the world as ordered                      if you depend
on your mind for translation
if you recognize these thoughts as other
or if you deny easily that
which could be defined as disturbing
a romantic indisposition
I believed I had a right to my wrong thinking on some level.
it was mine and to be defended
as a species of flower
as a turn in the weather
as a geographical pinpoint
as a location found by vertical and horizontal planes intersecting
it’s one thing to speak of what is misfiring and another to locate
here in the deep, deep recesses of porous organ            half able to function coherently                                                                        what half is left and is this accurate
what percentage and on what days and on what dosage
Are you beginning to divide                                                                        the notion of trust?
animate object: as other that lives in me inanimate object: as quieted by this medicine and put to sleep, a wild animal stuffed and mounted glassy-eyed wonder of how it arrived
as a gift from those before me
a realm of suffering
to greater clarity
here is the diseased mind realm
am I making too much of it?
I’d hate to draw attention to it, the gaze then lends it value but to ignore—does “not seeing” mean… what am I afraid of is that the reader will think it is simply the vehicle for my desire, for my identity but I am the vehicle, I’m certain, that it has gotten in beside me
where are we going?
a small insect blows onto the open pages of Brenda’s book
lands on “Rare held over world”
from here on Folsom Street
I can see Jack Collom bringing in his dirty laundry
define the hidden: as dirty laundry                               skeletons in the closet                                                                           dirty skeletons
bone left                                          (dirty organ)
skeletal: tactile, able to walk out on its own
laundry: tactile, able to be cleansed
this is a map of hope in revelation
mind as imaginary, as illusory, as porous
the examiner knows that when you open the skull the brain can crumble within seconds upon losing its container upon touch
fragment                                fragile                                fingered mush
must be poisoned further to provide the perfect specimen
formaldehyde, spun in a web of fluid and glass            suspended and sliced to millimeter   slid onto thin sections of plastic and caught under the magnifying glass
this sheer exposition
what went wrong?
even then how to connect dead tissue to the imagination to the cellular experience to see how the drugs changed the identity
my place in the world
the amount of space I took up
the gap left that haunted me
where the I     I was not fell behind                                          but followed me
I can see her out of the corner of my eye.
who said this?
Am I too gone to be                                          healed?
Megan Burns is the author of Memorial + Sight Lines (Lavender Ink 2008). She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize in poetry and has been published in Exquisite Corpse, Contance Magazine, YAWP and Callaloo. She lives in New Orleans and runs the 17 Poets! Reading Series with poet Dave Brinks.
where we depend but don't know
a shiver comes
at the intensity of
attempt at lost heavens
short and shorter
stout like brick
and thick like
wall gone paranoid
rolling dark clouds
stretch and leap
nerve to wind
and the historical autopsy
'hidden geography of body'
in coil of what kidney
what place the aorta
of the nerve
in the pinkie
the past returning in furls
of flesh where is the edge
of seeing the beginning
The peaches stood in dark rows like mourners at a funeral, the zinnias bowed their heads
as if they knew they had worn the wrong riot of color. Some said it was not the rain, some said it had rained
nine days, enough to carry the chest of doves from Mississippi to Spain. We curled in our coffin
like those lovers in Plato’s cave, the ones he forgot to mention, this time sure that when
he opened the lid there would be more light than shadow. But no, more rain,
and everyone looking down on us like saints with gray umbrellas, even the rabbits
in their rows of wire cages. Too much sanctity for so little salt, I said, thinking of an old theologian
who seemed to be missing in the damp crowd. I was thirsty but no one gave me drink. There’ll be a heaven to pay.
Of course, I knew I was sick again, weeping as if the sky were falling, which it was, in big, fat drops.
Lois Marie Harrod’s ninth book Furniture has just been published by Grayson Press where it was awarded the Grayson Poetry Prize. She is a 3-time recipient of poetry fellowships from the NJ Council on the Arts.
Winter is tapping on the hollow willow tree's trunk-- a four month visitor is about to move in and unload his messy clothing and be windy about it-- bark is grayish white as coming night with snow fragments the seasons. The chill of frost lies a deceitful blanket over the courtyard greens and coats a ghostly white mist over yellowed willow leave's widely spaced teeth- you can hear them clicking like false teeth or chattering like chipmunks threatened in a distant burrow. The willow tree knows the old man approaching has showed up again, in early November with ice packed cheeks and brutal puffy wind whistling with a sting.
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. He is the author of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom. He has also published two chapbooks of poetry and is presently looking for a publisher for two more. He has been published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fuji, Nigeria, Algeria, Africa, India, United Kingdom, Republic of Sierra Leone, Nepal, Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, Finland, and Poland internet radio. Michael Lee Johnson has been published in more than 240 different publications worldwide. Audio MP3 of poems are available on request.
He is also publisher and editor of four poetry flash fiction sites--all presently open for submission:
Away from the lab-bench’s proving ground The naked eye’s lame. The moon’s heart In an impulse swirls. Triple-check – it’s far off, Wide of the mark Of swabbed feelings.
If the love-gene’s spliced There’ll be a syringe In the throat, A hitch to swallow Like fish-scaled GM apples Or the troublesome underbreath Of Dolly, the sheep.
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 lesbian 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.
On Saturday 16th Aughst 2003 I read at theEdinburgh Festival as a Per Verse poet at LGBT Centre, Broughton St.
I also have a BBC webpage www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/gay.2004/05/section_28.shtml and http://www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/videonation/stories/gay_history.shtml (if first site does not work click on SECTION 28 on second site.
Christmas 2001 The Northern Cultural Skills Partnership sponsored me to be mentored by Andy Croft in conjunction with New Writing North. I made 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, his piece Post-Mark was shown in Betty's Newcastle. This event was sponsored by Pride On The Tyne. I 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, it contains my poem The Old Heave-Ho. I worked on a collaborative art and literature project called How Gay Are Your Genes, facilitated by Lisa Mathews (poet) which exhibited at The Hatton Gallery, Newcastle University funded by The Policy, Ethics and Life Sciences Research Institute, Bioscience Centre at Newcastle's Centre for Life. I was involved in the Five Arts Cities poetry postcard event which exhibited at The Seven Stories children's literature building. In May I had 2006 a solo art/poetry exhibition at The People's Theatre why not take a look at their website http://ptag.org.uk/whats_on/gulbenkian/gulbenkian.htm
The South Bank Centre in London recorded my poem "The Holiday I Never Had", I can be heard reading it on www.poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/record.asp?id=18456
REVIEWS: I have written poetry reviews for Poetry Scotland and Jacket Magazine and in August 2007 I made a film called 'A Blank Screen, 60 seconds, 1 shot' for Queerbeats Festival at The Star & Shadow Cinema Newcastle, reviewing a poem...see www.myspace.com/queerbeatsfestival
burn my heart        for george wallace
yesterday, i was reading K-PAX and i noticed Prot or should i say prot doesn’t use capitals for names and neither do you your poetry and you are both lower case and you say that’s ok sugar in that rich full bodied aromatic coffee sounding new york tone that reminds me of tennessee williams plays and hot nights in the deep south (because i’m english and have no sense for american accents) and i read in your introduction how you write from dreams and i wonder how you write so vividly from dreams and i say you must have marvellous dreams, more vivid than everyone else and you reply no different from anyone else
so i think about my dreams but all i see when i sleep is blood and shit and black everything black and every night i’m running in worlds i recognise and don’t in streets i recognise and don’t with ghosts i recognise and don’t trying to dodge the bullets they spit at me trying to stop my knife blades slicing skin trying to stop the devil striking me down trying to stop my lover saying he doesn’t no he doesn’t his spent cock in his hand and behind him she’s smiling and every night I moan in my sleep moan over and over in my sleep wake me up wake me up please someone wake me up
 George Wallace, Burn My Heart in Wet Sand, (Troubadour, Leicester, 2004)  Gene Brewer, K-PAX The Trilogy, (Bloomsbury, London, 2004)
Born in 1971 in the seaside town of Cleethorpes, England, Linda Graham organises arts festivals and programmes spoken word and literature events in the beautiful Lake District. Her poems have appeared in magazines and newspapers in the UK and US as well as online, and her first collection will be published by Bluechrome Press later next year.