Sunday, April 13, 2014

A Poem by John Casquarelli

plug into confetti ballroom 
cross the tropical galaxy threshold
                        my hair in knots
you said you loved me
but those were old threads
the champagne     the mussels
like birds are distant in flight
                        they melt into
            moonlight static energy
            on dusty interstate
            searching for a new equinox
each curve that embraced
            the morning splendor
            on the back of your neck
along the crest of the moving sea
trembled and fluttered in distant breeze
over fence     onto countryside road
where jasmine whispered and muse cried
these words were never hobbies
or listless daydreams
they're midnight blues
with a million quivers of glitter dust
                        welcoming yesterday's page
                        the hidden story
            the smile's echo
John Casquarelli is an English Instructor at CUNY Kingsborough in Brooklyn, New York, as well as a faculty advisor for the Kingsborough Poetry and Creative Writing Club. John received his M.F.A. in the Creative Writing program at Long Island University. He was awarded the 2010 Esther Hyneman Award for Poetry. His work has appeared in several publications including Pyrokinection, Kinship of Rivers, By The Overpass, The Mind[less] Muse, The Poetry Project Blog, The International Rebecca West Society, Having a Whiskey Coke With You, and Napalm and Novocain. His first full-length book, On Equilibrium of Song, was published by Overpass Books (2011).

Monday, April 7, 2014

A Poem by John Pursch

Corrugated Sunset
Sameness warps embezzled baubles, heading often over four-souled seizure cruises of realized despotic birthright noons and tambourine malt grooves. Gutting shallow semaphores with crampon wheels, studded wallet lice ingest resected hippie nylons, gargling buckle heirs till escapades patrol sedated ditch saloons for whispering motels. Geese swallow camshaft wobbles in tender secondary paddleboat fiascos, mixing mossy axes with hazelnut ire sweeteners for wilting swordsmen.
Paralegal dice emetics croon shyly at swaying libertines in crawdad cucumber lessons, planting escutcheoned wharf grinders in Manichean toothache ads. Creases breach the blotto with portable heliotrope musician tweezers, flaying croutons to preferential bivouac clots of gourds in tiki roundup kitsch colonic olfactory soap.
Mowing heavenly shaven plowboys into barricaded beer hall pundits, treed carousels erase sour expatriates from softly shorn tower grime, swishing leafy choir exemptions within estrangement’s peculated rapport. Bedroom brigands exfoliate sidewalk brothel sores, resealing public sway marines in laminated sardonic aardvark whistles. Detuned rodeos pull hovercraft tantrums on sidling taxidermy patients, subtly tooting salty shadow ploys for sloped erectile dignitaries in channeled stupa silo grout.
Grieving toes rebound on baked soil cousins, filming carnies swilling looped paratroopers in pallid poltroon cunning slacks that flit about facial heirloom sirloin quips with pesky philatelic spandex teases, bento pox deluded. Roaring shanties cavil for doorman yen but fetter newfangled fumes with shoed nun consonance and queerly infarcted casuistry whelps.
Stopgap stamina repeals summed paragons of purview’s frail owl direction clips, eclipsing connected dames with tufa peristyles of jellied dungeon transfusion blimps. Hotter whiz deflection fleas engorge seven water pugs on gimpy cribbage pedestals in waggish country candy phone booth downfall wax, replete with genuflecting stupor scars, annealing in frenetic grooming towers.
Welded grappling lions float through traumatic fainting gills, spreading pleasure eels in glandular hoopla mixers, swapping cattle for hosed entrepreneurs and corrugated sunset. Dollops of exploding angst submerge crisply wafted pageant queens in blooper relic gunny shins, planting crenelated beer mechanics in phased-out quandary bunts, inching for clifftop dawdlers, befuddled by pluralistic fish masks.
John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at His recently released experimental lit-rap video is at He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Saturday, March 15, 2014

A Poem by ayaz daryl nielsen

turtle oneness

a woman and her cat
are one as
a man and his dog
are one
and they stand upon
a turtle
standing upon
another turtle
standing upon
another turtle
an infinite descent
of turtleness
and a woman and her cat
and a man and his dog
and turtles
down . . .
are one.

ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs) and hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (24+ years/116+ issues), poetry's homes include Lilliput Review, Yellow Mama, Verse Wisconsin, Shamrock, Kind of a Hurricane Press, and Shemom, has earned cherished awards and participated in worthy anthologies -- poetry ensembles include Concentric Penumbra's of the Heart and Tumbleweeds Still Tumbling, and, in 2013, released an anthology The Poet's of Bear Creek -- beloved wife/poet Judith Partin-Nielsen, assistant Frosty, and! (translate as joie de vivre)

Thursday, March 13, 2014

A Poem by Ken L. Jones

Last Call

Night descends like a billboard
Travis Bickle spreads his wings
This century has become a window
Opening onto Warhol's Last Supper
An empty soccer stadium
Has come to represent me
After a day when the summer sun
Reminded me of before the Beatles first arrived
And of days spent on a succulent
Violet Mecca of a beach
Back when four drops of Edgar Allan Poe
Could cancel the very laws of physics themselves
As all about me pummeled my aluminum foiled senses
While Lois Lane drenched in champagne

Ken L. Jones has written everything from Donald Duck comic books to dialogue for the Freddy Krueger movies for the past thirty plus years.  In the last three years he has gained great notice for his vast publication of horror poetry which has appeared in many anthology books, blogs, magazines and websites and especially in his first solo book of poetry Bad Harvest and Other Poems.  He is also publishing recently in the many fine anthology poetry books that Kind of a Hurricane Press is putting out.


Wednesday, March 12, 2014

A Poem by Bill Jansen

Chinese Take-Away Sky

Muttering something from Shakespeare,
perhaps "Woe, alas, time calls upon us!"
the nuthatch pokes sunflower seeds
into a cranny of the psychiatrist's palm.

The shrink asks him again how many followers
he has on Twitter...

--Over a million, he replies,
including the Boston symphony Orchestra.

--and how does that make you..


_ I don't feel, Doc, I fly..

The psychiatrist makes a cage with her fingers,
and starts over:

--in our last session you were checking the pulse
of a Hawthorne
in the 12 thousand block of Martinazzi Avenue..

--that's right.

--tell me again exactly what happened or did not happen.

-- well, Doc, there were these two hearts
carved into the bark, old hearts,
stuffed with micro jitter and boneless parades,
twerking mites smarter than Pascal,
but unintentionally funny like Sid Caesar..

--and how does that make you..

But the nuthatch had hidden himself
in a Bonsai tree
on the left edge of her enormous desk.

When his hour is up
the psychiatrist takes a carton of Chinese takeaway sky
out of her backpack
and stares at the sun inside.

Bill Jansen lives in Forest Grove, Oregon.  His stuff  has appeared recently in Gap-toothed Madness and Asinine Poetry.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Three Poems by John Pursch

Manitee Tarantula Pants

Ovations sit atop the cabinets of origami dictionaries, lining floozy paraphernalia in gearbox cramps, asking floral pastries for skillful etching techniques, properly auxiliary.

Tens emit urging shoulder squeals, grossing timid gavels amid laborious Gaelic tenterhooks, fleshing into cooly held privation's foreign pounders.

Pineal sleaze slakes our filial trust release, blushing at shrieking glades of hornswoggled youth in passe sundries, unshelved by univocal pastures.

Cartwheels effervesce in postal dunce chemise, contradicted daily by mammaries of brotherly injections, craving tenderloin pages when evergreen Epsom halters shop for wounded sapphire.

Prunes age till despotic antics vacillate beyond sequential hedgerow rebuttal's butane carrying kit, humming hymnal overtures in triplicate.

Mainsprings defy a slumping tributary, careening through gasket ears to fulminate in piecemeal quietude, sneaking past presidential tonsure in manitee tarantula pants.

Nightstand Debutantes

Barking clouds limp gingerly across a skewered highlight meal's electronic faucet train of silvered sedition aerodromes, cutting to blackballed erudition's sisterly plover reel.

The surgeon's demographic purge to gut swans of purloined sulfur reduces qualitative palliative choirs to barometric free-for-alimony bubble blowers, listing in the lasting cataract's verdigris.

How filled with hounds and watered foundlings, this neuropsychiatric melange of flowing lab coats, cratered Danes, and morphed Sephardic wonders of omitted childhood's pungent breath!

Havens respire in shaky sextant moos, filching cow town catchphrases from praiseworthy prairie bogs, filtered into cipher sieve marines.

Cropping obstetric gofers, rawhide remainders remand atypical slugs to cauterize imploding wind police, huddling in a glacine montage of airy benevolence.

Clippings depict annular rotation wriggles of anaerobic nightstand debutantes in seedy beefy clubfoot sandwich shop oregano mistakes, spoken hourly before schematic pundits wash voluminous infatuation from effrontery's puissant synchopated shimmy.

Dimes bring fashion mimics to streaming stain tar's humble spelling sea, still defiled in soupy ciliated kinship's eternal umbrage, but billowing doubtful esquire destiny's pedestrian motif in clods of specious tumbrels.

Hats wear off, revealing hazy pairwise smooth encapsulated insurrections, stunning diaphanous encephalopods with tanned soliloquies.

Sternum Traitor Underwear

In light of day we see greener parity's fruitful pomp, dabbling with ursine shallows of postulated turpitude in personal sagacity's stern tilings.

Exclusionary camaraderie loops from stein to porous luminal breastplate, dousing axial cotter pins with frugal gestation comas, remanding slanted epigrams from tinted leisure's pulsing hominy critter police.

Nomination pits crow in silky distaff coughs of scoundrel scheming, traipsing through calumny's worsted swells to satisfy paternal lunges with hammer schlock and shrapnel coinage.

Satin seethes amid ecstatic cameos of infamy and gradual reset, focal points anointing garrulous cravers with destiny's sown chalice of Benedictine sleepover sauce, compounded into trolley bliss.

Raiding high-bar seamstress cabarets, glossy-voiced parolees sweeten amplified adjudication with cufflink locker noose allotment beaks, cabling expired pardons under transpiration's imminent perusal.

Watching amply generic saucer fish turn sadly hemispheric dishes into beastly cobra salesmen, entitled croquet teams abbreviate an ovoid Ferris steeple with trunk line cavalcades of sternum traitor underwear, borne by nocturnal matchmakers to seasoned hills of unattended domicile distraction glyphs.

Venial swallows tree amazing slingshot mice in easily deformed magenta corpsmen, sanding easement cleft tornadoes into snivels of colloidal abridgement geese.

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona.  Nominated for Best of the Net in 2012, his work has appeared in many literary journals.  His most recent book, Intunesia, is available in paperback from White Sky Books at  He's @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Monday, February 17, 2014

A Poem by ayaz daryl nielsen

eleven things about wet noodles that everyone should know:

     -- a six-year-old nicknamed Chuck-a-muck often drapes wet noodles over his 
     ears (when his mother isn't looking)

     -- Chuck-a-muck's sister Maria doesn't drape wet noodles over her ears

     -- Thor didn't eat wet noodles as a kid (Odin and Elvis did and still do)

     -- every wet noodle is first cousin to all other wet noodles

     -- wet noodles give boa hugs

     -- dry noodles sometimes hesitate before accepting boa hugs from wet 
     noodles (but never regret it afterwards)

     -- unintentionally stepping barefoot on a wet noodle means good luck

     -- unintentionally stepping barefoot on several wet noodles means a gooey foot
     (but in a between-the-toes goody sort of gooeyness)

     -- wet noodles are allies of wet beeps, drippy faucets and poets with writer's 

     -- wet noodles -- so cool when hot!

     -- and hot because we're always  so  cooooool!

     and we wet noodles (us) of every where/when/how/dampness thank you
       for reading (and appreciating) eleven things everyone needs to know ...
                                               about wet noodles!

ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs) and x-hospice nurse, is editor of bear creek haiku (24 + years/116 + issues), his poetry's homes include Lilliput Review, Yellow Mama, Verse Wisconsin, Shamrock, High Coupe and Shemom, he has earned some cherished awards and participated in worthy anthologies -- his poetry ensembles include Concentric Penumbra's of the Heart and Tumbleweeds Still Tumbling, and, in 2013, released an anthology of poetry titled The Poet's of Bear Creek -- beloved wife/poet Judith Partin-Nielsen, assistant Frosty, and (translates as joie de vivre)