SANCTUARY FOR A SOUL
The world evaporates as a calm comes from within me.
God’s embrace comes in the stillness of my thoughts.
Kneeling at the altar of my heart seeking deliverance.
My partition reflects my resolution for reconciliation.
Tears of clarity flow for the presence of Jesus.
Jesus’s presence is a reminder of eternal life.
My transformation delivers redemption to my soul.
God’s sanctuary welcomes me to partake at the table.
It is this compassion of Jesus in which fills my cup everlasting
Now my life is of clarity given by Jesus's life for me.
A moment of liberation brings essence to my existence.
Life eternal has been given from the birth of the first star.
Clubbed clubbing
A chick band dance-
mix of "If You Could
Read My Mind" slaps
my face as I enter. De-
sensitized, sanitized,
stripped to the bone &
machine polished to the
point where the body
the skeleton belongs to
is barely recognizable.
What would chaos do?
Counter-
productive. He
held out his hand
to entropy &
had his fingers
bitten off. Now
he can no longer
hold out his
begging bowl,
& the ground's
too unstable to
rest it there.
Sometimes the results are pleasing
A Swedish botanist found
a cardigan amongst
some neglected fruit trees.
Trimmed in black, it bore
a skull & crossbones
insignia, & was buttoned
up on the wrong side. She
theorized this latter aspect
might present a unique
approach to a timeless prob-
lem, how to fit round
poems into square books.
Your / expressions of / interest are most welcome
That water festival is almost
here. The property is known
to contain pigeon lofts & new
electoral reforms, a World War
II flu vaccination campaign,
& several 1800s stables. It's ex-
pected some temperature records
will almost certainly be broken.
AFTER PRAYER
24434.
in my motherland,
there is no silence after salaam—
synchronized throes of supplicative frenzy. beads—rattling from invoking fingers & dropping from calloused foreheads;
and behind you, there's always a hum from someone who missed God's call.
POEM | WOLVES ON MY LAND
Panic days and nights,
As fear roams and rumbles my land,
Causing tough tears from helpless eyes,
Grieved groans from thirsty gullets
And craving clamour from hungry stomachs,
When all is embattled,
Of the infestation of cruel creatures ---- Wolves.
Black wolves.
They everywhere parade in packs,
With styles of superiority;of proclaiming leadership,
And desperate hunts towards the weak.
While the dreads of their detrimental feet,
Tremble and torment the land into disharmony.
Wicked wolves.
During dawns and dusks do they appear,
With their lowered noses to perceive preys,
And the enraging echoes
Of their howls shred the hearts,
And the wailing woofs of their barkings
Shudder away the dwellers' glimmers of hope.
All ears too weary
To persevere the grumblings of their growlings.
'Joint hands lift the load better',
Asserted our asleep ancestors.
So arise,my lands,all together!
In bind,in bundle,in bunch,
Let your souls awoken,
With tied and tightened spirit of repulsion,
Against the arbitrariness of their invasions,
And tender your voices in consolidation,
To silence their ascending crescendos.
For my land is vast for promising plants to sprout,
And not for wildness to tear into dismantlement.
looping
sun swallow tailpipe imagine
if
you will (dis)engage
enough the
wheel had inspired
then blanched
waves thrust (had to)
(could not once
have) you still
if hollow
then
(mis)applied spot checking
wings to beating lids
overwhelm sun
swallow
numb & flickering combos
friction
fumes
ghosts casting plumage
trouble catching spores
of magazine dramedy
merging ratio cynic
worm hello empty
verbal plights fringe
an inherited zebra
transformational
anytime
think
free
feet
plain zapping wrapper
doubled
etc.
smoke
& smell
& confab
& twigs
son
thought
sorrow
slob
leveled
digging
doubt
that larval tongue
disposed
sharpened
in
come
heavier sword
yorn pencil
adverbs
twitch
damp
pitch
pretense
making coral slump
thin invested dowel
swear an elbow swoon
rubble
rabble
fading pretense align
dewy rolled naps
left cigarette soaked
hurry
fit a
bowl.
archive mint
gone long
femur flush
fresh park
trenched symptom
overwhelmed
chief | portal |
joke store evangelical
conversation
piece,
stiff upper
bridge,
insulin
gap [tape
me
aghast spun
]. beam
tower [change
of l,i,f,e
function
, crumbs ,
lust , calendar
. finish bu
z z e s
a w ,
link meta
Jaw [sold
enough recent
verbiage in
toward t
o o k
]. bolt blister
s a haste
.
Busted Structures
Repossessive nomenclatures
; The Machine
That Kills
Bad Breath
; (restless on the verge of
sickening zero gravity /
windswept gym
floating like
a NaKeD
trash isLAND).
Frontier
plastic
umbilical skin
; TaG , You
’ Re
It. Ooooooh
, had
met amphibious
un,
plumed (tidal
germinating
asphyxiation
cross
roads).
Taught crossing
angelic STRUM
, BoMb , tonnage
s
ew
er housing complex
romance.
Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is the author of the books automatic message (Free Lines Press), combustible panoramic twists (Trainwreck Press), Pointillistic Venetian Blinds (Alien Buddha Press) and Vagabond fragments of a hole (Schism Neuronics). He has had numerous pieces published in various journals including Otoliths, Synchronized Chaos, M58, Don’t Submit!, BlazeVOX, RASPUTIN, Ink Pantry, Nauseated Drive, and experiential-experimental-literature. You can find links to his published work at joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com
THE MAN WHO THREW TANTRUMS
Catsup bleeding down the wall,
shattered lunch plate on the rug…
The old man’s angry.
Sometimes he throws glassware.
Sometimes, yanks a tablecloth.
Meals spiral to the floor--
a sodden mess of fries and gravy,
cracked cups, pasta-coated flowers,
and one lone ice cube rolling to a halt.
Take that, you wimps!
That old man’s anger is fierce.
Smash! Crush! Crucify!
Call my lawyers! Sue the bastards!
Get revenge.
Like a child, he can be distracted,
but he holds a smoldering grudge.
Barr, the Attorney General
who hushed up Muller’s report
won’t knuckle under this time.
Finds no evidence of election fraud,
and tells the world on prime time.
Damn the man! You’re fired!
Firing’s not enough—
flings crockery
while minions cower.
This angry man refuses to lose.
Calls a mob to D.C.,
winds them up with lies,
ignites them with his thirst for revenge.
But the crowd’s not big enough,
not yet bragging-sized.
So he tells Secret Service to ditch weapons-
detectors, let everyone in.
“They’re not here to hurt me.”
The volatile man unleashes his mob,
says he’ll join them at the Capitol.
Plans a speech on the steps,
or perhaps in Congressional chambers
where Pence is receiving electoral votes.
But the Secret Service driver has orders.
Can’t guarantee safety amid an armed riot.
So the angry man lunges.
One hand grabs the steering wheel;
the other, the driver’s throat.
Furious. Desperate.
He needs to be there at the Capitol
to browbeat Pence, threaten Senators,
make them all submit to his army of thugs.
They need to see his power.
Driven home instead, he sends an angry text
naming Pence as enemy.
Rioters broadcast the text,
erect a scaffold,
go hunting.
Aides send many panicked phone calls.
Says the angry man, “Maybe he deserves it.”
This is the man with a nuclear button.
Hey—
that would yank the rug out from under those
traitors!
Then they’d be sorry.
This man is ready to explode.
Crazy-angry.
CARTOON OF THE WEEK
Behind the barricade, a crowd heats up;
seethes with fury, eager to lash out.
The young suit on the safe side feels their vibes:
tense—like an aimed bow, ready to fire.
Walking towards the Capitol doors,
he raises high a fist--a sign: I’m with you.
You’re Trump’s army, but you’re also mine.
And our side has the power. We will win.
The mob responds with shouts, and starts to push.
The doors, now closed and locked, hide dire
change—
a nation’s ballots have deposed their idol.
This cannot be allowed. Trump says he won,
and he speaks as a man chosen by God,
a golden man who favors billionaires,
is praised by evangelicals, and those
who trust his words and never ask for proof.
The outraged crowd becomes a forward surge—
smashing windows, clubbing cops, a rout…
They swarm inside, checking floorplan maps,
looking for Pence and Pelosi, armed and grim.
Congressmen who gathered to do their job
fear and flee. But look—down one long hall,
a suited figure sprints, hell-bent for safety.
Now they’re not his mates. They lust for blood.
The man who raised his fist to these rough troops
is running for his life. A video clip
preserves his panic for posterity--
with sound track. Lilting music cheers him on.
Cheap obituary
Shot nerves clasp
undue cause
wrested from the brain.
They put to press
makeshift scrawls
their ill-bred worth.
A sick greed for more
knows which god
trite errors played
when night curtailed
this conjurer’s show—
some revolt four-squared
slow to touch
if matriarchy approves
a loveless life
indelicately owed
this one
fought for hinting trysts
plausibly taled
if funeraled loose.
It breaks that fast
naked words
shape of etiquette outdone.
Leave
To wed these blithe earth plumbs—
their end before they start.
Now they shelter their wombs
for fear they should be got
un-groomed from shot-out fields
civilization took, playing each
in games their worth
small lives little understood.
Through dirt and sludge
of needs made real
they take these in
duplicates of what enthrals
if done as work forgives
to come returned
in left behind
lost time their broke youth bid.
Concert at Palestrina
Light climbs the ground
relic poises.
It bribes in gain
of loved one’s devotion
pursed lips speak from,
loud their faith enticing.
Now it’s a truant kiss combative
the notions flesh scrapes of
unharnessed ambition
patriots adore.
Still, there is no mark here
save that which chants freedom,
our paled superstition
restless becoming
the postwar world.
It’s the subtle involvement
of a heart’s notes love gives to
so that what she comprises
are the scales of justice
we hope for
a concert outlining.
Coma
Our love formed of passion
thrown to fevered pitch.
It was of secret devotion,
that surabundance involved
prelude to a cause
where bonds were just such purchase
trite notions bled,
exchanged for remission
governance hid
along our boredoms at death.
Now to marrow it goes
and quick along
what traces each judgement
slight errors trend
of a séance attending
we neat grow from—
these, some mere throng contestant
the peace against your bed,
hand-held and endeavoured
wishing you’d contort in.
Our love formed of passion
and this, here in end.
Andrew Cyril Macdonald considers the role of inter-subjectivity in poetic encounter. He celebrates the confrontations between self and Other and the challenges that occur in moments of injustice. He is founding editor of Version (9) Magazine, a poetry journal that implicates all things theoretic. You can find his words in such places as A Long Story Short, Blaze VOX, Cavity Magazine, Experiential-Experimental Literature, Fevers of the Mind, Green Ink Poetry, Lothlorien, Nauseated Drive, Otoliths, Synchronized Chaos, Unlikely Stories and more. When not writing he is busy caring for seven rescued cats and teaching a next generation of poets.
