Poetry from J.J. Campbell

White man with a beard and glasses and a beard and a mustache. He's in a room with some music and movie posters on the walls. He has a Black Lives Matter tee shirt with purple text on a black background.
the 2020 election
 
so over seventy million
people voted for racism
for fascism, for the thought
that money is more important
than people
 
most of these ignorant fucks
are from families lincoln
should have slaughtered
after the civil war
 
instead, the losers got to tell
the story of that war and you
get what we have here
 
generation after generation
of stupid fucks breeding
even more stupid fucks
 
ignorance is a disease
and no one in this country
seems to like the cure
 
they are more than proud
to be stupid and dress
themselves in the flag
and think that makes
them patriotic
 
and if they are willing to
die for their racist leader
 
let them
 
thin that fucking herd
forever
-------------------------------------------------------------------
raven haired beauty
 
she was a woman
straight out of a
springsteen song
 
a raven-haired beauty
full of desire with eyes
that could burn through
your soul
 
as much as i longed
for a kiss
 
i was hoping that she
would be what would
kill me
 
take me from this world

once and for all
---------------------------------------------------------------------
some kind of loss or relief
 
i suppose i was supposed
to feel like some kind
of loss or relief when
my father died
 
it was neither
 
it had been over twenty
years since i had seen
or spoken to him
 
it was like being told a
ghost had finally been
captured and killed
 
i thought of it as a
tuesday and i must
have stumbled onto
some television station

i barely watch anymore
--------------------------------------------------------------------
unless provoked
 
all my friends
have moved on
 
i sadly never
got the chance
to do so
 
i'm never good
at burning bridges,
unless provoked
 
yet another joy

of apathy
-------------------------------------------------------------------
a difference of opinion
 
i never thought
of myself as
an addict
 
apparently
 
the authorities
have a different

standard

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He’s been widely published over the last quarter century, most recently at Dumpster Fire Press, The Rye Whiskey Review, The Black Shamrock Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy and Terror House Magazine. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Poetry from J.D. Nelson

water to say when

an open file for your thoughts
is that a real dream to make it a market face?

a robot for the world
see it glisten in the sunlight?

gestures of the clown
clean ship with a chip machine

willow pane
we have a shriveled grape ready to go

celery king says to watch the show with a bowl of celery
a new earth buggy with wings

air elke fixture

the clouds are eating the earth
the head says to let the light in

I am the earth’s greatest detective
that tattered ghost is a serious mover

earth is the outpost for the better machines
mask head is a new enlightened being

what happens when we rearrange the head
we convince the earth to eat a salad

all possible nouns in the lost creature bath
the paper brain to be used

a cold face in that shoe
earth gets wet again

with a new hammer
parallel raisins

earth is a triceratops ghost model

to understand the miller hog
wet-naps in the sink

cool brute the trumpet player
miracle claus the humming shrimp

I wanted to do this for a penny
as numb as a sport fork

for the carbon it takes
at the outpost of the inner world

going for a walk inside of the red sun
the pushing machine is ready to run

that good looking gold was a bird on the perch
canopy burger not showing the head

a new earth pretzel

I was a photocopy machine
I was a belonging machine

the sparkle is a tangible name of the world
pie cooling now on the windowsill

action sound is a news bulletin
the garish head of the power

I spent the nickel that the machine spit out at me
pancake flap earthly

to build a beige bridge too
last semester was the child of the sun

that cornmeal platform from the beginning
the color of the currency was changed to red

the cheap leather to make a couch

earth had the key
that old bread head

there is a learning banquet for those who pass the test at the learning mountain

yeah, a smart card
all the way from the red zone

the nocturnal nesting of the hands ready to scratch

we don’t have the change in the jar to hold us over
after that incident with the bad trees coming in and demanding all of our money

x on the x ort

captain cookie’s cape
the crunch is the night of the bat

we hear the hem of the egg
this is the shape of the flea

the bright wound of the flowers
on this truck is the doctor

the flea of the centered laugh
the salad of the front fork

the serious world of the clamor
the wall of the pirate yuck

on the planet of keys and butter
the last of the dolphins

bio/graf

J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poetry has appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). His work has recently appeared in E·ratio, Maintenant, Otoliths, BlazeVOX, and X-Peri. Visit www.MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Colorado.

Poetry from Rikki Santer

 
 
Detours
  
Couple bottles of Boone’s Farm that Belinda’s 
older brother got for us at A & C Beverage 
when we met up with him around the corner 
and of course the peyote buttons and we were off
cruising country backroads in my mom’s ’63 Impala
convertible that last summer night after graduation
when we found a moist valley of fireflies that 
swallowed us like the sparkling, star-filled sky
as if we entered a Kusama Infinity Mirror
when time was giving us a second chance
to lose ourselves before maturity showed up
with handcuffs and magicked the key away.
  
Midnight phantom footfall inside the bedroom
ceiling and the scene dissolves out of focus
and then into focus again
landing me in that prickly flip of past,
not to repair history in order to save
a Joan of Arc or Soulika sister,
but to squirm into my middle school locker
so that this time Ruth White won’t find me
with her punches when I take the last
chocolate pudding cup in the cafeteria
before she can get her spoon-ringed
fingers around it.
  
A jet stream snares me, squeezes me
through jalousie window slats
to territory of bigger/faster/more/more/more
instead of snailing through sweaty lines
of government cheese and unemployment.
How to make doppelgänger sense of it,
these roundabout visits that send me rewinding
to never meet up with Gus who stained me
with a mickey he claimed was the size of a whale’s.
  
How can I be my best ingredient,
in glory to each birthday’s butter cream?
To follow the next trail of twine
through hallways where Easter eggs
are painted zygotes and that if I swallow one,
I could clear my throat of trouble.
  
  
  
 Clothes Horse
  
 You like wearing a soup of polka dots
 with rascally pockets 
 and that hat of ostrich-egg-over-easy.
 You’re a landscape
 seen through pinhole, born for knowing how
 to keep your clothes
 dancing. Passersby nod through clouds around you,
 gardenia with a bit of ginger on top.  
 Sometimes you’re in the habit
 of spandex, buttery soft camel toe
 whispering for guests.
 Sometimes you’re all in for the dissenting swag
 of a judge’s collar.
 But always you’re hungry for the click & collect,
 or thrifting
 in the hunt for your next highlight reel.
 Closets never enough,
 scarves and gloves and bracelets color-sorted
 in the pantry.
 You tell us it was the shapeshifting of adolescence
 that got you here, 
 the scripture of accessory,
 the rebel arithmetic of your  
 outsiderness + your outside-ness
 = bondage trousers, chain mail nose
 ring, neon spikes for hair.  
 Now it’s martingale back and designer
 pouch with teacup pooch.  
 You say you always wear your soul on
 your sleeve, your style slippery or stonewashed. 
 And there you go again, chiffon creature 
 preening in limelight,  combat boots prancing
 for romantic notions like sprezzatura 
 and je ne sais quoi.
             

  
 Rod Serling Takes a Stab at Stand Up
  
  
 Before he says anything he draws deep
 on a fresh Chesterfield and turns his head
  
 to profile so he can better think sideways.
 Swish pan / swish pan / swish pan / ah,
  
 there’s the ringmaster, hot light, hot mic 
 and he’s rapier thin cool in a black mohair 
  
 3 roll 2 sack suit and crispy white oxford
 spread collar.  Glad you all could make it tonight 
  
 because you’re traveling now with the best 
 dressed man in any dimension. Rod straightens
  
 his Brooks Brothers double stripe and clenches
 his jaw for the baritone glide.  I just flew into
  
 town an hour ago and boy, are my gremlins
 tired.  Rod straddles a stool. You know, some 
  
 people call me the Arthur Miller of science 
 fiction TV, but my wife calls me television’s 
  
 Groucho Marx of  eyebrows…Yeah, I’m a
 Jewish kid born on December 25, that one 
  
 Christmas Day my parents had something else
 delivered besides Chinese take out.  He grips
  
 the mic and a beam of light launches off his
 silver military bracelet. You might have
  
 heard I was a paratrooper during WW2,
 but hell, that wasn’t half as harrowing as 
  
 battling with TV sponsors… I’m no dummy
 but we all know what it is to look into the face
  
  
 of the Twilight Zone—you have to have toilet
 paper with you at all times for the doo-doo- 
  
 doo-doo… But seriously, I do hold the record for 
 winning 6 Emmys in outstanding writing for a 
  
 drama series but what the hell do those two aliens
 in the front row care.  They’ve probably got better
  
 jokes on their planet, like “an Earthling and a Martian
 walk into a diner”… A mound of ash has been softly 
  
 growing near his Florsheims. My daughters keep 
 telling me that I smoke too many cigarettes, but then 
  
 I remind them of our digs in Pacific Palisades and
 Cayuga Lake, and they stop nagging me. Oh yeah, 
  
 Sometimes I like playing the“ In Rod We Trust” card.
 Rod drops his cigarette butt to the floor and rubs it 
  
 out with his shoe.  So that’s my time, folks.  I’m heading
 back home now to the hacienda and when I get there, 
  
 I’ll walk into my study, sit down, put paper in the typewriter, 
 fix the margins, turn the paper up, and bleed.
  
 
  
 Consider                                
  
When you consider a pitch to end all pitches, a pitch for
angels some say, for what  materializes in the dusty corners
of your apartment, a pitch as delicate as Shantung Silk 
carried across ocean in satchels underneath the ruby 
throats of birds, then your perfumed scarf will touch 
down upon a vestibule’s tapestry rug and proclaim 
the final exit.  How euphemisms spiral into themselves
as our pendulums slow, and cantankerous static clings
to our nose hairs. How we want to chew the date off
our ticket to the Imperial Lounge and just keep rolling
around a lush field, olly olly oxen free. How we yearn
to get drunk on cocktails of instant smiles and 
cellular serums, our pinkies tapping our lips. 
How we limit, to a parakeet mirror, our scavenger hunts
for wrinkles and dearly pay to have done what alchemists
do with plastic. Death will launch the trajectory
of our accumulating selfies and leave us with our
monkey minds godsmacked like undigested bits of beef. 
So wag your tongue all you want at that grandfather clock
and swath your phone in a crochet shawl to muffle calls
from the grave. Branch shadows will play upon your
sleeping face and your scarab ring, too loose now
for your fingers, will twang to the floor. 
No such place as exactly what happened.  
  
  
  
Poetry Accessories
  
after Rod Serling’s “The Bard”         
  
 spurs of moment + tertiary motivation 
 + worn copy of Ye Book of Ye Dark Arts 
 that flies off top shelf + riddle for riddling 
 + doodle for doodling + fecund uncertainty 
 + that crazy moon + blacks, whites & grays 
 spring-loaded + quill pen at attention 
 + title/act/scene/cup-inside-cup-inside-cup 
 mash-ups from Brother Will + sand conjured 
 from your loafers + first picture book cherished 
 + porcelain tureen with footnotes brimming 
 + six-foot hot dog bun for napping under stars 
 + dust motes whirling in sunbeam 
 + pixel by pixel hearing + gaze unmediated & gliding 
 + cockles squirming your heart 
 Harpo’s harp in barbed wire 
 + Méliès’s flash, dazzle & poof 
 + world too small to be satisfying 
 + horsepower via headstone + va va voom +
 ipsy dispsy  + za za zoom
  
 
  
   

Poetry from Stephen Williams

Overtaking

You’ve led a life of doing many things

but now shadows overtaking

slowing of your stride

slit of eyes and cold hands

sudden and surprising

longing for when you’re ultimately free

humming your story

only part of your remembering

tightness in the throat

hero and fool

balanced in-between by circumstance

love hopefully

a someday soon apex

as the world chaos

judges you

not caring of the evidence

jail or to the barren desert

perhaps a guillotine

but a pardon from an unknown source

yet knowing in your spirit the truth

a release at midnight through a squeaking gate

the long walk

searching for the lost family

where are they

how to find them

building endurance

time of little time

striving on for contentment

the hope

in the breath of a new believing

of the old belief

racing over earthquakes

shaking streets and rattling windows

people watching you but most in the quick

stir of their own silliness

their own fear turned backward

and you realizing

you were and are one of them

an endless family

so you pray

oh how you pray

cup of hands filling with salt and tears

some of the who and what of God

praying and praying

until the climax finally overtaking.

Short prose from I RΛM 0

DIGITOPIΛ

Technology conglomerates will access transcendental languages, localities, and emotions. Digitization shall enable nations to eliminate tactile human engagement to speed up global development – scaling and management…sans human capital. User culture will become multi-sensory, as digital technology transcends behavior responsiveness.

Shapeshifters teleport deep into the human psyche as post-mortem cyborgs intuitively track user migration toward unnavigated web sectors (ergo eternity). Virtual designers post-construct our digital experience and, in the process, self-/co-create and viralize the omniverse. Human thought is rendered obsolete as augmented data decimates theoretical relativity.

As post-apocalyptic users, how will we feel and process the inevitable – an existential shift from organicity to digitopia? How shall we determine and our browsing instincts sans emotionality in the midst of the digital monetization of conglomeration? Extending beyond collectivism – this Internet (War) of Things (IWOT)..or is it the Internet War ON Things (i.e., the digital piratization of tactile spaces mutating into an emotionless omnipresence)?

Poetry from Jake Cosmos Aller

Christmas Bombing in Nashville

There was a Christmas bomber

In Nashville one day

While watching the news

About the Christmas bombing

I am filled with curiosity

Who was this monstrous man?

Who was he?

What did he want to do?

Why did he do it?

What is the deep meaning behind it all?

The suspect said

To a neighbor

The day before Christmas

I have good news

I will become so famous

Nashville will Never forget me

Then this 63-year-old –white man

A reclusive strange man drove his RV

A believer in the shapeshifting lizard conspiracy

Perhaps a Q cult member as well

Drove his RV

filled with home-made explosive devices

To an ATT office building

Blew himself up inside the RV

Damaging 43 buildings

Knocking out power

The internet and cell service

The silence from the political leaderships

Speaks volumes

If he were a Muslim, an immigrant

A foreigner, a black or brown man

Authorities would be denouncing it

As an act of terrorism

And everyone will anxiously be wondering

When the next bomb will go off

And authorities will be hunting

The land for his associates

Fanning the fear

Driving the news cycle

Instead, we find out

 he is just a pathetic old man

Who was sad,

 which make us all mad

That he could do such a thing

And soon this will fade

Into our collective memory

There was a Christmas bomber

In Nashville one day

And we all forget it

Soon enough

It was just another day

In our crazy whacked outland

In these sad days of the pandemic 

We see the homeless people

Men, woman, and children

The strangers sleeping on the streets

In the richest country

In the planet

Millions were driven homeless

The strangers Sleeping on the streets

As rents go up and up

Jobs disappearing

Coronavirus spreading

The strangers sleeping in the streets

Social safety nets unraveling

Forcing more people

Into dire poverty

There but for the grace of God

We do not say to the Strangers

sleeping in the streets

As we walk by

The nameless men, woman, children

The strangers Sleeping in the streets

We seldom wonder

How they got there

And whether we can help them

The strangers sleeping on the streets

All too often

We walk on by

Consumed by own problems

Having little empathy

For the strangers sleeping on the street

Just enough for coffee

A homeless man

Stood on the street

Counting his change

From panhandling all morning

Just had enough for a cup of coffee

All in all

A good start

He ambled off to his favorite coffee shop

Where the owner

Was kind to the homeless

Sometimes

Treating them to a meal

On the house

The man said

I was in your shoes

Once years ago

And you never forget

When you are down

And out

Everyone forgets your face

No one knows your name

For you are now

Invisible

Almost a ghost

The old man tried to pay

The owner said

Keep your change

You need it more than me

Have a meal with me

My friend

On the house

He ordered up

The homeless man’s favorite

Lumberjack special

Eggs, pancakes, sausage, bacon

Cornbread

Lots of hot black coffee

To wash it down

The old man

Often had just one meal a day

Usually, a late breakfast

Sometimes if he were lucky

He would have dinner

And on a red-letter day

He would have three meals

The homeless man

Had been on the streets

For too long

Barely remembered his life

Before early-onset Alzheimer’s

Robbed him of his job

His dignity

His wife

His life

His money

Now he drifted

Waiting for the grim reaper

To call him home

Any day now

He prayed nightly

To a god

That he no longer believed in

Eve in the Garden  Eats the Apple

Eve was in the garden

Talking with Mr. Snake

Her new best friend

She was complaining about Adam

And about the management

Of the garden

The snake suggested she eat

The forbidden fruit

She said but the man

Said that I can not eat

That fruit

It is forbidden

Yeah that is what the man said

That is what he does not want you

To experience

The man and Adam

Are in on it together

I heard that Adam

I Will eat the apple tonight

But you need to get there first

Do you trust me, Eve

Of course, Mr. Snake

So you know what to do

Eve ate the apple

Called Adam over

Told him to eat the apple

While the Snake chanted

Eat it eat it

Set yourself free

And so Adam ate the apple

And joined Eve

In knowing everything

God came down

Banished them from the garden

Telling them

Well you made the bed

You will have to sleep in it

Go away

You disgust me

Humans…..

And Satan

You won your bet

You damn Snake