Dark Blank Space Night swallows the brown mountains and replaces it with dark blank space. The birds must have been fed poison because there is not one in the horizon. The devil went and stole their voices too. A mini-hell has taken hold between one a.m. and two a.am. This is when all hell breaks loose. Read the papers. Nothing good happens at these hours. This dark blank space finds itself lodged inside my brain over and over again. I sleepwalk at these hours and find myself in the kitchen drinking until I pass out on the cold floor. * Out of the Sky If white doves fall out of the sky, who will save me without wings? I tremble at the mere thought. Who will save me without wings? The stars fall out of the sky. They are drowned out at sea. No one could put out the fire while all the birds fall in as well. Who will save my eyes as they stand witness? Who will pour me drinks? I have one arm tied behind my back. I stick out my tongue at the voice that contemplates my suicide. The stars and birds burn at sea. I love the colors but hate the carnage. I suppose the sea will birth new stars and birds. I will believe it when I see it. The streets are too dim and quiet without them as I walk towards the sea. * A Shoe for a Nose The clouds gather in the sky. I see one that looks like a face with a shoe for a nose. Another one looks like a bat missing a wing, the left one. Blue skies and white clouds provide nourishment for these eyes that would rather see them than another newspaper article about the end of a life. A lovely sunny day and clear skies with a handful of clouds is all I can stand today. Perhaps I will eat tacos and the day will be perfect.
Poetry from Taylor Dibbert
Not the One By Taylor Dibbert Clear eyes, Chin up, Like, Henley said, Bloody, But, Unbowed, Turns out, She wasn’t, The one, After all.
Poetry from Kahlil Crawford
THE PEOPLEWATCHER He sits in the corner of the neighborhood coffeeshop. He's on his 5th cup. His stained white shirt hangs from sulking limbs - cuffs folded across ashy forearms. His timepiece is scuffed beyond repair - it's missing a link or two and pinching his skin. His cracked lips are curled in a permanent smirk and his wiry grey & brown beard has seen better days - brighter than the pale blue pupils dug deep behind his eyelids. He downs his last drop of coffee, bums a smoke from the neighboring table and walks out the side door. ---- 5314 (lungta)* lite yellow brick wrapped around the intersection @ Kimbark & 53rd: 3-levels in the trees levitating above the charcoal pavement & black tar lines ⭐ inhaling the goings-on; a circumference of snickering crickets, staccato Orniths, flapping leaves, sticky footsteps rolling strollers, khaki mail carts, gurgling motors & urgent voices. the soundtrack: a symphony of plastic hip-hop, vinyl soul and jeeps booming at the stop sign puncturing the steel breeze. * “lungta” translates to "wind horse" ---- * 遺品整理 My first estate sale is a recurring memory - one of several that seem too random to permanently occupy my mental real estate: Is it the quaint Ravenswood setting that refuses to abandon my inner vision? Or is it the early-mid century architecture that predominates the city's apartment dwellings?; Perhaps it was the immaculate arrangement of imported artifacts from the deceased's Japanese homeland. Aesthetically, this estate sale was superior to many of the city museums and most of the galleries that I frequented at the time. It was an intimate glimpse into a life I never knew - one that my DNA will always betray. * “Organizing relics” is to organize the relics left by the deceased. Also known as “disposal of relics”. ---- - A PROPHET OF RAGE - The tidal wave rose to reveal a rose that arose from the ocean floor. Right where the eagle plucked the serpent from the falls of fear - The fall of man is the fear of ourselves - Prophetic light at the Islamic pulpit revealing a man - speaking seances against the tidal wave rising against black enlightenment beyond the midnight of low streetlights illuminating dice games and dicey businesses:
Poetry from Rus Khomutoff
Poetry from Richard LeDue
So Neat in Out-of-Date Cursive It's too easy to forget who you are. No different than pretending someone didn't call you the wrong name, while the grocery list you wrote so neat in out of date cursive is folded in your pocket, like a note telling when you'll die, and you're only scared to read it, because it proves your memory isn't what is used to be, leaving you to swear as you remember the empty salt shaker waiting for you to get home and complain how you had nothing to say on the birthday card you signed for a co-worker. Stamps Used to Cost Fifty Cents His books are falling down in price, while the shipping costs soar like an eagle with its eyes focused on something we can't see, and here I am, grounded next to another poem- its wings broken or growing, depending who you ask, but I'm incapable of flight, knowing the sky intimately only in my dreams, where my fall part of waking up. Finding Ourselves Too often we're looking for ourselves, even though we were never lost, and the treasure map just an old napkin we forgot for years in a pocket of our best clothes, while we never bought those shovels because we couldn't afford those plans for self-improvement through gardening, leaving the dirt to wait just a little longer for us.
Poetry from Shammah Jeddypaul
EXTREMITIES
Incorporeal extremities unknown,
Like that of the earth,
Its surface and abyss,
Where lies the gates?
Celestial guardians unknown;
Titans covered in gems?
Or, maybe…just maybe,
A bellerophon of fossil univalve shells?!
That's scary!
Leviathan exits unknown,
covered in dreadful mist,
What domicile lies behind the exit?
Is it peace or…tumult?
Is it of…,
Back to the known,
Actuality dawns after frenzy,
Too much to be known, but for
sanity, best left unknown,
Deep mysteries only known to One,
For sanity,
Shut your mind!
Orbo ab chao!
©the_L
Poetry from Ahmad Al-Khatat
Unwelcomed Farewell Ahmad Al-Khatat When you articulate nothing at all My heart becomes an occupied city With the noise from the rockets, not birds The clouds drop blood on my fictional planet. The blue skies open its chest to those fireworks I look at those happy faces, lovers kissing lips, and pretty dresses. I am sorry darling for loving you -without the ability to cover up my lousy tears. Do not shatter the windows of daylight’s nostalgic Open the door of unwelcomed farewell before they bomb us Hit me with an axe before the death scrapes me Wear a dress to reunite with my defeated spirit. I am still awake, and I want more colours of happiness I want new syllables to run over my refugee's tongue I also desire some pulse to hear with my ears and eyes -closed at my imagination cuddling with you all night long. Untouched Fleshes How long will I love you woman Your scent will wear your breath With eyes like the sun, I am nervous about my unfinished, and undreamed joy. My enemy washes my blood of his hands Looks into me! burns my past and presence We breathe heavily as unpleasant summer rain She screams, apologizes, and tears like a paper boat. Those silent moments have not spelled a word, His empowering face still seems like a deadly river I search deep in his eyes for untouched bodies She stares at the sky for several hours, asking -for a cigarette. I wonder what she would do if I stop her from smoking and kiss her truthful lips Will he hear us and sends his tainted fingerprints- on my abandoned skin then I question my freedom. She holds my hands and doesn't let me go away, She says that her family owns an apology for me, My watery eyes stop from aiming at the blank sky, I love you woman, but I miss those untouched fleshes. The Price of Humanism Who is going to make the best offer for the price of humanism? Who is going to buy humanity in one click! Who is going to auction our rights and principles? Money buys happiness for some people Greediness and selfishness are invading their black hearts Kindness sips liquors with a freedom of speech While the real speech is waiting on his death role It’s ridiculous how hard to cleanse our hearts and souls Most of the goddess cottages are with wrongdoing prophets who fight the believers who spell God with their accents? I'm sorry my child, humanity judged you before you are born Who will wipe your tears? like the way your mom and I did Recall that you are free and don't belong to any privileged class. Lift your head to the sunshine and be proud of your values. Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad, Iraq. His work has appeared in print and online journals globally. He has poems translated into several languages such as Farsi, Chinses, Spanish, Albanian, Romanian. He has published some poetry chapbooks, and a collection of short stories. He has been nominated for Best of the Net 2019 and was also nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2020.