Post Calamity By Raquel Silberman What lurks behind the spine of disaster? stiff standing behind a vertebrae tree blinks in the dark of it’s shadows, apparitions of its grief when disaster walks away watch the darkness shrink. glimpses of bone in a flock of silk flip a penny and watch it sink when koi swims by, it feasts becoming just another shiny scale plotting by my feet A mess to clean. drapes strewn across power line sputtered with forgetful ink dense is the mind by virtue of limit What is disaster if not a moment to think
Story from Robert Thomas
When She’s Gone When she’s gone; No more endearing smile to greet my return or laugh at wry and corny puns. No caress of the neck or tender rub of the arm. An absence of affection even in inconsequential moments. When she’s gone; A silence in place of wistful songs of love. No more care in moments of need. An absence of knowing she will be there, always, but then not there. When she’s gone; A longing for words that admonished when things went wrong, and yet its demand required. A hole of improvement to be filled, but left undone. When she’s gone; No pride in watching her dance, a beautiful Golden Follies Bergere, feathers o’er her smiling face. When she’s gone; No reassuring clack of her loom in distant room. The joy of accomplishment left behind, as costumes hang lifeless, and woven towels and scarves lay hidden in drawers, no longer given. When she’s gone; No feeling of wanting, of sexual yearn. A reassurance of manhood, as this figure waned. Her body still haunting after years of toil and age. When she’s gone; A lack of anticipation for things to come. No crazy impulses to thrill the hour. A day at the ocean, now only nostalgic, as waves wash over the the memories of the water sign that was her. When she’s gone; A hush reigns where voices rang out in congenial times. Her gregariousness no longer dampening my loneliness. She was best for me in many ways. Now I am left once again on my own, to muse and remember, for she is gone
Poetry from Mark Young
Bricolage We add some element; & what we put together from what- ever is conveniently at hand lingers, some- times lasts. telemetry science ≠ silence : ephemeral ≠ femoral : dispute ≠ despite : intuition ≠ retribution : precursor ≠ intercourse : sigh ≠ scythe : ordain ≠ ordinary : trope ≠ tranquility : roadkill ≠ homecoming : intend ≠ intense : epiphany ≠ litany : behind ≠ remind : literal ≠ literary : kind ≠ consign : sure ≠ waterfront : behavior ≠ asteroid. A fitted petulance Exponential time decay constants are truly under- stood only by a mere handful of multimedia puppet show performers. Mercury, when occluded Add a new page. Edit the panel. Sign up to receive special offers. Just the motivation I need to shorten the story. What's with the winged sandals, dude? One / less color / in the day The bird with the red around its eye eats the red bird's eye chillies off the bush then flies away, doubly diminishing the amount of color in the day. Street seen The lawyers, on their way back to Court after lunch at a nearby pub, are all dressed like undertakers. What hope then of a not guilty verdict?
Poetry from Hongri Yuan, translated from Mandarin to English by Manu Mangattu
Three Poems By Chinese Poet Yuan Hongri Translated by Manu Mangattu The Song of the Universe – Thy Song Sweet soul, Let thy breath be sweet Let thine eyes shine as the stars Reflect about what thou shalt see! Thou shalt forget the words The song of the universe is thy song The peace of the universe is thy peace If thou shall speak It is almost like God Let there be light! And there was light. 宇宙的歌声是你的歌声 甜美的灵魂 让你的呼吸甜美 让你的眼晴多如星辰 想想吧 那时你将看到什么 你将忘了词语 宇宙的歌声是你的歌声 宇宙的宁静是你的宁静 如果你说话 那就如同上帝 要有光 于是就有了光 On Angel Wings Heaven-Bound Pluck out a star from the night sky above And let it sing to you within your cranium It shall bring to you the interplanetary song. Let thine eyes reach the edge of the Milky Way The earth is just a small stone; Yesterday is just a butterfly. When the angel wings conduct you to the Kingdom of Heaven Ah! That sweet lightning will indeed make you forget the world. 当天使的翅翼驮来了天国 摘一颗星辰在夜空之上 让它在你的头颅里歌唱 它将带给你星际的乐曲 让你的目光抵达 末来的银河之城 地球只是一枚小小的石头 昨日只是一只蝴蝶 当天使的翅翼驮来了天国 哦 那甜蜜的闪电让你把世界遗忘 Home Sweet Home beyond Milky Way Nestled in the wings of night After the pearl gem sets in heaven I climb to the roof of the earth To gaze at the star. Gazing at the star, To witness the coming century, the city of the giant Blossom like a silver Garden. The Music from that mysterious Galaxy Soothes my soul like the rain. In the light, let my form alight Back to my home, beyond the Milky Way. 2015.9.9 银河之外的家园 黑夜的翅翼 镶嵌了天堂的珍珠宝石 我在地球的屋顶之上 向星际凝望 仿佛看见未来世纪的巨城 绽放如白银的花园 来自神秘星系的乐曲 是一阵阵灵魂的甘雨 让我的身体乘光而行 回到了那银河之外的家园 Bio: Hongri Yuan, born in China in 1962, is a poet and philosopher interested particularly in creation. Representative works include Platinum City, The City of Gold , Golden Paradise , Gold Sun and Golden Giant. His poetry has been more widely published in the UK, USA ,India ,New Zealand, Canada and Nigeria. Phone:+86 15263747339 ZIP cod 272100 Email:3112362909@qq.com Address:No.18 middle school Yanzhou District ,Jining City, Shandong Province, China
Elizabeth Hughes’ Book Periscope
Into the Wild by Mike Honeycutt
Into The Wild is one man’s journey travelling all over the world big game hunting. Mr. Honeycutt includes many photos of his travels. It is an interesting book for the person who enjoys big game hunting. I personally do not believe in hunting. However, for those who do and enjoy it would be a perfect quick read.
Poetry from Deborah Kerner
Deborah Kerner is a poet and a painter living in Ojai, California. Her poems have recently appeared in Bluepepper, Mad Swirl, Rabid Oak and Ariel Chart. Synthetic in the Skin stripped so that even in intervals nothing remains somewhere in a terrain sucked dry taking a train with windows like fluttering eyes much of the world slides by without intention. time is nowhere lost in seconds passing the edges of restless habitation people squatting shitting and fearless close to the anonymity of train tracks traveling offline and by the sweep of fields passing disintegrating remnants of shattered structures gray like misaligned cultural leftovers buildings fading in the offhanded rose orange light of raging fires jumping unraveling highways. the train is smoking over bridges encountering succulent forests glued on stamped listless deserts stripped beyond the fringe of dystopian recognition. skins absorb unevaluated toxicity we are left in a walking zone where wolves take over forgotten remote forbidden old ladies pass through tattered fences the barriers home is where the skin is in this now moment called synthetic determined by the ironies of language humans walk the floating earth not knowing where they are Night Dweller my feet are cold my heart somewhere feeling. it insists it is feeling moon sharp a white sharp disk thrown in the night sky night falls quickly on my head uncovered and filled with dread will I lie here frozen losing sleep in the late night’s chill? night dwelling awakens just as the sun first then the moon falls behind western mountains silhouette and shadows dense light becomes memory as pure darkness envelops stirring the noir nocturnal atmospheric molecular field of nothingness cave-like ink-jet black phantoms loom across a wall the night’s yearnings burnings achings limbs thrown about uncertain half-dreams as the sun travels the other side of earth sleep beckons me yet thwarted by dawn’s shaking anticipation and far off stars fading the night existence prevails sleepless becomes me. in the next moment the rosy tip of fractured dawn light appears begins to enforce a day night dweller exists waits until the shiver of night ignites its will to stay alive. I caught in the middle of its hardwired game Tree Woman I saw a woman talking to a tree yesterday we were filling up at a nearby gas station a busy road a time of day when everyone is returning home summer’s streaming late afternoon gold light she was animated gesticulating wildly the tree alert listening it bent towards her surely it knew her primeval voice springing from the pool of the blazing Dryads the tree nymphs shy though they were known to be turning as I sat back in the car thinking of her in the distance behind me before I closed the door she was there beside me like lightning pale blue sharp penetrating eyes a colorful bandana wrapped her head she asked me for a dollar wearing cut blue jean shorts a thin top covering her falling breasts her tanned mid torso and navel exposed muscular athletic strong legs she was earnest I looked into her myth-bound eyes what could I see but the long line of forgotten women the turbulent days the trajectory of our long collective sisterhood existences travesty of neglect shunned and restrained fiercely awaiting freedom beyond the restraints of our current earthbound cultures I saw it in the urgency of her desperation
Poetry from Chris Butler
"Anti" Chris Butler is an illiterate poet howling from the Quiet Corner of Connecticut. His 11th book of poems, "DOOMER", has been published and released by Ethel. He is also the co-editor of The Beatnik Cowboy literary journal. Why Do the Bees Dream? Why do the bees dream, and not only sleep alone when the late day chills their exoskeletal shell? Why do the bees dream with restless legs pollinating colonies where their nesters are cradled in hexagonal combs, formed into homes of regurgitated honey? Why do the bees dream when their royalty is an engorged queen, conquering the flower with armies forced to feed the budding baby bee population? Why do the bees dream of low flying drones snorting pheromones, as their radar to drop a stinger cruise missile onto the nose of an incoming brown bear? Why do the bees dream when they’re smoked into peaceful unconsciousness like poppy Buddhists? Iceberg The rabbit, ensnared on a frozen artic block, set adrift to the blue skies and azure seas, begins burrowing a hole, incredulous in its desperate search for the safety of a warm, underground home, slowly slipping further down into the indigo deep, until breaking through into the endless dark abyss, silencing its death rattle by drowning. The Way Back Home The way back home isn’t on a cold road still shining with yesterday’s rain, when you’ve nowhere to go, alone, watching the tinted break lights cover you in a crimson costume, passing by your shivering thumb, for a hitchhike that will never come. My childhood bat cave basement was just a half finished rec room, with all the walls stripped nude of posters with bunnies in bikinis, all toys donated to salivating armies of dumpster divers’ deep sea expeditions. But within an hour of saying and waving goodbye, to leave my very first fortress with castle walls and moats for dirty pothole roads. The only way back home, into a warm bed with fabric softened clean sheets smelling of lavender detergent, awakened by that distant taste from the kitchen of flavors that momma used to make, was to walk into that road so the next driving passerby would hit and run. When insomnia has taken complete control of your restless legs and racing thoughts… you know it’s far too late when after constant commercials for bootleg erectile dysfunction pills and cures for balding heads, all of which feature the incentives of female models frolicking on sandy beaches, and you reach the end of the broadcasting day, watching a 4th of July fireworks spectacular in tandem with the national anthem. Trigger From today moving forward, Webster’s Dictionary, the grammar police and the unfree speech Nazis will begin deleting words from the dictionary, instead of adding new mouth sounds from the new Old English, in order to prevent our peers’ pressure from pulling my fingering of the world’s trigger.