The Wound
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.
Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders
Monday, November 01, 2004
Colin Van Der Woude
Sunday
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.
S
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.
Well well...
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?
Saint
"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.
Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders
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.
S
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.
Well well...
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?
Saint
"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.
Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders
Anders
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
Koi
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
Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders
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
Koi
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
Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders
Sunday, August 01, 2004
Corey Mesler
The Agoraphobe Beside the Pool
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.
Corey Mesler Craig Kirchner Colin Van Der Woude Pedro Trevino-Ramirez Millie Niss kari edwards
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.
Corey Mesler Craig Kirchner Colin Van Der Woude Pedro Trevino-Ramirez Millie Niss kari edwards
Craig Kirchner
'sickness unto death'
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
Lonely Shepherd
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.
Corey Mesler Craig Kirchner Colin Van Der Woude Pedro Trevino-Ramirez Millie Niss kari edwards
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
Lonely Shepherd
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.
Corey Mesler Craig Kirchner Colin Van Der Woude Pedro Trevino-Ramirez Millie Niss kari edwards
Colin Van Der Woude
Disfigurements
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.
Corey Mesler Craig Kirchner Colin Van Der Woude Pedro Trevino-Ramirez Millie Niss kari edwards
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.
Corey Mesler Craig Kirchner Colin Van Der Woude Pedro Trevino-Ramirez Millie Niss kari edwards
Pedro Trevino-Ramirez
Sophie's Wall
I.
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.
II.
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.
CCXXXII
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.
CCLIV
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.
Alba
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.
Corey Mesler Craig Kirchner Colin Van Der Woude Pedro Trevino-Ramirez Millie Niss kari edwards
I.
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.
II.
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.
CCXXXII
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.
CCLIV
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.
Alba
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.
Corey Mesler Craig Kirchner Colin Van Der Woude Pedro Trevino-Ramirez Millie Niss kari edwards
Millie Niss
The Brave Get Stung
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
Corey Mesler Craig Kirchner Colin Van Der Woude Pedro Trevino-Ramirez Millie Niss kari edwards
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
Corey Mesler Craig Kirchner Colin Van Der Woude Pedro Trevino-Ramirez Millie Niss kari edwards
kari edwards
They got discounted tickets? [ Follow Ups
To: "M.K" From: aaaa@central.com
Subject: Re: my new-Attachments:
m.k.
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..
take care
forever on a stick
To: aaaa@central.com > From: "M.K"
Subject: Re: your old attachments:
dear stick
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" < mk89697@hotl.com > From: aaaa@central.com
Subject: Re: my relapses:
m.k.
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
p.s.
buy a car quick, need to get a minimal cost plus am radio @ gateway to
statistics
To: aaaa@central.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: aaaa@central.com
Subject: Re: my compulsion is too hard:
m.k.
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.
Corey Mesler Craig Kirchner Colin Van Der Woude Pedro Trevino-Ramirez Millie Niss kari edwards
To: "M.K" From: aaaa@central.com
Subject: Re: my new-Attachments:
m.k.
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..
take care
forever on a stick
To: aaaa@central.com > From: "M.K"
Subject: Re: your old attachments:
dear stick
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" < mk89697@hotl.com > From: aaaa@central.com
Subject: Re: my relapses:
m.k.
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
p.s.
buy a car quick, need to get a minimal cost plus am radio @ gateway to
statistics
To: aaaa@central.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: aaaa@central.com
Subject: Re: my compulsion is too hard:
m.k.
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.
Corey Mesler Craig Kirchner Colin Van Der Woude Pedro Trevino-Ramirez Millie Niss kari edwards