Spelling a Caste
fecal matter
emulates the interior
graffiti: thoughtful legacy passions
the gravestone shake-up delicto
ballerinas terrycloth frame-ups
triplicate facts
irritate the implicit tenant
turrmeric snatchers gone dental
( )
one-liner survivors
their cathodes gatepost noon
to stingray mourners
castle poultry tremor
vertigo seminars deluxe
varied its lemon returns
plastered
before backdrop vernaculars
lotion diction
implanting a bellicose wok
an impetigo classic
( )
limbic nettlefest
stammering tremolo playpens
darkening theoreticians
stabs forward
art fully under
auctioneer pity
affects their style velocity
to indenture divorcees
( )
the opal toecap
exhales its duct tape feeders
nearby threadbare
valuable plagiarism (audio
too scantily sorceress phonic)
tributary betrothals
pressed handicrafts
repute strata borne (hypno
sonic)
poacher tremolos
in delicto passion
roughened noon’s horn to renewal
At the End of the End of Days
pyrrhic lumber left burning
sutures shifting for the lonely
casing new murder charged in stairwell
irritation brackets wilt insignia leaks
the roaring remedies measured pine
capsules for somatic coffee brackets
or for columnar socket blades
where reactor seekers last charged
disfigured tantra tracking in retreat
buried the remedies backward
as the corporeal circus games
dull massages filter grim retribution
basket threading reduced pleasure
to a fixable granite platelet flourish
no weather security packaging
socket banter breached arrears
extreme position dismembered
remnant amenity glimmer blades
tore through the loose coma pouch
luminous grades suspected traction
impaneled scrotal parlor forays
as privileged inflation disasters
fruition stalls reply nostalgia riffs
mount a laughable tenth catalogue
with harried impertinence rehearsed
a long and clever compendia rapture
Meating at the Market
produce caught placenta
near the deadening cadavers
readjustments
travesty a cereal pedant
bracketing rotisserie voyeurs
to potential
*
ratio jackdaw boogie bang
handrails starch appraisal
crossword rendered facet
a signage assault
emptied an emulsion clerk
scaling slow rancor
cliches fodder the medically impaled
*
peacock testimonies
quilted brimming
yelp and braids
applicable implosions
keening geothermal chants
on elite
finalists
weird attributes
momentary gloating
velcro to pleasured settlers
embodies rotisserie leg when heel
archly lathered
abundant garret valedictions
over
flipped steak
Glandular Potential
testicular headrests
wrench storekeeper cans
across liniment coves
a charlatan mélange
straining
renewal geeks
gladiatorial emulsifiers
abdominal bigamists
asset ogre credits looming at birthplaces
*
a thug tympani
appealed to retired diameters
no polysyllable due
its rambler hostel
for a marshmallow enema
the mad lender boldly detonates
the hospital
divorce usher used
a synthetic seeding
for tragic panorama
suburban primers
sneezing petrochemical thoroughfares
*
a shattering
polysyllable
opalescent
tragicomedies dazzle beyond downturn
flamingo documentaries
polymer reptile cans
used malingerers
backward idyll
transforming
transit risings
rumors instance
Payback in the Works
packaging as market bait
the gondola switched a rife glade’s
lively blades rowing them away
from a pomegranate vacuum
thrust among the blockage pills
left to filter the coma gray
as though roaming impertinence
didn’t wilt before lions tore
the colosseum to rapture
the heavenly void capsules
on sale forays ventured affable
in a laughable remix tantra
no fixable position left unturned
or tuned to low vibrato brackets
in the carry-on seizure pouch
aligned the deathly software
carpet no match for the reply
to optimal regeneration totem
requests for privileged infection
prior fillers mount to story board
the suspected plenary crawl
toward scrotal insignia pablum
breached where mounting flourish
stalls the backward crawlspace
remedies burning socket mantras
measured use of cynical bursts
jangling medicinal ganglia rifts
left charged for empty retribution
BIO: Vernon Frazer’s newest poetry collection is Gravity Darkening.
Poetry from Hongri Yuan, translated by Yuanbing Zhang
Four Poems Written by Chinese Poet Yuan Hongri Translated by Yuanbing Zhang The Sea of The Golden Palace Happiness is the memory of heaven And the soul is as sweet as the sun. On the canvas of the death you daub a smile from the gods. Oh, that is the light! The light of honey. If you can hear the heavenly hymns that is the sea from that golden palace lapping sapphire over eternal universe. 黄金的宫殿之海 快乐是天堂的记忆 而灵魂是甜美的太阳 在死亡的画布之上 你涂抹诸神的笑容 哦 那是光 光之蜜 如果你听见了天国的乐曲 那是黄金的宫殿之海 在蓝宝石的太空之上 2016.7.30 The Wine of The Soul I pick up a smiling flower from the future city To light up your black iron dreams The new book of the world delivers by the holy lightning The giant’s body rotates the transparent picture of the faraway stars-cape The light emanates from the gods Let you see yourself without any sorrow The body is high and translucent, each cells are as sweet as the wine of the souls. 灵魂之酒 我摘取一朵未来之城的笑容之花 照亮你的黑铁之梦 天国的闪电送来新的世界之书 巨人的体内旋转透明的星云之图 那来自诸神的光芒 让你看到那个不知忧愁的自己 身体巨大透明 每一颗细胞甜美如灵魂之酒 2015.3.16 The City of The Angel's Smile The white and silvery words of the moon kingdom shone in the dream last night The king of giants in the massive cities of ancient times presented me the gem book of the soul I will build a garden in the desert fill the jade vase with the holy spring Let the rivers and lakes shine a city of the angels' smile 天使的微笑之城 月亮之国的银白词语 在昨夜的梦境闪烁 那位巨人的王 在史前的巨城 赠我宝石的灵魂之书 我将在沙漠上建造花园 用一只玉瓶盛来天国之甘泉 让河流和湖泊映照 一座天使的微笑之城 2016.5.7 The Interstellar Kingdom Sometimes I see the sky smiling at me The limpidity spirit and flower clouds such as the old soul of mine watch my shadow on the earth The ground beneath my feet like a colossal ship toward the Interstellar Kingdom Those cities where giants dwell blossom on the dustless Milky Way.
Bio:Yuan Hongri (born 1962) is a renowned Chinese mystic, poet, and philosopher. His work has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada, and Nigeria; his poems have appeared in Poet’s Espresso Review, Orbis, Tipton Poetry Journal, Harbinger Asylum, The Stray Branch, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, The Poetry Village, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. His best known works are Platinum City and Golden Giant. His works explore themes of prehistoric and future civilization.
Yuanbing Zhang (b. 1974), is Mr. Yuan Hongri’s assistant and translator. He himself is a Chinese poet and translator, and works in a Middle School, Yanzhou District, Jining City, Shandong Province China. He can be contacted through his email, 3112362909@qq.com.
Poetry from Bruce Mundhenke
Web Extraterrestrial spider, Invisible; they say... Spins a web of deception, That is growing every day. Possessing insatiable hunger, A master of deceit, Its web a snare for humans, Who become a prey at its feet. The web is becoming stronger, Tightening every day, And the spider is wiser than humans, Determined to have its way. first published in UFO Gigolo The Scourge We all can see that It is here... We can run, Or hide, Or just choose Not to see... We can join, Or fight, Or watch... And understand. There is no place To run to, There is no place To hide. What you choose Not to see Will find you, Even if you Are blind. And when you face What you are blind to, It will not be kind. Circle The lesser stars have yielded, Another Sun is near, But every star that fled the sky Will surely reappear. The darkness nearly ended, Dawn will bring the light, The daystar will appear, Banishing the night.
Story from Abdulloh Abdumominov
Thieves of time
My name is Doniyor. My neighbor Abdullah and I have become close friends. One day we couldn’t find any any way to have fun. We had no goal. We didn’t know what to do. When we were making something from a piece of wood, my father suddenly woke up. His eyes were half open when he said:
“ Hey, thieves of time! Are you wasting your time?”
I didn’t understand the meaning of my father’s “time thieves” at all. I wanted to ask, but he fell asleep.
My friend Abdullah also asked “Are we thieves?”
When daylight came, he went into his house. I also fell asleep from exhaustion. But I remembered that I was late for school, so I quickly washed my face and drank tea in a hurry. I do not remember what I ate. .. I thought I would be late for school, but class had not yet begun. As soon as I arrived, the teacher came in. We all greeted the teacher with respect
“ My dear students! I am overjoyed to see you. My joy is boundless.“
Just as our teacher was explaining the subject to us, one of my classmates came in and said,”Teacher, I’m sorry I’m late today.”
“Doniyor, don’t be late anymore., the teacher said.“This time I forgive you, but next time I will punish you.”
“Dear students,” the teacher said, “you must build a new Uzbekistan, and at the same time justify the trust of your parents, ready to give their lives for you. If you become famous, I will be proud to say on the street that I taught this student, “ she said.
These words of my teacher had a special effect on me and increased my self-confidence. Various whispers began in the classroom.
“Will you come to my birthday tomorrow?” I heard also those words. It was clear that our teacher also heard these words.
“Time thieves,” said the teacher. Her sharp gaze at the students was marked by regret. “Thieves of time”.
I had heard these words from my father while I was playing with my friend. That’s why I was not surprised to hear them. My classmates were stunned.
Doniyor, trembled with fear, as if I, his friend Abdullah, ,had committed a crime.
“Doniyor, why are you trembling?” the teacher asked.
“You called us thieves, didn’t you? After all, aren’t those who steal punished?“
“Time thieves are punished by time itself. By doing so, you are hurting yourself. “ the teacher said.
“Teacher, I do not understand the meaning of this sentence at all. Please tell us about the theft of time.”
“Usually, those who steal are punished,” said the teacher. “Time thieves are no exception. True, the thief of time is not punished. He is not even accountable before the law. But wasting your time now is tantamount to stealing your time, your future. If you spend all your time in science, you will save time and become a mature person in the future.
Ohh, my friend Abdullah and I are the thieves of our future. Doniyor thought. These words of the teacher inspired Doniyorm andat that moment, he realized what a “time thief” was.
He even came to our house in a hurry: “Anvar, are you there? Starting today, I can say that I understand the value of time.
“Yes, Abdullah, you understand, now we are not stealing our time, we are just following the path of knowledge. In the future, we will be among the mature people mentioned by my teacher. I agree with you. Don’t waste your time! I will always remember that it is a trophy!
Author: Abdumominov Abdulloh
Pupil of school No. 102, Shayhantahur district, Tashkent, Uzbekistan.
Age: 13
Poetry from Scott Kaestner
NOW IS (THE DREAM) In a different life I was a dead man walking into a dream not meant to be back then being born again gave me hope that dream might yet come true this time round but sadly it did not same ole same ole until I awoke in the moment to realize it was time to let go of dreams of hoping and instead live now live free not wanting just be for now is (the dream). _____ THE BIG REVELATION His goal was to be the world’s first honest cult leader. But when he was in isolation preparing to unveil “The Big Revelation” to his followers he knew he was in trouble. After a month of intense reflection, he had nothing. When the big day arrived and his followers had gathered for the big reveal, he walked to the front of the congregation and said, “I know enough to know I don’t know much at all.” He then walked through his flabbergasted followers, out the front door and applied for a cashier job at 7-11. Honesty is easily applied when counting change and impossible when leading others to drink kool-aid that has evaporated into the sincerity of the air we breathe. _____ SOUL CRYPTO I’m selling cryptocurrency for the soul stop looking to power structures for approval and success fuck corporations, fuck your TV and the government… please do your own god damn thing be a decent human and let the bitcoins fall where they may. _____ BIO Scott C. Kaestner is a Los Angeles poet, writer, dad, husband, and openly questions the motives of crows. Google ‘scott kaestner poetry’ to peruse his musings and doings.
Poetry from Katrina Kaye
Father Allow a streak of light from single bulb hallway to lay across the floor. Remind me, in this mild action, there are heroes in the world, not every act is based on the selfish hunger of men. On nights like this the rocks of the world lay heavy on my spine, pinning me to an earth I have no desire to inherit. It is why I am well versed in the tongue of loneliness. I am most concrete wrapped in solitude. Let me hear the voices down the hall. The influx in cadence regardless of meaning, the occasional laugh. I am again five years old asleep in a stranger’s house feeling no desire to resume the party but comforted to know it continues. Leave the door cracked, just enough, so I’ll know when the house rings silent, when the hall light finally dims that I am completely alone. Reminding When I met you, I fell in love with flying, with candle light, open windows. From the safety of your late lit bedroom, I watched rain as it ate the earth, leaving soft teeth marks in the dirt of your gardens. I hear the moths come every seven years, but sometimes it seems like they are always here, flittering against door frame in praise of porch light. We don’t always forget the way we are supposed to, nor do we remember the way the seasons would like us to believe. I crawled upon your hand on fine legs, wing brushing palm, steadying myself as you peered through the brown spots on my wings. You did not crush me or push me away. Details blur and the edges of film burn through so all one sees are big moments, not days shifted in between. My wings against your open hand; you let me stay as long as I needed, did not protest when I took again to the air. I don’t remember exact words, but I have not forgotten your face. I can’t remember why I loved you but I can’t forget that I did. It’s been over twenty years since you made me feel loved just by the meeting my gaze. It has been six years since you died, but I swear I have seen the moths more than once since then. They flutter on the window beside my late-night lingering, reminding me of the early hours we shared before the sun approached. We had closure; nothing left unsaid or undone. That was the last season of the moths, Reminded me that you were once a light I could not resist. Prayers You say you have some prayers to teach me. Prayers that could sooth you to sleep or shake you awake. Prayers that can raise the dead or let them lie. Prayers that will keep your hands out of your pockets. I don’t know those prayers. But I pray scars that poach underarm bleach and shallow when given time to heal. I pray lungs take one year to shed the black they spent seven years collecting. You know prayers like crickets, prayers that spark rainbows in the desert, prayers for sex with strangers and wide-eyed staring dolls whose marble eyes gleam across dark bedrooms. Prayers that will keep you from calling out the wrong name across the dining room table, in the bedroom, when he asks for a towel. Prayers for wild horses who don’t know when to stop their chase. Prayers for scarecrows and splintered straw. I pray skin toughens under desert sun; the sand in my chest scrubs me clean, scours the ill, the wicked, the ugly I held tightly, until it shines. You know prayers that cast black magic, that knock out front teeth and rebuild shattered mirrors. I pray my body is in a state of redemption. I pray to resist the temptation of a Thursday night in the back of your car and one drink too many. Do not allow me to regress into sickness. Lead me not to deteriorate to the fragile I once was. Unable to move I crouch low and hold tight to wooden beads that coddle the back of my throat cutting off the circulation to hands grasped tight in prayers for daylight, prayers for the flutter of wings, prayers for morning song. Remember Remember the way the light soaks into the wet streets on a Tuesday morning. Remember the way words are shared, are smeared, are cut up and divided out. Remember how clumsy your smile caught me and how fingers and shadows make excellent shows against cave wall. Remember the cave, the loneliness of it and the isolation, the cruelty. Don’t abandon my memory upon the rocks and leave it for the dogs to dig up. Remember. It is the only way to find your way back. It is the only way to learn better, to see better, to love better, to be better. I watch the rain and remember once believing birds couldn’t fly when wet. I know better now. Seventeen Years In my dream you were alive. I saw you: a broken man with crooked smile telling me it’s been seventeen years. You’ve been looking for me for seventeen years. You’ve been in love with me for seventeen years. It’s been seventeen years since your spine cracked upon impact. It was just one of those things that happen, an accident. No one’s fault; No one to shoulder the blame. In my dream, I look for the book you gave me, the only thing you ever gave me, hungry for a signature scrawled on the first page. Your j’s look like g’s in fast black ink. It has been seventeen years since we raced the halls together. A good kid who smiled too much. A chip of broken tile and notes passed by girls. You never should have become a name smeared to highway. Never should have been anything more than a fond memory, a high school crush, a missed connection. Now, you survive in the pit of my stomach, and despite a promise of pleasant reminiscence, the dream shifts to the crack of skeleton, the shattering of front tooth. I can’t trade this image for a kinder one. It haunts me. It haunts me still. More than anything in the world, I want to find you, to call you, to write you a message in my sloppy script assuring you some things never die. But you are already lost to me. This is how I wake, chasing rabbits and following sparrows. At a loss for what I cannot quite reach. You were always the illusive one. So I lay here and I endure and it is as sweet as the Sunday morning we never shared.
Katrina Kaye is a writer and educator living in Albuquerque, NM. She is seeking an audience for her ever-growing surplus of poetic meanderings. She hoards her published writing on her website: ironandsulfur.com. She is grateful to anyone who reads her work and in awe of those willing to share it. Twitter: @PoetKatrinaKaye Facebook: Iron & Sulfur
Poetry from Duane Vorhees
The calligrapher writes the landscape.
The rain's crow quill points ink across pigeongray parchment sky and draft indelibly themselves upon an eager gravid ground
and sins and memories, and hopes and charities, that take root, grafted into the earth, remain ensoiled past the droughts and floods to come.
THE MARE'S BREAKING IN
Wanting the beads and choirs too,
she took the veil and cincture.
But inside the now
she regrets the vow
since accepting the saddle
means all the bits and spurs too.
COME THE REVOLUTION
Which among you will bring sandwiches?
And who'll organize the selfies?
Which manifesto would you execute?
"The sky must be purged if the earth is to prevail!"
"The earth must be buried for Heaven to reveal!"
Which Utopia would you provoke?
Which of the pasts should be banned?
But don’t be the freak hot on the runway
or the gangster in church,
don't be the priest caught in the whore house
the banker in the line-up.
OPIATES OF THE MASSES
Crucifiction, Failosophy, Hisstory:
Tomorrow is a myth. And so is yesterday. Now is all.
Physicks, Asstrology, Isometricks:
Yourself, as you are at present, is your only guide.
Medisin, Accupunkture, Sighchiatry:
There is no cure for reality.
Litterature, Statuwary, Musick:
Art is a grand mirage -- and it takes great pride in being so.
Soshellism, Dicktatorship, Demockracy:
All government systems are synonyms for slavery.
Kingdumbs, Militearism, Onerousship:
Allegiance to others is suicide.
Noosepapers, Liebrarie. Educashuns:
"Knowledge" so-called is mere pretense.
Relashunships, Guarantease, Freedumb:
Promises are illusions. But illusions may also be promises.
Ambishun, Suckcess, Sellebrity:
Self-promotion is the greatest deception of all.
Syphillisation:
Truth is what you trust.
THE MYTHIC ARCHAIC CUB, HIS MANDALAS, AND ME
I wait here still for the wise old man
and his chatter of universal traits,
how they shape my acts like hands
on a potter's wheel (but hereditary, innate).
"Archetypes are to psychology
as instincts to biology."
I sit in his psyche, peeling my mandarins,
and wonder, is this a proper asana?
Some tables down someone plays a green mandolin
and my self stifles respondent hosannas.
My me was always confused by the we,
and I was never the one I used to be.
I used to take my tea with cream
but now I prefer lemon.
Why do I have all these dreams
about so many different women?
Decades have passed like clouds over seas
as I searched for any available lee.
The minutes pass like birds in flight
and my shadow cowers in shadows
I interpret as monstrous daytime nights.
Mandolinist fingers dissolve into adders.
Duane Vorhees is an American in Thailand. Hog Press of Ames IA has published three of his poetry collections, HEAVEN, GIFT: GOR RUNS THROUGH ALL THESE ROOMS, and THE MANY LOVES OF DUANE VORHEES.