Poetry from Michael Robinson

Black Boy I

 

In the middle of the night,

Forgot all the bad in his life,

Walking into the moon’s light.

 

A soulful prayer,

At 3AM when all is quiet,

Living in the moon’s delight.

 

 

 

Black Boy II

 

If you knew the story,

If you felt the pain,

If you loved life,

You would understand,

A Black boy life.

 

 

Black Boy III

 

No more guns,

No more knives,

Nor more razor blades under the sleeve.

 

No more cocaine in the midnight hour,

No more sins in the dawn of day,

No more psych units.

 

No more lies,

No more pain,

No more tears.

 

Black Boy IV

 

My skin is dark, and my tone is light,

My eyes are bright, and my smile is warm,

My soul is full of God’s light,

Black Boy in the middle of the night.

 

 

Black Boy V

 

You crossed the seas looking for me,

Carrying me away,

Chaining me to the deck.

 

Look into my eyes,

Look at my back,

With the torn skin from the whip.

 

Another day of misery,

Keeps me company,

Prays touches my heart,

In the daily sun.

While picking cotton till dusk,

Deliver me from the whip,

I long to be free.

 

 

Black Boy VI

 

I walk into the morning sun,

My skin blackens from the noonday sun.

Mile after mile,

I walk while the tears fall to the ground,

I walk with bare feet,

With lashes on my back.

 

I walk to my freedom,

Crawling in the mud,

I kneel at the rock and Cry:

 

Save me from my captures,

Save me from my oppressors,

Save me from my sins.

 

 

Black Boy VII

 

Have you seen my mother?

She was wearing a red dress.

 

Have you seen my mother?

She was walking down the street.

 

Have you seen my mother?

She has my eyes.

 

Have you seen my mother?

She was heading to the Red-light district.

 

Have you seen my mother?

She was with that man.

 

Have you seen my mother?

She left me in the rain of my tears.

 

Michael Robinson (right) and fellow contributor Joan Beebe

Poetry from J.J. Campbell

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————————————————————————————-

when you are defeated
there is no joy when
meeting a beautiful
woman when you
are defeated
when this universe
has broken you
when all the old
friends have moved
on and you can’t
remember how to
make new ones
please and thank
you only get you
so far
and being kind isn’t
exactly telling a
woman you just
thought what her
inner thighs would
smell like wrapped
around your face
and you can’t
exactly pass a
love note while
at the bank
that might just
give the wrong
impression
—————————————————————————-
a sigh of relief
the muse
asked me
the other
night what
size my
penis is
i told her
and she
let out a
sigh of
relief
that almost
makes me
think she
wants to
see it one
day
——————————————————————————
this kind of pleasure
a friend asks you
to describe the pain
i tell her to take a
hanger and stick it
in the electrical outlet
that shock you feel
pretend it’s constant
and it pulses at times
and then wrap your
head around the fact
that you like it
that it makes you
contort your body
and then touch yourself
at inappropriate times
she asks if i’m feeling
the pain now
i told her i was picturing
her naked, rubbing that
hanger against my neck
as she grinded down on
me
and as long as the pain
brings this kind of
pleasure
the world will be safe
from all of my potential
rage
—————————————————————————-
one of those nights
i listen to
your stories
of the crazy
men and
crazy nights
and can’t help
but wonder if
i will get lucky
enough
to have one
of those nights
for myself
————————————————————————-
admitting defeat
smooth black skin
and endless dreams
of what could have
been
those long legs
walked out of
my life years
ago and i’m
still trying to
win them back
i have a hard time
admitting defeat
you know, where
there’s a will,
there’s a way
while i’m still
breathing, i still
have a chance
insert your favorite
cliche here
most people understand
that’s called insanity
i know they are right
but it makes for a better
story to say they just
don’t understand
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Dope Fiend Daily, The Rye Whiskey Review, Otoliths, Horror Sleaze Trash and Cajun Mutt Press. His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was published by Analog Submission Press. You can find him most days waxing poetic on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)
—————————————————————————–
J.J. Campbell
51 Urban Ln.
Brookville, OH 45309-9277

Poetry from Lil Snott

NU-JAZZ PUNK BLUES

It’s easy to count your losses and blame yourself.

You quickly scramble for compensation..

Scolding from loved ones echo thru your mind…

IT’S TIME TO PAY THEM BACK [but how?] ….

© 1980 Bad Brains

You BUCK UP & become who they said you SHOULD be.

You abandon your instincts.

You eliminate what seemingly has not worked for you.

You throw away clothes, music, etc. – identifiers of your “failed” existence:

You delete your social media.

You change your area code.

You comb your hair to the side.

You join a gym.

You start tanning.

You start speaking the King’s English.

You approach women whom normally wouldn’t give you the time of day…

You hang out at Starbucks:

You APOLOGIZE.

Poetry from Joan Beebe

SURVIVAL

Life is a long  fight for survival, or so it seems.
I know there are so many confusions and health issues –
Families can be part of this  and cause us to feel real pain.
Our thoughts become a source of sadness and longing..
Our emotions become deep with despair.
Yet, we keep a glimmer of hope within ourselves.
We pray, talk to friends and browse through old pictures
Suddenly our thoughts turn to the future and the feelings
Of hope and faith begin to shape our mind instead of relentless
Depression.
The opportunities and gifts have been so many as we remember
the joy and happiness some have brought.
So we begin to change our selves
and look forward to sharing time and talents
in special ways with those around me.
We finally experience peacefulness within our soul.

 

Joan Beebe (left) and fellow contributor Michael Robinson

Essay from Scott Thomas Outlar

Phase Shift to the One Point

Here comes the radical shift in perspective we’ve all been waiting for. Here comes the anarchic ideology based on evolution and enlightenment. Here comes the utopian future seen in the midst of today’s chaos. Here comes a new wave upon the old tide brought before the high council who check the tea leaves after giving a Tarot reading and observing the astrological alignment as compared to the numerological configuration in the skyline. Here comes beauty from above. Here comes nuclear devastation put on hold. Here comes laughter in abundance atop graves of sublime sorrow. Here comes freedom gained through flag waving laid to rest. Here comes a nighttime absolution agreement. Here comes a deal being struck between all parties in the midnight hour.

It’s like a vaporized translucent glow-in-the-dark amalgamation of all the pretty neon colors. It’s like a gaseous transmission being emitted from the single source to each individual soul. It’s like the truth finally emerging after a lifetime of lies. It’s like a cork in the bottle shutting out all the static. It’s like the Holy Spirit Vibration making cymatic frequency alterations as the sound waves conglomerate and coalesce to center around the urgent need for love. It’s like ancient water crystals regaining memory from Atlantis and buzzing with primal super power proclamations of resurrected divinity. It’s like pseudo scientific theories taking a nosedive and splashing into the Pacific. It’s like a better view forming after all the obfuscation is cleared away. It’s like a storm of rough turbulence being put at bay as the swift winds of change settle down and welcome in the new day and age.

What to say? Where to go? Who to seek? All the same basic questions rise as all the elusive answers drift around in the ethereal mists…until…it’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s a surge, it’s a splash, it’s a line in the sand representing a powerhouse rendition of new focal point abbreviations in time and space. The vacuumed continuum explodes as extra-dimensional, subliminal allusions fly to the forefront. Volcanic undertones bubble beneath the surface, gathering strength, gaining wisdom, garnering courage, before erupting forth to burst the baubles of the trinket hoarding, money grubbing, power craving bastards. Interstellar bends in the gravitational field subject the citizens to a demonstration previously unknown of. It’s a truth ray turned on full blast, given free reign, and let loose to savage that which cannot stand the heat. It’s a large change in the way perception reacts to worldly events. It’s a letting go. It’s a release. It’s a better method by which to exist…maybe…sort of…perhaps.

Forgive them Lord for they know not what they do. My people are destroyed for a lack of knowledge.

So many people are highly educated in the acclaimed institutions but haven’t really learned anything of vital importance. Ignorance abounds. Arrogance pollutes the environment. Many absurd theories are created and crafted in the expensive laboratories of excess, but, having started on the wrong track, there is never a proper direction in which students can turn so that the straight and narrow path can be reached. That which should be sought is never actually plugged into the equation. If nothing honest is ever sown, how can anything decent ever expectedly be reaped?

Follow the Christ Consciousness and know bliss in this lifetime – thus say some. Sit under the tree and meditate until the emotionless nirvanic paradise of Buddha’s detachment embraces you in full – thus say some. Drift upon the waves of dualistic, dichotic energy, fluxing and flowing in the eternal Tao River – thus say some. Put a bomb in the infidel’s car, sit in the backseat, wait for the boom, and you’ll receive forty virgins in heaven – thus say some. Follow the illusory ways of the world and you will only find sorrow and suffering – thus say some. Get yours, make money, fuck all, it’s a dog eat dog world out there – thus say some.

There is no leap of faith necessary when choices are based on personal experience. Play the game. Do your best. Roll the dice. Let it ride. Leave off from the judgment and hatred. Come into the Light of Love.

Let the madmen go about their insane projects. Focus on the world you want to see emerge. Let those that seek destruction destroy themselves. Zero in like a razor sharp laser on the idea of creating a better environment in which to thrive after the scum are dead and gone. Silly rabbit, tricks are for kids. Silly fools, you’ve done it all to yourselves.

 

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Poetry from Ryan Flanagan

Sucking at Cartons of Milk as though You Never Left the Nipple

 

Learn to walk like a baby again and they think you jitterbug queer:

men, women, shapely pundits of the left foot right foot

all manner of insistences over the loudspeaker –

that you have lost your way or found the wrong way

which is simply not their way, of course,

and you start on your knees but they are knobby

and push into the hard floor in such a way

that you become a quick learner,

up and about in days, a few awkward steps on the sides

of your feet, crashing into tables you are still paying for

on the installment plan

simple glass tables with rod iron bottoms

and soon you are running down the halls

getting into all sorts of mischief

sucking at cartons of milk as though you never left the nipple

and you choose your first words carefully

a team of imaginary speech writers in heated coffeepot debate;

in the end you settle on sounds that have escaped the

mad dictionary’s purview,

the sounds a drafting board would make if it were forced

to draw up office towers between company picnics

with coal black garbage bins instead of harvested organs

and placards on the doors of fools.

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Poem from Christopher Bernard

W. E. S. Owen: Sambre-Oise Canal, November 4, 1918

 

                        Afterward—little spring become prattling rill

                        grown rushing stream through the Shropshire meadows,

                        flower-dappled, by damp shade trees

                        and fragrant fields littered with picnic laughter,

                        brotherly sniping, early loves, later loving, faith

                        won, and lost, then won again, and then lost again—

                        until it stepped into the garish sun

                        above an annihilated plain,

                        and the cool water filled with the casings

                        of spent shells and the crimson tunics

                        of lost boys and the stench of war,

                        the purer air rent with shouting

                        and the drunken symphony of the guns—

                        after the warm and witty words flowing

                        from a young man scratching over his knapsack

                        by candlelight or gaslight

                        or a glow of Vereys and flares—

                        after the warm life and the flowing life and the life-like seas of words

                        opening on that other life that always happens elsewhere—

                        the single bullet riving the early morning air

                        on the bank of the canal where all of that stream was flowing—

 

                        the stop of it all, in the mud, like a hammer.

 

                        A stunned silence in the throbbing of the guns.

 

                        An unbelief in a no choice but to believe.

 

                        So it—now man, young or old, no longer—falls—

                        like Nineveh, Ur, and rich Babylon—

                        back into the darkness,

                        a face fading into the waters of an infinite silence:

                        it was.