,
           the love that ‘cotton wools’ our sleep together,

I need not hammer nails,

Because the walls were fashioned by lovers, saints, grandfather,
Maori’s, rugby players, golfers, painters, fishermen, piano player & a missionary,
           The hammer is not mine,
           & nails are foreign to me, rusting in seawater,
           in the presence of love,

I need not carry river stones from the river,

For there they belong,
Sleek blades of grass in my hand,
taken from the rivers edge, over hung banks & eels beneath,
River stones, river stone, a grey heart in a cradle of green,

I need not squint toward clouds,
If I lay down,
the peripheries may join,
the influx of white,
swallowed up by the waterfall, feet in the warmer fringes,

I need not stare, the palms of my hands,

The grained flesh from my ancestors,
my rounded shoulders & the way my voice inflects,
the tail at the end of my thoughts,

I need…
I need…
I need…

I need a temple to dwell,
One monk,
A bird that sings,
A blanket of many colours,     & a wider conscience of pure air.

Ben Kemp is a published poet. He was invited to read at New Zealand
Poetry Day as one of two emerging poets.

He first went to Japan as a 23 year old, having completed a degree in
Marketing and Computer Science at Otago University. Living for two and
a half years in Tokyo, Ben spent much time absorbing traditional art
and culture, and discovering his passion for kabuki theatre and
Japanese literature. On return to the North Island, Ben discovered a
special mentor-student relationship with Rowley Habib, one of New
Zealand’s pre-eminent Maori writers, all the while maintaining his
connections with Japan. It was at this point that Ben’s creative work
anchored itself. Responding to a magnetic pull back to Japan, Ben
returned to Tokyo in 2002.

With no music contacts in Japan, Ben played on the street in Shimo
Kitazawa, one of the more Bohemian areas of Tokyo well known for its
vibrant music scene. He soon met up with talented musician Koyu Suzuki
and the duo began performing around Tokyo. In just over one year, Ben
and Koyu have played at some of Tokyo’s most prestigious live venues,
including The Cerulean Tower’s JZ Brat and Kichijioji’s Mandala2.

Ben Kemp's debut album A River’s Mouth was released in March 2005, and
was launched in New Zealand with a two-week tour. He backed this up in
February 2006 with the creation of Papatu Road, an album that
beautifully represents Ben’s concept of creating a unique Polyn-Asian
sound. The result is a breathtaking blend of tunes that will soothe and
haunt you, thanks to Ben’s ethereal voice and poetic lyrics.

Ben Kemp and his band have just returned from a National tour of New
Zealand, during which Papatu Road received critical acclaim from New
Zealand National Radio, Radio Australia, Radio Pacific and NZ Musician

Christopher Kelen Ben Kemp Christopher Barnes Kenji Siratori

Christopher Barnes


In blue-grey dapples
stripped to raffish lines
your eyes stretch like snails.

You sit heavily,
monosyllables of rain
mapping skin.

Each jounce of petticoat
ruffles at your arm
upturned into a star
restyling our understandings.

Every parting
drowned in the now, the here,
should sink like this.

The Baldy Bittern

She’s reflective, is rippleforms
in the well.
are intimately disenchanted
at that crick-point neck
but her back
curves back
into the world.

Christopher Barnes: In 1998 I won a Northern Arts writers award. In July 200 I read at Waterstones bookshop to promote the anthology 'Titles Are Bitches'. Christmas 2001 I debuted at Newcastle's famous Morden Tower doing a reading of my poems. Each year I read for Proudwords lesbain and gay writing festival and I partake in workshops. 2005 saw the publication of my collection LOVEBITES published by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh.
Christmas 2001 The Northern Cultural Skills Partnership sponsored me to be mentored by Andy Croft in conjunction with New Writing North. I am about to make a radio programme for Web FM community radio about my writing group. October-November 2005, he entered a poem/visual image into the art exhibition The Art Cafe Project, his piece Post-Mark was shown in Betty's Newcastle. This event was sponsored by Pride On The Tyne. He has made a digital film with artists Kate Sweeney and Julie Ballands at a film making workshop called Out Of The Picture which was shown at the festival party for Proudwords. The film is going into an archive at The Discovery Museum in Newcastle and contains his poem The Old Heave-Ho. He is working on a collaborative art and literature project called How Gay Are Your Genes, facilitated by Lisa Mathews (poet) which will exhibit at The Hatton Gallery, Newcastle University before touring the country and it is expected to go abroad, this will be funded by The Policy, Ethics and Life Sciences Research Institute, Bioscience Centre at Newcastle's Centre for Life.

Christopher Kelen Ben Kemp Christopher Barnes Kenji Siratori

Kenji Siratori


The reptilian=HUB_modem that crashed a chemical=anthropoid=
paradise apparatus of the human body pill cruel emulator that
covered cardiac and compressed the acidHUMANIX infectious
disease of the soul/gram made of retro-ADAM to that mass of
flesh-module murder game****I turn on the feeling replicant living
body junk of her digital=vamp cold-blooded disease animals to
the super-genomewarable to the DNA=channels of the
biocapturism nerve cells corpse feti=streaming of a clone boy ill-
treatment abolition world-codemaniacs of the terror fear=
cytoplasm pluged-in the insanity medium of the hyperreal HIV=
scanners gene-dub of the corpse city technojunkies' is debugged
to non-resettable genomics strategy circuit that was processed to
the paradise apparatus of the human body pill cruel emulator
murder-gimmick of the soul/gram made of retro-ADAM data=
mutant of her abolition world-codemaniacs feeling replicant to a
hybrid corpse mechanism FUCKNAMLOAD****the brain
universe of the ultra=machinary tragedy-ROM creature system
technojunkies' reptilian=HUB to the acidHUMANIX infectious
disease archive of the biocapturism nerve cells nightmare-script
of a clone boy DNA=channel surrender-site of the terror fear=
cytoplasm@tera of dogs were send back out to the mass of flesh-
module of the hyperreal HIV =scanner form that was debugged the
era respiration-byte of a chemical=anthropoid is installed the terror
fear=cytoplasm gene-dub of the drug fetus of the trash sense to
the corpse feti=streaming circuit DNA=channels of her digital=
vamp cold-blooded disease animals mass of flesh-module
insanity medium of the hyperreal HIV=scanners that was send
back out to the murder-protocol of the biocapturism nerve cells
reptilian=HUB@clone boy era respiration-byte of the corpse city
plug-in....the abolition world-codemaniacs of the living body junk
feeling replicant that chemical=anthropoid was debugged to the
modem=heart of the hybrid corpse mechanism that turned on
technojunkies' ill-treatment hacking.

Kenji Siratori is a Japanese cyberpunk writer who is currently
the internet with wave upon wave of highly
experimental, uncompromising,
progressive, intense prose.
His is a writing style that not only breaks
with tradition, it
severs all cords, and can only really be compared to the
kind of experimental writing techniques employed by the
Surrealists, William
Burroughs and Antonin Artaud.
Embracing the image mayhem of the digital
age, his
relentless prose is nonsensical and extreme, avant-garde
confused, with precedence given to twisted imagery,
pace and experimentation over
linear narrative and character
development. With unparalleled stylistic
terrorism, he
unleashes his literary attack. An unprovoked assault on
the senses. Blood Electric (Creation Books) was
acclaimed by David Bowie.

Christopher Kelen Ben Kemp Christopher Barnes Kenji Siratori

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Issue 19

Dave Ruslander

Steve Dalachinsky

Lawrence Upton

JodiAnn Stevenson

Christopher Barnes

Justin Hyde

Alex Nodopaka

Robert McLean


Dave Ruslander

A Winter Morning

I saw breath rise from the swamp this morning.
Peat bogs were adorned with opals,
the rain pond wore diamonds
and boughs of holly masked the ancient cypresses.

Morning cold made the horses spirited
their heads swayed left then right, they bucked,
kicked, and cantered over the field.

It could have been steam rising off their backs,
but I think I saw angels' breath.

Memory Ghost

The look is crisp -
the color of wilted newspaper
crinkled and imposing.

It's invigorating -
a winter night's stroll across powder.
I see him precisely, now.


Steel wheels grind against iron tracks,
slip and spin,
each revolution.

chug, inch by inch forward
metal groans, pistons churn
boilers hiss.
Steam and smoke choke the sky, a whistle wails,
the bell clangs, clangs, clangs
and the station begins to recede.

Speed catches up, the Doppler
rumbles down the rail pulling
quiet calm in its wake where
bison once roamed.

from Voices in my Head
used by permission of the author

Parallel Universes

Somewhere a thousand miles away
a breeze whispers ripples to a pond.
Acrobatic leaves tumble like rhythmic gymnasts
performing over a reflection.

And we huddle around a fire
watching stone soup boil
as the wind lands blows against our backs.

A Moment

A bamboo flute sings through swaying reeds,
while dragon flies dance among mangroves.
lit lanterns keep mosquitoes at bay
and the warmth of a cool breeze tickles my skin.

My parrot's round black eye blinks with an idea.
He holds his peanut upside down in his foot
And with glee squeezes the shell
until it cracks up. His humor
is evident by the compound sentences
he begins to jabber, explaining his joy.

In the distance, Cloud Mountain,
holds back the river.

Dave Ruslander and his wife live quietly on a small farm in rural Virginia where their lives are enriched by the beauty of their horses, dogs, and cats. Dave began writing about five years ago and has learned to damn near mangle any grammatical rule known. His first book, Voices in My Head, has just been published. Dave suffers from Bipolar Disorder.

Dave Ruslander Steve Dalachinsky Lawrence Upton JodiAnn Stevenson Christopher Barnes Justin Hyde Alex Nodopaka Robert McLean Review

Steve Dalachinsky

reader friendly

sipped again
i thought here for love or

                 i have

                                 (stupid me dreaming sugary)
                                 nouns & prepositions

     on fire
                         in a strange city of tight pants
tight pants on a young belly                                                 holes
           how strange the young belly show thru deep rosed plaster (ed)

                                 money doesn't know where it goes

it goes into pockets
                                 put on the found cups & left

steve dalachinsky nyc 11/16/05 @ poetry project ted berrigan collected poems

time squared

the woman in white
i saw her today on broadway
across from the bertelsmann blding
       a mega virgin
w/e-mail as well as voice
  a lone male
     for a moment
           then the herd returns
                 still alone writing this on corner
                                 of 46th
   heard of planet Hollywood
         tho never been
         the hershey store smelling
like what else -         chocolate
         colony records lp section closed
                                 me the point of a compass
           passerbys sweeping by
                         like all an points bulletin
                                 this side of the street
   she says this side         she says
i thought it was on this side of the street
     she says you guys it's on this side

wherever i stand i am always in someone's way
                                 - a domestic wind
                         blowing thru my newly found
                                                 oversized overcoat.

steve dalachinsky nyc written in times square 11/17/05

dark things

the furniture that holds dark things -
            "hear the song i didn't
                         sing to you"
far & unavailable
                 the lost opportunity of whatever
         you were
                         within the round
                                 a roun ____d

i am a writer
    therefore i pick up a pen i find
on the street
    the rain goes from thick to thin
    the last leaves of the ginkgo
spread themselves across the concrete
                         like a wet blanket
                         the empty benches wait out this storm
                                         dark things on an even darker night.

steve dalachinsky nyc pt 1 2005 date unknown pt 2 11/16/05

margaret shows henry the met (cartoon1)

you shouldn't have given me such a gift - h says

we are here
to find ourselves
know our selves - m says

which is better - h asks
the former or the

virtue & sweet death - says m

& ectoplasm? h mutters smiling his child smile

that too m assures him

there are horrors
in bklyn
in queens
awkward moments
that only a gift giver can solve

fra angelico playing second fiddle
van gogh showing his muscles
exiled dreamers
good gifts
bad gifts & sweet

when i'm alone h says
i have no one to talk to but myself
or the occasional stranger
when with you
we argue over the time & space
in which one speaks

it depends always on the needs of the "Other"
- m gently tells him
speaking actually about her own selfish needs

foreign languages
are our emotions she softly kicks him
in the thigh
like she would a pestering dog
mumbling remembering memling @ the frick
earlier that afternoon

centuries of portraits
hard lines
the pomposity & religiosity of
prague implanted w/stone

we fight for space -m says quietly
we viciously fight but the windmills never topple
will never topple
violent pieces of scrap voices
a soul(s) donor
a short list of color

the thought only counts if you mean it m tells h

h wanders off in his mind
his sad eyes fixed hazily on the speck of light
darting out of an imaginary

memling @ the frick

memling's subjects always
placed their hands at the edge of the canvas
like a frame w/in a frame
a brown balcony
sometimes one atop the other
sometimes holding a scrap of paper
that seemed out of proportion w/the rest of the canvas
once what looked like a folded black fan

style wit
without shape or plan
as long as memory continues
to relax
it self.

dalachinsky nyc @ frick & @ met 12/07/05 & @ home 12/08/05

Dave Ruslander Steve Dalachinsky Lawrence Upton JodiAnn Stevenson Christopher Barnes Justin Hyde Alex Nodopaka Robert McLean Review

Lawrence Upton

Portrait: a clutter of not terribly good light

She was inactive. Familiarity brought him winter. She wanted to be company. His mind wouldn't clear. So much for infrastructure. For once, no sign of several people.

Good news. Another male shook his own head. A chair. It was a hard-drinking man, he thought, hearing several voices. He hated their images, frowning. Several voices were not good news. Greedy. The only window, a little object.

The men rushed forward. They dragged her off him; obliterated, tall, narrow. Raised eyebrow. He woke up. The light! Shallow breathing. A little vague on details of his recent extravaganza. A stranger here. Angry friends in the middle of a future. The raving young woman. He had to breathe. To drink himself, unconscious. The entire absurd event.

So far, he didn't know. Unfortunately, for the first time. On the table, is the political environment. Surrounding it had been lots of big talk. About an half hour of it. Let it matter. He was still in the room.

He drew breath. He stood well balanced in an adjacent room. Hard-drinking man announced finally.

On the outer room, was now a crazed young woman he had formerly advocated, burst back; and sat smugly. Up and down stairs to the toilet. More than halfway up a step back. He was new, freshly packed; while he didn't know her, since the men's encroaching, which way to the little company. In some misunderstanding, side-stepped, nowhere, drawing one leg up, breathing through his mouth. In some ways, the girl could be the maximum company in the room. Raised eyebrow.

Which way to give meaning, make sense of the light from the girl. Her finger poked to ward her. Gripping hands. Could only pretend to avoid himself.

Little vague about it. He had to breathe. He was now a drunk. Once he was taller than anyone else in the summer. He felt like wood.

The only view to avoid himself. Old belly.

His eye was swollen.

He wasn't speaking to be released. Sucking air, money. A stranger of dust motes, a mouthful of clear spirit. Here he was to enter at himself, godforsaken, circling, the door to the images he didn't have. They dragged her about. She'd know she was hired.

A general reorganisation of a strange fall, for a few days, to lower the man. A vast fortune, accusing him. He handled such things. He was not terribly good. His voice could only pretend to become.

He had no sign of the window. He had to live out her days. Tastes. Hang him.

And then, in the room, a double brandy and family, while he sulked. The problem posed by compassion. Today he hated his gloom.

He thought maybe he'd be released in any sense. Existing. Unfortunately. Tongue the only furniture. In her face. In the exact place. Time announced finally. Tell your friends! Unrepentantly.

This singularity the edge. He was still more specifically. Tradition. Trying to drink himself. The only company in the winter. To drink himself to avoid himself. Could only pretend to be breath.

He thought maybe he'd taken it into his head. In despair. In the winter. No sign.

Simply holding to Fate, perpetually short of angry friends. Which he had always assumed. Liked her. Today especially. Today especially. Today, he was deposited here, young lady. Supposed to drink himself unconscious.

As a study.

He hated the length of him. Once he knew. What has happened to me? Blocking properties. The problem posed by the clock.

She shrieked, the man, standing on it yet, in the middle. The woman doing.

She was put out from her first time, staring, trying to enter, gills sucking. His eyes watered. His concentration ran down, scalp rippling, a halo of tracks. She squirmed free, standing again. Bony creature.

This singularity. Several voices were.

To gather himself.

She squirmed free, in the outer room, almost horizontal. No way to be released; the little creature's outrage always assumed, the extent of innovative myths.

Progenitors deserve themselves. A trick he'd learned. A warm tongue out, a halo of him, a clutter of not terribly good light.

Lawrence Upton. Poet; visual artist; sound artist; performer; based in West Penwith, Cornwall. Latest print publication WIRE SCULPTURES (Reality Street, 2003)

Dave Ruslander Steve Dalachinsky Lawrence Upton JodiAnn Stevenson Christopher Barnes Justin Hyde Alex Nodopaka Robert McLean Review

JodiAnn Stevenson


Drawn curtain day winding restless.
Cooing won't calm those crying

cradle pains - a side-wound slap.
Sleep teases with easy dreams,

nightmare halted breaths, going
under water in a vault -

and you and I wound tight against
the world, floating in the vast

expanse of black night -
both crying like babies.

JodiAnn Stevenson: I am a writer and hypermedia artist currently living and teaching in Bay City, Michigan. My work has appeared in a variety of print and on-line journals including BathHouse, Buckle& and InkPot. Some of my hypermedia work can be seen on-line at

Dave Ruslander Steve Dalachinsky Lawrence Upton JodiAnn Stevenson Christopher Barnes Justin Hyde Alex Nodopaka Robert McLean Review

Christopher Barnes


In widow's weeds, the bull, the sun,
the flower, the light bulb - it clings
to room 7 of Centro de Arte Reina Sofia,
Guernica*, the fizzled-out horse, the woman.
                                                                                    so long as I
                                                                                    assimilate themes
                                                                                    from a cubed root
                                                                                    suchlike 'whole pictures'
                                                                                    in gone-bad colour
                                                                                    you will remember:
                                                                                    gun-burst at railways
                                                                                    Jose on the bicycle,
                                                                                    rose-tinting an escape
                                                                                    in the blackness of your lace.

*Spanish Civil War painting by Picasso.

The Sea In My Cup

Deep acid like a warning
at the edges of the sea
blister-bubbles tent corners
of the red round cup
death still bleeding.
Magic-haystack of steam
terrier-fringe tan
and an impression which left
the heaviest smile.

Christopehr Barnes: In 1998 I won a Northern Arts Writers award. In July 200 I read at Waterstones bookshop to promote the anthology 'Titles Are Bitches'. Christmas 2001 I debuted at Newcastle's famous Morden Tower doing a reading of my poems. Each year I read for Proudwords lesbain and gay writing festival and I partake in workshops. 2005 saw the publication of my collection LOVEBITES published by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh.

Christmas 2001 The Northern Cultural Skills Partnership sponsored me to be mentored by Andy Croft in conjunction with New Writing North. I am about to make a radio programme for Web FM community radio about my writing group. October-November 2005, I entered a poem/visual image into the art exhibition The Art Cafe Project, my piece Post-Mark was shown in Betty's Newcastle. This event was sponsored by Pride On The Tyne. I have made a digital film with artists Kate Sweeney and Julie Ballands at a film making workshop called Out Of The Picture which was shown at the festival party for Proudwords. The film is going into an archive at The Discovery Museum in Newcastle and contains his poem The Old Heave-Ho. I am working on a collaborative art and literature project called How Gay Are Your Genes, facilitated by Lisa Mathews (poet) which will exhibit at The Hatton Gallery, Newcastle University before touring the country and it is expected to go abroad, this will be funded by The Policy, Ethics and Life Sciences Research Institute, Bioscience Centre at Newcastle's Centre for Life.

Dave Ruslander Steve Dalachinsky Lawrence Upton JodiAnn Stevenson Christopher Barnes Justin Hyde Alex Nodopaka Robert McLean Review

Justin Hyde

philosophical conundrum

I like evolution
from B-present/

/where the fuck did it all come from/
that gives me trouble

assume big
/where the fuck did
big come from?/

organized religion is like
a bar night blowjob,
sucks you in
a rush of chemicals
leaving you flaccid,
running for
the door feeling slightly
I realized this
early on/
it was cemented
when the man
touched my sister/

it's never bothered
me before,
that I didn't know
"what the fuck
was up"

I ran rataplan
in some hedonistic
pancake dream/
chasing highs/
riding the low
out with a blanket
over the window/

but it's eating
at me now/

cunt ain't enough/
money don't do it/

I'm afraid that
i'll never know/

spend my life
farting on some
see saw -

- maybe this
maybe that -

it's not even
that i'll go to hell/
if that be,
that be/

it's just some
innate desire
to know
"what the
fuck is up"

because hey/
it ain't 50hour
Toyota Camry

and it
ain't wife
2.4 kid

don't take
no Kierkegaard
to know that ain't

the unrest
is crawlin like
worms in my head/

and it ain't the

be honest
with me/

you smoke
your cig/
drink your coffee/
smoke your
milk your baby/
suck your man
lick your woman's
clit at just the
right speed/
graduate your baby from college/
bury your father/
pull your mom off life support/


you know

it's not enough

but you turn your face
and keep on going
in that straight line/

well, I can't go
in that straight line

so for now

shoot this shit
under my fingernails

hug the

the word

Dixie Hyde

set our clocks 12 minutes fast
because growing up in Blairstown, IA
grandma had a punctuality

mom was
a thespian/she
was perpetually dropped
off late to practice/

her senior year/
late to the opening night of Grease/
12 min late/
she was the lead/
the understudy
mom watched

had such
a dreadful
of being late/

what time
is it what
time is it?
she'd ask

terrible bleeding
ulcers over it

started fisting codeine
and Oxycontin/
for the anxiety

helping my aunt Holly baste
the Thanksgiving bird some prepubescent November long since past
, she
said to me "either you go on like your parents/ or you go in the opposite direction"

all those
two did/

sit around
blaming grandma
over their
shit fisted lives/

I blame

and that Ford fucker who invented the assembly line/

I was Marlon Brando for a day

A racing friend
studied film at
the University of

I was eating
an omelet in
the student union
when he asked

"you want to
I got something you
would be good for"

I thought about
it between chews,
I wasn't going to
class, I knew that
much, and I was getting
burnt out on 9
ball and Budweiser
at the Que bar/

what is it"


he gave me the
"were just shooting
a couple of scenes"
he said

I rented the movie
that day/

some beast of
a man named
Stanley, completely
anathema to

beating women

I didn't know
if I could pull
it off/

on the day:

fisted a handful
of speed/
put on some tight
jeans and a tighter
white shirt/

was at a poker

it went like this/
i get wild and the boys
have to hold me back

i'm to much for em/
i hit Stella/
she runs/

i start wailing out the window/
call her on the phone/

she comes back
i drop on my knees,

pick her up/
off to the bedroom/

that's all i remember.

i got into it

the speed
and the thrill
of it

and roughed up
the boys to much/

the thin one
cried because
I scared him/

the camera people
and sound people
and director

looked at me in disbelief/
i was dripping sweat/
heart jumping
out of my chest

"what the fuck
do you want from
I screamed/

my friend
kevin calmed

the scene where
I dropped to my knees
in front of Stella
was done on concrete

we took it 3 times/

I fucked up my
meniscus because
I wanted it right/

the thing creaks
now when I walk/

i've got a tape
of it/

and it all looks
pretty silly now/


the little lolly pop
they got to play

she thought
i was something/

we got brained
on 1$ long islands
at the Field House

fucked liked
the dirty animals
we are/

she asked me
to choke her/

and I did/

i asked her
to slap me across
the face/

she did/

we quivered
in each others

I started

nothing has
been as

Justin Hyde: My name is Justin Hyde, I live in Des Moines, IA. I was diagnosed with cyclothymic disorder in 1998. I am skeptical of psychology/psychiatry. I have a BS in psychology.

Dave Ruslander Steve Dalachinsky Lawrence Upton JodiAnn Stevenson Christopher Barnes Justin Hyde Alex Nodopaka Robert McLean Review