(Peg-leg) Frida

“They thought I was a surrealist
but I wasn’t. I painted my own reality.”

Self-Portrait in a Velvet Dress
With Necklace
With hair loose
With monkeys
With necklace of thorns
On the borderline between Mexico and U.S.
Portrait of Luther Burbank as hybrid: half man, half tree
Henry Ford Hospital or The Flying Bed: The Miscarriage
My birth
I suckle
Memory 
or the Heart
The Two Fridas with Cropped Hair
The Dream
or the Bed
Self-Portrait with Braid
Thinking about Death
Me and My Parents
Thinking of Diego
The Broken Column
Without Hope
The Wounded Deer
Nucleus of Creation
Flower of Life
The Last Embrace of the Universe
Marxism Will Give Health to the Sick
Death is a Friend
	
 
Remedio Varo: The Mexican Years: Reversed

Phenomenon of Weightlessness
Still Life Reviving
Spiral Transit
The Arid Path
Vegetable Architecture
Vegetarian Vampires
Phenomenon
Unsubmissive Plant
Embroidering the Earth’s Mantle
Woman Leaving the Psychoanalyst
To Be Reborn
Ascension to Mount Analogue
Disturbing Prescence
Mimesis
Encounter
Hairy Locomotion
(for a) Cancer Ward (the mural)
Farewell
Celestial Pablum
Creation of Birds
Vegetable Cathedral
Magical Flight
Star Catcher
Magical Flight
Star Catcher
Three Destinies
Discovering
Useless Science (The Alchemist)
Solar Music
Weaving of Time and Space
 
Extreme Art Material: Memorial Art Gallery (2006)

Particulate Matter (smog) on porcelain plate with gold enamel
Garden hose, nylon cable ties and steel
Carrot Wheel: carrots
Plaster, pigment, shipping tags and SUV exhaust
The Ruin: U.S. five-dollar bill erased
Colors in Water: Superior: recycled metal zippers
Found Portraits from the Cambodian Killing Fields of Tuoi Sleng
Small Island: Smoke on silver plated tray
Natatorium Cactus: Swimming pool cover and cable ties
Untitled: Pencil shavings
Treasure Map: found drug bags and thread (Philadelphia)
Metamorphosis: Human hair and glue
Allergy Series: Polyurethane and dog hair, Polyurethane and 
contents of vacuum bag
Untitled: Polyurethane and toilet paper, polyurethane and
	Cigarette butts, epoxy, and dryer lint
Topographic Solution: Fish skins, fishing line, pigment, and steel
Geography of Thought: Pennies and wire
I Wonder: Orange peel and waxed linen thread
Eggshells mixed with resin
Peach pits mixed with resin
Twister: Bones, glue, sealants, glass, and silver
Untitled: Hair and glue on canvas
Untitled: Duck Sauce packets
Untitled: Blood, gold leaf, resin, and clay on board
After Vermeer: 4,669 spools of thread, clear vinyl tubing, aluminum
	hanging apparatus, 4-inch clear acrylic sphere and steel stand
There’s No Comfort in the Truth: Recycled cassette tape
Gravity’s Rainbow: Paper collage, pills, hemp leaves, acrylic and
	resin on wood

 
Eccentric Lives and Peculiar Notions Scrambled

Charles and Marjory Johnson, Lancaster, CA, the last stubborn,
	flat earth doctrine defenders
Describing the community that dwelt within the earth
Miss Bevan as Nesta Webster author of spine-chilling accounts
	Of hidden forces beneath the surface of history
The Christ Conspiracy: The Greatest Story Never Told
Path  of the Pole: Cataclysmic Poles Shifting Alters Geology
Mind Control =World Control
The Bridge to Infinity
Liquid Conspiracy: Truth behind the acronyms: JFK, LSD,
	CIA, Area 51, and UFO’s
The Man Who Got Letters from Statues
Stones of the Temple of the Dragon erected by Welsh Druid
	revivalists
Lost Continents and Hollow Earth
Other Findings of Revisionist Geographer
Extraterrestrial Archaeology
Worlds in Collision
Occult Ether Physics
People with Holes in Their Heads
The Lost Teaching of Atlantic
Atlantis the Antediluvian World
Architects of the Underworld
Men and Gods in Mongolia
Photographs of “flying saucers around the mother ship”
The Ant-gravity Handbook
NASA, Nazis, and JFK
The Harmonic Conquest of Space
The Purpose, Intent and Overview of Extraterrestrial Visitations
Somewhere in the Night
The Fallen Sky
The Bomb that Fell on America

 
The Many Lives of Lee Miller (abridged)

As model
Nude studies as a full developed teenager by her father
Work as a fashion designer
Controversial Model for first Kotex Ad
Solarized by Man Ray
Her Work as a Photographer
As a subject of Surrealists
As a Surrealist
Man Ray’s Nude Bent Forward was Lee
The shadow pattern on her torso by Man Ray
Breakfasting in bed reading with Tanja Ramm beneath a wall 
	hanging by Cocteau
The lips for Man Ray’s iconic The Lovers
Portrait Photographer of Gertrude Lawerence
Josephy Cornell superimposed with ne of his many objects
Sel-Portrait as Fashionista
Married in Egypt shooting frame from the top of Great Pyramid
Her Portrait of Space inspiration for Magritte’s, La Baiser
The Picasso Abstract Portrait of Lee
Literally charming snakes in Egypt 1938
Her suggestive (erect) Cock Rock (formation)
Duty calls as a War Correspondent in Europe
Glum Glory in her uniform off to document the war
Posed at the entrance of an Air raid shelter with mask, eye shield 
	and air raid danger warning whistle
A “non-conformist chapel” as rubble
Bombed out, “Bridge of Sighs” London
Shattered roof of University College reflected in pool of rainwater
Henry Moore in a suit sketching in Holborn underground station
	While Londoners huddle beneath blankets trying to sleep
Emergency field surgery, Normandy
Lee in uniform in Picasso’s liberated studio, Paris
Colette, Aged 71, embroidering in her apartment
Moroccan troops outfitted for winter in snow, Alsace
Dead soldier, “There is a good German. He is dead!”
Suicide daughter of Burgermeister, Leipzig reclining on a couch
Statues covered by camouflaged nets make a landscape like a 
	Painting by Yves Tanguy, Germany 1945
Among the first to enter the camps: Dachau dead, 1945
Lee bathing in Hitler’s bathtub, Munich 1945
Lee dressed as Marcel Duchamp’s Mona Lisa at a party c)1954
After she died her son found trunks of her work stored in the attic,
He had no idea she had been a photographer

Jacques Fleury marches in the long parade headed by drum major Walt Whitman. But many observers from the street are still uncertain of the spectacle. One of Whitman’s early literary friends and admirers, John Townsend Trowbridge, recalled that he found in the poet’s first (1855) edition of Leaves of Grass “much that impressed me as formless and needlessly offensive; and these faults were carried to extremes in the second and enlarged edition of 1856” and that much of the early criticism centered on “his unrhymed and unmeasured lines.” And Trowbridge also referred to Ralph Waldo Emerson’s remark on Whitman’s later work: “No more evidence of getting into form.” Whitman was ignored by the establishment for most of his writing career, and when noticed he was reviled and ridiculed, but his work was the beginning of what is known as free verse.

While free verse has become the dominant form of contemporary American poetry, and has largely shucked its socially “offensive” character, it still has many detractors among those who relish what Whitman called the “ballad style,” with its emphasis on rhythm and rhyme. Although he also indulges in rap-style rhyming, Fleury reflects on this dichotomy between acceptable and unconstrained poetry (imposed by “an all-white order” with its “long history” of imposing its “cultural values and / Socio-political power” in his free verse poem, “Random Musings about Submission,” in which he reflects on the rejection of one of his poems by a nameless publication, “Thank you for your submission. But your work is not a good fit for our publication.” In response, Fleury launches into a racially-charged defense of his identity as a non-binary non-WASP poet, writing as “an ignoble omnivorous muskrat.” After tracing his poetic heritage back to the epics of Gilgamesh, Beowulf, and Roland, he demands an “all-inclusive literary faction / Where ALL postulatory voices are worthy of publication” and he vows to continue to submit but NEVER to their behest for submission!!!”

In “Who Am I?” Fleury further defines his identity as a “multilayered entity … / a building block of heterogenity.” (He briefly adopts an effective set of off-rhyme couplets, “I am a malady / I am a remedy / I am a rainbow / I am a shadow”), while in another poem, “Possible Causes and Effects of Cited High Blood Pressure,” he itemizes standard medical data (family history of heart disease, poor dietary and sleep habits) and adds racism to the list. However, despite the bitterness expressed in much of his work, he also notes, in “The Only Way to See the Stars…,” that such seeing is “through the darkness.” 

So Fleury’s free verse is free enough to incorporate occasional diversions into “ballad style” renderings. But, again according to Trowbridge, even Whitman’s own pioneering “writings became … more consciously literary in their aim.” Or, as Emerson remarked, in a different context, “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.” 

Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian-American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self”  & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of  Wyoming , Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, amazon etc…  He has been published in prestigious  publications such as Muddy River Poetry Review, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at:  http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.

Duane Vorhees is an American poet in Thailand. He is the author of THE MANY LOVES OF DUANE VORHEES, HEAVEN, GIFT: GOD RUNS THROUGH ALL THESE ROOMS, MEMORIES ARE LINKED LIKE OASES, A CONSIDERABLE SHARE OF FELICITY, and THE WOMB AND THE BRAIN. Born in Farmersville, Ohio, USA, he graduated from Bowling Green State University with a doctorate in American Culture Studies. He has taught at Seoul National University, Korea University, and the Asian Division of the University of Maryland University College (now the University of Maryland Global Campus).

My green country in Monsoon’s lap

Monsoon clouds gather, dark and deep,

Rivers swell, their secrets to keep.

Paddy fields dance in the pouring rain,

Life awakens, free from pain.

Children splash in puddles wide,

Nature’s bounty, a vibrant tide.

In every drop, a story flows,

Bangladesh breathes as the monsoon grows.

Wazed Abdullah is a student in grade nine at Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.

Love to family

My love to my family,

To my brother, sister, mother.

A piece for my dad too,

My way is a sidewalk.

I honor my father,

I respect my mother.

My brother and sister,

Of course I care.

Abdurrahman, Umida,

He respects me.

With kind words to me,

He tasted honey from his tongue.

Daddy loves me

He caresses and hugs.

what i say will do

What can I say?

My mother is kind,

Every word has magic.

My mother is my only one

The whole world is one piece.

My sister is surprised

My brother is a wrestler.

Inspiration cries to me,

A propeller in my head.

My family is my happiness

My throne in the world.

“Family is the holy place”

The words madhim-ku.

Ilhomova Mohichehra is a teacher of the 8th grade of the 9th general secondary school of Zarafshan city, Navoi region.

RAIN IN MY EYES

The rainbow appeared

behind the lines of rain,

the worries and troubles of stis,

carved verses

where the west burned,

in the braided flower,

we put a wreath.

You can’t see the rainbow

it didn’t rain a little,

in my eyes…!

AUTUMN LOVE IN PRISTINA

We met in the fall,

in the amphitheater you tweet…

the streets of Pristina,

in the cold night,

shoot me like a mountain fairy.

the stars were aligned

that summer evening in your tear,

we were both lost in the untouched oasis

and the lips stopped at the sounds FlokArtë.

Why did we travel, tell me why

in the cold winter and snow,

the beaming sun gave us a gift,

you ray of sunshine lit me siashra.

Why did we run to the meadows, why

in the early spring fragrance of love

we pray to the flowers of the green field,

embraced we felt exotic intoxication.

THE POET’S MUSE

The poet,

They give the words a meadow color

evoke memories in torn maps

does not believe in the miracles of the Mountain Fairies

of the world forgives love!

The poet cooks the word

in the magic of poetry,

in the chain the verses of the verses

stigmatizes renegades

with the measure of memory

in the arboreal fireplace.

Poet, in verse

the storm and the sun in the sun bring,

the figures are planted with love,

under the word

it bakes a world

that you don’t know

fused into crystal…

on the poetic harp you compress it.

The poet dreams

Aphrodite in the light of the lantern,

and he engraves the stalagmites in the cave

in the poetry book

AFTER CENTURIES

After centuries we will get drunk

On the salty altar

we will remember your escape in the spring,

the colors will change,

there will be neither red, nor black, nor green

it will be only blue;

there will be no age, only death

 neither school, nor court, nor work,

the whole thing will be like a game…

there will be sea in overtime

life will develop there in the depths,

ships will sail without gas

my dear

The air will be polluted

and the oxygen will be rarefied,

rain will not fall, nor snow, nor typhoon

there won’t be, everything will be the same

in ruins of centuries,

abandoned houses that people are looking for,

fierce wars will be fought

they will cry: bread, air and palaces

with your absence,

that day will come after a few centuries,

where you and I will eat in glass dishes

and we will knit the verses

on the silk fabric,

they will be fed to the spotted birds

and drunk, that day will come very soon,

my love…

these verses will be: proof of a love.

Lan Qyqalla, graduated from the Faculty of Philology in the branch of Albanian language and literature in Prishtina, from Republika of Kosovo. He is a professor of the Albanian language in the Gymnasium. He has written in many newspapers, portals, Radio, TV, and Magazines in the Albanian language and in English, Romanian, Francophone, Turkish, Arabic, Italian, Greek, Swedish, Hindu,  Spanish, and Korean.

Antelope Field

There are antelope
in the field down
the road. Okay, 
well maybe not
antelope, but nyala
or oryx. & maybe
it’s not a field
but a patch of
garden which in
reality is too small
for the eland &
in reality is not
even a garden but
a window box in
which the cat sits
soaking up the sun. 
& since I don’t have
a window or a cat
it’s quite possible 
that this scene
from the wilds is
nothing more than a
screensaver that
comes on after
I’ve been away from
the PC for at least
three minutes. Which
I haven’t been, I’ve
been sitting here
all the time. So maybe,
just maybe, it all
comes down to
a plasma rectangle
that is framed by
tool- & scroll-bars
but is otherwise
entirely white except
for the two words 
floating at the top.
Field. Antelope.



Putsch

He picked
up whatever 
thoughts
were upper- 
most in 
his mind at 
the time 

ran with them
for a while

& then 
discarded them
as if they were the 
children of 
a past regime.


Nijinski reminisces

Exuberance
is in an eye
much more

beholden
to the magic
of the mo-

ment than to 
the pattern
of the dance.




Inside knowledge

Or:
knowing where
the bodies are
buried. 

Or:
knowing when
the berries are
bodied.


On Journeys

The shape of the journey
has something to do
with color. A small part
but important. The color
has to do with the shape
of those things you are
looking for. Also important,
not so small. The taste lies

on your tongue. Sound is
restricted by allowing one
album to come along with
you. Either earphone music 
or that playlist in your mind
cycling through an endless loop.

Call Me Well Again

I’ve survived another you

saliva infectious 

dreary and shopworn

I tear through the streets wildly 

search for 

someone’s discarded shred of home 

soft sheets 

a fireplace perhaps

light operatic music 

it’s just a fantasy

non-existent

any minute your truck will come barreling through

my thoughts of salvation

I’ll get by on a lower dosage 

of you

We’ll cut it down to three days a week 

I’ll end up stalking you

grip the light post 

to climb the rim of the dumpster 

try to peer in 

your window 

You’re agitated now 

I’m so low I’m a slinking

belly scraping beggar 

no real reason I’m lingering outside 

in thirty-five degrees 

wearing a denim jacket 

you shuffle me to the truck

I’m edging away 

from two failed marriages 

put it all on them 

but it was me me me 

When I’m well again

I’ll come calling

fresh as babies’ skin

holding a tray of Starbucks

While I Wait for my Lover 

The buzz and hum of New York City

fills the air 

I tuck into a restaurant for cover 

small

Italian 

quiet 

The couple at the table next to me

sort through sonogram prints

I feel a pang of jealousy at 

the little fetus forming in this woman’s 

belly

My lover 

late – and certainly not mine alone 

has no interest in children 

For his sake 

I forego this 

I cannot help but stare 

longingly into the abyss of those 

black and whites 

that little heart 

tiny head

this embryo I turn my body 

away from 

for martyrdom 

yet it’s the thing that calls to me

from some primal part of

my makeup 

I’m on the edge now

sacrificing the eggs 

I feel bouncing around 

in my uterus 

for some blind pact 

that later seals the deal

of which we will be much 

happier 

together 

without kids 

While I Wait for my Lover (Cont.)

The woman feels my eyes 

says it’s a boy

smiles uncontrollably 

I worm around in my seat

the couple finally gone

I am left alone

and this is how it will be

as I decided I’ve passed that exit 

many many highways before 

I’ll just wait for my lover to show up 

and order us scotch on the rocks 

for the long pull of loneliness 

has begun to root 

What Will Your Mother Say

When she finds your corpse

with foam bubbling

down your chin

eyes sunk deep 

in your sockets

black spreading around

your lids and mouth

the needle still stuck

frozen

You

in your aloneness

You 

in your dying

As your mother cracks open

lays across you

the spoon now cold

your spirit beats against the window 

pleads

with God

to let you

back in

To see her in a pile 

of grief and longing 

so deep

your soul evaporates

into the pain

What will she tell

your siblings

the school

the bus driver

the crossing guard

it was an accident

always is

Wait for the autopsy

to understand

what went wrong

deep in the gully of absent parenting 

divorce

boyfriend fondlers

What Will Your Mother Say (Cont.)

booze

cigs

marijuana

heroine

here……..

As you lay hardened

frothing

a slow last milky tear oozing

She still wants you

she begs 

to glue you 

for a day – just one day

even if it’s your druggy lean against the wall

eyes open to a slit

turtle movements 

slurred speech

if just that…than the hell of this 

to speak of you

now

in your deadness