i-fifteen Sourdough and sharp cheddar— enter the daily entry into the journal— a quick lunch with a politically kneaded history. ii–three Say cozened, repeat. The red-tail on green carpet. Only in pencil. iii–two Cornstalks stalking, four to six feet, A chorus of scolding greets steps. Twelve days of abundance won’t quench. Cornstalks stalking, four to six feet, A squirrelish racket among the leaves. There is no song titled “Plight Of.” Cornstalks stalking, four to six feet, A chorus of scolding greets overstep. i-nine (so servile have i lived to my fears) for a short while i’ll have a cookie— ii–one Reminisce at the padded rataplanning of flam taps. Ruminate. Lament my atrophied sticking. The nuisance dog notices it’s been making no noise. Resent my easily exhausted grip. Notice the Chinaberry tree newly leafing. Mimic the mmmzing of the bumble bee at the screen. Another pickup pummels down the road.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Mark Young
klvat
Namaste, all.
Yelp is a fun & easy
way to find that the
official web site for
inputs used in inter-
state sales out of
Kerala is a low-power
television station
licensed to a
nun living in sin
in Garfield, Texas.
locale
Precis a place by its
skyline. In this case
microwave & water
towers, the smokestack
of the sugar mill, the
elegant but dated shape
of the old pump station,
in its current iteration
sitting idle as a simple
sign post for the stacks
of fertilizer & gravel &
sand that lurk beside it.
From the Pound Cantos: CENTO XXXV
Flame leaps from the hand, the
rain is listless. The backswell now
smooth in the rudder chains. Ply
over ply, thin glitter of water
quiet in the buff sands. Topaz,
I manage, & three sorts of blue.
Souls stained with recent tears —
first ill fate & then abundant wine.
The talks ran long in the night
& many things were set abroad
& brought to mind. Wherever the
speech crept, there was mastery,
an ear for the sea-surge. In the half-light,
mead & then sweet wine.
For Martin Edmond
Much more
cuckoo-
looking than the
male, with
its / barred tail
& brindled
body,
a
female koël
moves rapidly
from branch
to branch in the
large tree which,
incidentally, has
just come into
flower,
a
fact that is of
no import to
the bird, even
though, judging
by the attention
given her by the
two male koëls
that alternatively
trace or try to
anticipate her
movements, she
is in much
the same state.
Trapped in the ballet barre
Claiming to have more
than enough expertise
to transform the
marketing potential
of the space available on
the inner t-shirt into
venture capital, a
consortium of lentils
& lean beef has launched
a so-called “lads’ magazine”
which examines the
spiritual & therapeutic
benefits of taking
retreats into metaphysical
darkness whilst wearing
only flimsy underwear
Poetry from Clyde Borg
A PORTRAIT Her eyes followed me, Not like many portraits. It was a sly shifting, There and not there. Her breast seemed to heave, Much like her eyes stirred. She lived for a moment. I wondered why.
Poetry from J.K. Durick
Streams
Stepping across, carefully, there’s a stumble
built into this, a foot on the closest stone
then onto the next and next, till you have
crossed with your feet, shoes almost dry.
I did this in a dream last night, like when
I was young crossing that stream by my
in-laws camp in Bakersfield. It would be full
in the spring, the water racing downhill and
only a trickle by late summer. Crossing was
the challenge and I was young enough to do
it without thinking twice. And I remember
the stream up by Bingham Falls, even earlier
high school, college, and when I was first back
around here. I would step off and feel safe, so
surefooted that it was just another thing to do.
Now, even in my dream, I stumble then step out
and over, afraid the whole way, as if the streams
have been waiting for me, as cocky as I was,
waiting for me, ready to get their revenge.
Flee
They flee from me
from fear or instinct –
grey squirrels, the few red
even chipmunks run
scramble away
and birds of every feather
color and size, fly away
from something they fear
and yet
there I am, filling the feeders
sunflower seeds and seed mixes
handfuls of peanuts every morning
a free soup kitchen of sorts
but they flee from me
even when I use my soothing soft
voice, the one I reserve for small children
and animals of all sorts
and I make a real effort to seem
harmless, calm, slow moving
and yet
they flee from me
as if there’s a line we never can cross
and they’ll flee from me
regardless of what I try to do.
Last Day
With one day left before you leave
Planning becomes awkward
Dividing time between
The obligatory and the sentimental
Between the need to go and
The urge to stay
The what to do next and
The what can be left undone.
The hours slow down and
Then disappear
Get used up and are gone
As you become gone.
Last time I was caught in this
Awkward setting, this space and time
Twenty-four hours left
I walked around taking pictures
Random pictures of the place
I was leaving –
The table and chairs we sat in most
Afternoons, reading or just watching
The water around us
The statue we liked – that rabbit’s head
Its ears flopping forward
Even the couch and bedspread
And a single picture of my right foot
Held up to show the carpeting and how
Close my wife’s foot was on that carpet.
More the sentimental than the obligatory
But that’s what I did.
Poetry from Jalaal Raji
THE BLIND ARCHER Oh Love, how unfair and rude are you Shots without permission, of two hearts, one Makes him suffer the pain of heart, one blur hue While the other freely live in vain and fun With your arrows and bow, one like the mouth of a bay, you’ve made many a deceived sheep fall in love with the mouth-watering wolf, its death While he thinks he’d give him a sound sleep And Echo with Narcissus, the narcissistic angel-boy That her voice, in the cave she waited, vitiated to echo And through you she avenged on the one that toy For you made him fall for a self-nymph, his reflect Harmless you look though armed Can’t see that, because you’re blind Though sweet you infect, you’re wicked But the love of Aphrodite, your mother Is one soft, gentle, loyal and tender For she comes abreast only when you bid her That sweet I crave for in, and further On her lips I slept off when I kissed her For her love compared to yours is sweeter Shall you continue to make monkey fall for sparrow And you, partially with Psyche, but your bow and arrow
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
to kill any horse around welcome to the place where laughter died where the dreams of innocent children are hung from a tree for the birds to pick at and eventually slaughter where the crosses are burned with the same gasoline that the police use to trap the wrong colors on the wrong street on the wrong side of this town where the ghosts have enough drugs on them to kill any horse around where old poets seek a quiet death in some abandoned relic of a vibrant past when the creative ones only have violence left run for the fucking hills -------------------------------------------------------------------- nice and festive they have the christmas decorations up at the hospital they look nice and festive it's a quick smile before the doom starts a few doors down ---------------------------------------------------------------- sink deeper old lovers laugh at me as i sink deeper into this fucking depression all chances now officially pissed away toxic isn't even the beginning of it but the urgency of now still exists one fist for the bottle both fists for the gun there's bound to be a cold, lonely night before too long --------------------------------------------------------------------- i should change my ways my doctor told me the other day alcohol was slowly killing me i laughed and said my plan was finally working he didn't seem amused told me i should change my ways that train left years ago i told him i'm closer to being one of my heroes now he said i should pick better ones i laughed and told him if i would have had his life of privilege maybe that would have been possible ---------------------------------------------------------------------- a little closer than these old people were comfortable with i was following a blue car out of town i was running late and the blue car couldn't give two shits about going the speed limit i never tried passing the car i probably did get a little closer than these old people were comfortable with i breezed by them once we got on the highway, never bothering to even look over i was on the off ramp getting ready to turn when that blue car came by in the other lane honking the horn and giving me the finger i laughed hopefully, i'll get the chance to see that blue car in town one day you know, return the favor so to speak
Poetry from Gaurav Ojha
FREE, IF your past can’t recognize you for what you are now Free, IF you know that the face you carry is a mask that has been unmasked many times Free, IF you realize that you are a pretender that you always wanted to become Free, IF you can think even when they want to think for themselves but they can’t Free, IF you let your life speak rather than measure your being on the shadows of other lives FREE, you want to try again, even IF you have been tested out many times Free, IF you remain interested in something just to feel its resonances in your bones Free, IF you can travel on a bumpy road that doesn’t have any destination Free, IF you can let go of everythings you have for who you are FREE, IF you realize that your a selfish gene and you are only here for a brief survival Free, IF you recognize the difference between having and being Free, even IF someone closes the door on you, we are all under the same sky Free, IF you can imagine a possibility even when without any probability Free, IF you can walk in and out of the market without buying anything Free, IF you can suspect what you have been told with what has been discovered Free, even IF you have chosen the most traveled way, you know there is no other way out FREE, IF you are not framed within an idea or identity, which says you are us/not like them Free, IF you can meet someone for that moment, without diluting her present with past Free, IF you know that you have to carry a rock to the hilltop and roll the burden down Free, IF you realize that it's just a circus in rounds and the audiences admire their clowns FREE, IF you can find ALL in NOTHING and Nothing in All