little chance
hushed laughter
a quiet embrace
between two old
lovers
i try not to look
jealousy is a
horrible byproduct
of being a human
it becomes even
worse when you
know there is little
chance of change
ever coming along
-------------------------------------------------------------------
put our differences aside
my father died before
i hit my forties
we never had those
years where we had
put our differences
aside and had a drink
in a bar
instead, i'm up at night
reading medical records
of a man that was crazy
and the new family that
drained all the money
he had
part of me thinks that
was mine
part of me knows
i wouldn't fucking
want it
he'll never be anything
more than the fucker
who tried to kill me
and failed
tried to kill himself
and failed
tried to bring the
rest of his world
down and succeeded
thankfully, i wasn't
a part of his world
for the last twenty
years of his life
---------------------------------------------------------
downing spoonsful of shit
the ignorant want to lead
just as much as the blind
think they can see
the rest of us are
stuck in the void
downing spoonsful of shit
because someone wearing
a white coat said it was
good for you
i never listened to them
i drink a bottle of liquor
every couple of days
my doctor thinks i'll die
soon
i told him i'll make sure
to tell his replacement
about that
--------------------------------------------------------------
yet
my mother
was telling me
everything she
wants me to
change in
my life
and ended
the one-sided
conversation
with your life
isn't over yet
i mentioned
i liked what
she ended the
last sentence
with
yet
one word that
has a limitless
supply of
possibilities
but still that
genuine human
quality of
procrastination
--------------------------------------------------------------
open a window and fall back asleep
one of these mornings
where you'd love to
open a window and
fall back asleep
it's an open field
with trees starting
to change colors
eventually,
the powers that be
will decide a few
homes or a new
business would
look better
you miss just how
quiet the old farm
would get at sunset
not everyone is
frightened by
their thoughts
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the last quarter century, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, Cajun Mutt Press, Terror House Magazine, Jellyfish Whispers and The Beatnik Cowboy. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
two daddy longlegs
wait for prey near the window—
a white candle burns
a pair of mallards—
a brown horse in the distance
its head to the ground
the almost-full moon
illuminates the roses—
the white picket fence
the highway traffic—
pine needles on the sidewalk
behind the strip mall
after the rainstorm—
the upside-down squirrel eats
from the bird feeder
-------------
bio/graf
J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poems have appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of ten chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Nelson’s poem, “to mask a little bird” was nominated for Best of the Net. Visit http://MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at http://JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Colorado, USA.
-------------
Let's celebrate Christmas!
Let's Celebrate Christmas!
Where?
In a place where Christ has its domain
In a place where the reason for his celebration is not in vain
In a place where the savior of the world is the main
Let's celebrate Christmas!
Where?
In a place where the is mistletoe is evident
In a place where Christmas Trees are prevalent
In a place where the Santa Claus is always present
Let's celebrate Christmas!
Where?
In a place where merriment abounds
In a place where sober reflection surrounds
In a place where resolutions for the New Year mounts
In all, Let's celebrate Christmas!
I just read this in a newspaper: “After long months of futile attempts and several expeditions, a group of Argentine scientists has succeeded in capturing an Ushuaia rabbit, thought to be extinct for over a century. The scientists, headed by Dr. Adrián Bertoni, caught the rabbit in one of the many forests that surround the Patagonian city. . . .”
As I prefer specifics to generalities, and precision to transience, I would have said “in such and such a forest located in such a spot in relation to the capital of Tierra del Fuego.” But we can’t expect blood from a turnip or any intelligence whatsoever from journalists. Dr. “Adrián Bertoni” is yours truly, and of course they had to misspell my name. My exact name is Andrés Bertoldi, and I am, in fact, a doctor of natural sciences, specializing in Zoology and Extinct, or Endangered, Species.
The Ushuaia rabbit is not actually a lagomorph, much less a leporid. It’s not even certain that its habitat is the forests of Tierra del Fuego. Moreover, not one has ever lived on the Isla de los Estados. The rabbit I caught – I alone, with no special equipment or help from anyone – showed up in the city of Buenos Aires near the embankment of the San Martín railroad, which runs parallel to Avenue Juan B. Justo where it crosses Soler Street in the district of Palermo.
Far from looking for the Ushuaia rabbit, I had other worries and was headed down the sidewalk of Juan B. Justo, a bit downcast. It was hot, and I had some unpleasant, not to say worrisome, business to do at the bank on Santa Fe Avenue. Between the embankment and the sidewalk there is a wire mesh fence supported by a low wall; on the other side of the fence, I spotted the Ushuaia rabbit.
I recognized it instantly, how could I not? But I was struck by the fact that it remained so still, for this animal is normally jumpy and restless. I thought it might be wounded.
Be that as it may, I backed up a few meters, climbed the fence, and lowered myself catlike to the ground. I advanced stealthily, fearing at each moment that the Ushuaia rabbit would take fright, and in that case, who could catch it? It is one of the fastest animals in creation; though the cheetah is swifter in absolute terms, it is not in relative terms.
The Ushuaia rabbit turned and looked at me. Contrary to my expectations, however, it did not flee, but kept still, with the sole exception of the silver tuft of feathers that shook as if to challenge me.
I took off my shirt and waited, stock still and bare-skinned.
“Easy, easy, easy . . .” I kept saying.
When I got close I slowly deployed the shirt as if it were a net, and suddenly, in one quick swoop, I had it over the rabbit, wrapping it up in a neat package. Using the sleeves and the shirttail, I tied a strong knot, allowing me to hold the bundle in my right hand and use my left to negotiate the fence once more and return to the sidewalk.
I could not, of course, show up at the bank shirtless, much less with the Ushuaia rabbit. Thus I headed home. I have an eighth-floor apartment on Nicaragua Street, between Carranza and Bonpland. At a hardware store I picked up a birdcage of considerable size.
The doorkeeper was washing the sidewalk in front of our building. Seeing me bare-chested, with a cage in my left hand and a restless white bundle in my right, he looked at me with more astonishment than disapproval.
As bad luck would have it, a neighbor followed me in from the street and into the elevator. With her was her little dog, an ugly, disgusting animal. Upon picking up the smell –unnoticed by human beings – of the Ushuaia rabbit, it erupted in earsplitting barks. On the eighth floor I was able to rid myself of that woman and her stentorious nightmare.
I locked the door with my key, prepared the cage, and with infinite care began unwrapping the shirt, trying not to upset, or worse, to hurt the Ushuaia rabbit. However, being shut in had angered it, and when I opened the cage door I couldn’t stop the rabbit from hitting my arm with a stinger. I had sufficient presence of mind not to let the pain induce me to let go, and I finally managed to maneuver it safely back into the cage.
In the bathroom I washed the wound with soap and water, and, right away, with medicinal alcohol. It then occurred to me that I ought to head to the pharmacy for a tetanus shot, which I did without wasting any time.
From the pharmacy I went straight to the bank to conclude the cursed business that had been postponed because of the Ushuaia rabbit. On the way back I picked up supplies.
Since it lacks a masticatory apparatus during the day, the most practical thing was to cut up the food into little pieces and mix in some milk and chickpeas; I then stirred it all together with a wooden spoon. After sniffing the concoction, the Ushuaia rabbit absorbed it with no problem, just very slowly. Its process of expansion begins at sunset. I therefore transferred the few pieces of living room furniture – two modest armchairs, a loveseat, and an end table – to the dining room, pushing them up against the dining table and chairs. Before it was too big to get past the door, I made sure it left the cage. Now free and comfortable, it was able to grow as needed. In this new state, it completely lost its aggressivity, and now became apathetic and lazy. When I saw its violet scales pop out – a sign of sleepiness – I headed for the bedroom, went to bed, and called it a day. The next morning the Ushuaia rabbit had returned to the cage. In view of this docility, I felt it was unnecessary to shut the door. Let it decide when to be inside or out of its prison. The instincts of the Ushuaia rabbit are infallible. Every evening it would leave the cage and expand like a fairly thick pudding on the living room floor. As is well known, its feces are produced at midnight on odd days. If one collects (in the spirit of play, naturally) these little green metallic polyhedrons in a sack and shakes them, they make a lovely sound, with a rather Caribbean rhythm. To tell the truth, I have little in common with Vanesa Gonçalves, my girlfriend. She is considerably different from me. Instead of admiring the many positive qualities of the Ushuaia rabbit, she thought best to skin it in order to have a fur coat made for herself. This can be done at night when the animal is elongated and the surface of its skin is broad enough that the cartilaginous ridges are displaced to the edges and don’t get in the way of the incision and cutting. I did not want to help her do this operation. Armed with only dressmaking scissors, Vanesa relieved the Ushuaia rabbit of all the skin on its back. In the bathtub, with detergent and running water, a brush and bleach, she washed off any amber or bile that remained on the skin. Then she dried it with a towel, folded it, put it in a plastic bag, and very happily took it off to her house. It only takes eight to ten hours for the skin to completely regenerate. Vanesa had visions of a great scheme: each night she could skin the Ushuaia rabbit and sell its fur. I would not allow it. I did not want to convert a scientific discovery of such importance into a vulgar commercial enterprise. However, an ecological society reported the deed, and a paid announcement came out in the papers accusing “Valeria González” – and, by association, me – of cruelty to animals. As I knew would happen, the onset of autumn restored the rabbit’s telepathic language, and although its cultural milieu is limited, we were able to have agreeable conversations and even to establish a kind of, how shall I say, code of coexistence. The rabbit let me know that it was not partial to Vanesa, and I had no trouble understanding why. I asked my girlfriend not to come to the house any more. Perhaps in gratitude, the Ushuaia rabbit perfected a way of expanding less at night, so that I was able to bring all the furniture back to the living room. It sleeps on the loveseat and deposits its metallic polyhedrons on the rug. It never eats to excess, and in this as in everything else, its conduct is measured and worthy of praise and respect. The rabbit’s delicacy and efficiency reached the extreme of asking me what would be, for me, its ideal daytime size. I said I would have preferred the size of a cockroach, but I realized that such a small size put the Ushuaia rabbit in danger of being stepped on (though not of being killed). After several attempts, we decided that at night the Ushuaia rabbit would continue to expand to the size of a very large dog or even a leopard. During the day, the ideal would be that of a medium-sized cat. This allows me, when I am watching television, for example, to have the Ushuaia rabbit on my lap where I can stroke it absentmindedly. We have formed a solid friendship, and sometimes we need only look at each other for mutual understanding. Nevertheless, these telepathic faculties that function during the winter months disappear with the first warm spells. We are now in the last month of winter. The Ushuaia rabbit is aware that for the next six months it will not be able to ask me questions or make suggestions or receive advice or congratulations from me. Lately it’s fallen into a kind of repetitive mania. It tells me, as if I didn’t know, that it is the only surviving Ushuaia rabbit in the world. It knows it has no way of reproducing, but – though I have asked many times – the rabbit has never said whether it is bothered by this or not. Moreover, the rabbit continuously asks me – every day and several times a day – whether there is any use for it to go on living like this, alone in the world, with me yes, but without other creatures of its own kind. There is no way it can kill itself, and there is no way I could – and even if there were, I would never do it – kill such a sweet, affectionate animal. And so, as long as we experience the last cold spells of the year, I continue to converse with the Ushuaia rabbit, stroking it absentmindedly. When warm weather returns, I shall only be able to stroke it.[Original title: “El conejo de Ushuaia.” First published in the magazine Proa, No. 70, Buenos Aires, September 2007, pp. 33-38. Included in El crimen de san Alberto, Buenos Aires, Editorial Losada, 2008.]
Sugar Window
it [comes]
[tripping]
[tripping]
[tripping]
DOWN THE...
#####################
along again along with machine
a marching band
and a
H*O*R*S*E
quaalude to take the cake
the wheel has come off the
[FIT]
[FIT]
[FIT]
[FIT]
######################
###############
#########
.
.
.
Nebulous Time[stamp]
////////////////////////////////////
////////////
////////
////////////////////
this is the sound of THUNDER (something)
only on the better
spring
clouded
semaphore
semaphore
semaphore
semaphore
[[[barked down in
nightdress as the soldier
grovels with
lids in the basket]]]
WHAT A case:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Insubstantial Lamplight Callisthenics
hoof and
hhhhhooooooooopppppppppp
waging on the shore
B
L
A
N
K
MISS-ALIGNED
[soup][swing]
!
the coast is cold
&
volume is apprehension
&
&
&
.
.
.
Glass [half] cut [half]
brother can you spare a...aluminium aluminium aluminium...
a constant swab of...falalalala...how much is the cash back...
long long long long long long long...sheepskin rug...I
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb
uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb
uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu
!!!
and the same to you
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
////////////////////////////////////////
////////////////////////////////////////////
--lift--[to say it[[
--left--[leg[[to say it[[
--lift--[to say it[[
--right--[leg[[to say it[[
ARRANGE IT ALL AGAIN
Anxiety Measure (wa wa)
consignment
ever
t
h
i
s
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
a l
i
n
e
in the
u
p
p
e
r
c
a
s
e
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
crustacean
i want my elbows back
i want to stand in summer
i want a nightdress and a telephone
i want
i want
i want
i
i
i
i
i
i
i
i
i
w
a
n
t
what
you've
..................
..................
..................
Bio: Nathan Anderson is a poet from Mongarlowe Australia. He is the author of Mexico Honey, The Mountain + The Cave and Deconstruction of a Symptom. His work has appeared in Otoliths, BlazeVox, Beir Bua and elsewhere. You can find him at nathanandersonwriting.home.blog or on Twitter @NJApoetry. Nathan is a member of the C22 collective, you can find more about it at c22press.wordpress.com.
When I was a kid I got invited, to my buddy Marty's Bar Mitzvah, it was for his thirteenth birthday, his parents were throwing him a big party, to celebrate a rite of passage, ya see Marty was a Jew.
I told my parents and was so excited, the Bar Mitzvah was at
Shedd's Aquarium Downtown Chicago, my Old Man said he didn't care, if it was at fucking Disneyland, I wasn't going, and forget about being friends with Marty, he didn't want him hanging around, ya see Marty was a Jew.
I was more than disappointed, I was righteously pissed off, the only reason he had for not letting me go was because of his religion, ya see Marty was a Jew.
His family didn't seem to mind that I was a Christian, you're telling me that's why I can't go, what's so bad about being a Jew, my mother put in her two cents worth, did you know Jews don't believe in Jesus, what does that have to do with anything, why does it matter, maybe Jews don't believe in Bigfoot, it's not a logical reason,
I knew somehow in some way Jesus would get involved, why in the hell would Jesus care if Marty was a Jew, and there's more pressing world issues Jesus should be attending to,
hold on here just one minute, you both have your facts mixed up, you don't want me to be friends with Marty or go to his Bar Mitzvah, just because of who he doesn't worship, Marty is a Jew
Yet we go to church every Sunday, except the Old Man,
and pray to Jesus, who died on the cross for our sins, and both of you should be grateful he did, because what I'm about to say, you may find it hard to believe, I guess you forgot this Messiah named Jesus, or maybe you just never knew, I read it in the Bible, so I'm sure it must be true, ya see Jesus just like Marty,
was a Jew.
Gladys always said, “Beware of what you dream. Ignore those visions if you must, but remember, these things have a habit of coming back to haunt you.” I don’t know what she based this kind of assessment on but, more often than not, she was right. Not long after this warning I had a dream that Gladys and I were in grave danger in some dark and threatening place. She died but I did not. Unfortunately, I ignored the dream.
After she left, I began seeing all kinds of people I knew who were dead. She said this might happen. Most of them were illusions or cases of mistaken identity. I wondered about the others.
Once the rain began, it was impossible to see the path forward or back. After a while, even up and down were getting confused. I felt as if I was in the up-escalator dream where all the stairs had stopped moving and all the lights in the tunnel had gone out. The air was stifling. It felt thick and smothering like a wool blanket that scratched the skin and burrowed its way into your throat. There was no point in trying to move. There was no place to go. Awake. Or dreaming.
Weathered stone. The way is blocked by weathered stones. Not exactly like a wall. Like what? A path where stones grew instead of grass or weeds. Stones that had sharp, ponied edges. Peaks sharp as knife blades, slippery with moss and mold that glowed in the incipient moonlight. These weathered stones. That moaned as they grew, aching as they cut through the gumline of the earth like teeth with nowhere else to go.
The shy is septic. An open untreated, suppurating wound too long left to fester. The fluids formerly trapped inside are leaking out like rain. I’m sliding on the black ice that covers everything the rain has touched. It’s like walking on sheets of motor oil, something that is both solid and frozen at the same time but impossible to move on. If I don’t relocate, I will adhere to where I am. Become a misshapen ice sculpture in a greasy downpour. Waking up here is unthinkable.
Cento Derived from the Titles of ‘Erasure’ Poems by John Dorsey
