tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43439633201672128532024-03-15T02:16:33.338-07:00The Mind[less] MuseA.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.comBlogger292125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-62308736686843526372016-12-01T10:05:00.001-08:002016-12-01T10:05:47.526-08:00<br />
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<b><i>Due to personal issues this project and all others associated with Kind of a Hurricane Press are closed indefinitely. All work that has already been published will remain live on the site. All work that was accepted but has not been published is now released back to the author. All print copies and issues will remain available through their current sales channels.</i></b></div>
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A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com73tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-64491573824966920012016-07-25T06:09:00.002-07:002016-07-25T06:09:21.033-07:00A Poem by Daniel Slaten<br />
<b><i>Start the Panic</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
he dances backwards into the room<br />
the moment everything explodes<br />
a mushroom cloud of watermelon-scented<br />
anxiety<br />
covers all but the only thing<br />
the everything the anything<br />
the absolutely nothing thing<br />
that matters<br />
or doesn't does it<br />
no of course it doesn't<br />
it never will it never did<br />
it never should<br />
and so it is<br />
and so it isn't<br />
a celebration of movement<br />
in that<br />
moment<br />
of utter panic<br />
when the watermelon-scented<br />
anxiety<br />
woke us all from our slumber<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Daniel Slaten writes short stories and poetry in small notebooks and on sticky notes.<br />
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-57341546989850638752016-07-23T05:28:00.001-07:002016-07-23T05:28:17.452-07:00Three Poems by Angelica Fuse<br />
<b><i>Winged Poem</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
I saw a winged<br />
poem today whose<br />
name said he was<br />
Lucifer<br />
but he was no devil<br />
just an arrangement<br />
of friendly whiskey<br />
verses offering opium<br />
to children.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Monkey Business</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
I am from the tree<br />
dangling, an ensemble<br />
of animal parts, teeth<br />
that rattle, this is my<br />
territory, I beat my animal<br />
chest, bray like an ass,<br />
piss on the floor,<br />
then climb back up to<br />
survey my finer points.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Labyrinth</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
lathe and labyrinth<br />
we drove deep into the night<br />
looking for monsters<br />
forgetting our swords at home<br />
but at least we had our<br />
smart phones so we did not<br />
get too lost<br />
then entered the open mouth<br />
of the cave<br />
[bad idea] now still turning<br />
we are beating hearts<br />
lost in the dark.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Angelica Fuse is an unquiet voice. She enjoys reading by an imaginary fire.<br />
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-23711832338937436332016-07-21T06:47:00.001-07:002016-07-21T06:47:33.055-07:00A Poem by John McKernan<br />
<b><i>Go On</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Mister Mayor<br />
Call Prince Adam<br />
<br />
Ask him<br />
How to lick<br />
Arsenic off vodka ice cubes<br />
<br />
Then call up the Insurance Company<br />
Ask if they pay<br />
In the event of suicide<br />
Listen close<br />
<br />
<i>Yes</i><br />
<i>If you're paid up after two years</i><br />
<i>We'll send you a feather bed</i><br />
<i>Of maggots</i><br />
<i>And have Hugh Hefner deliver it</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
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John McKernan grew up in Omaha Nebraska and recently retired from herding commas after teaching for many years at Marshall University. He lives in Florida and West Virginia. His most recent books i s a selected poems Resurrection of the Dust. His poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, Paris Review, Field, and elsewhere.<br />
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A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-48308308377898939032016-07-19T13:55:00.000-07:002016-07-19T13:55:22.559-07:00A Poem by Marc Carver<br />
<b><i>Diamonds</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
I come to a river<br />
there are three otters swimming in the river.<br />
I put the diamonds on the bank and swim,<br />
one of the otters comes to me and lays in my arms, like a baby.<br />
<br />
His two fins at the back open out<br />
and he becomes a small child resting in my arms.<br />
He swims away<br />
and I look at the banks, they are filled with bright green and red frogs bubbles all over their body<br />
then I look for the diamonds<br />
they are gone.<br />
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com566tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-61715941590656844072016-07-15T05:33:00.001-07:002016-07-15T05:33:52.222-07:00A Poem by Charles Eugene Anderson<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Dine-In Communion</i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Eating is Freedom</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The signs are everywhere.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'm hungry.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Eating is Life</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Drive.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Pass one.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Drive some more.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Pass another one.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Eating is Divine</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Pull off the interstate.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
See the right church.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Drive to parking lot.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Eating is Tranquil</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The line is too long.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Decide to go in.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Get out of hoover-cruiser.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Adjust pants.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Belt on last notch.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Time for another belt.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
God has blessed me.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'm his faithful servant.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Eating is Girth</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'm ready.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The line inside is almost as long.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I will be forgiven for fasting too long.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Eating is Repentance</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'll stand in line as long as it takes.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Eating is McDonalds</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
This time my number is twelve.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
There were twelve disciples.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I look at the priest behind the counter.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
He'll deliver the sacraments if I'm patient a little longer.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
He says to me, "What are you waiting for?"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I say, "The Happy Meal."</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I take it with my hands open the way I've been taught so many years ago.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The priest speaks to the woman behind me, "May I help the next sinner in line?"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Charles Eugene Anderson lives in Colorado. He's been lucky enough to be published in many publications for the past twenty. When Charles isn't writing, he likes muscle cars, running, and baking. Find out more at www.charlesandersonbooks.com or amazon.com/author/charleseugeneanderson.</div>
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A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-1265060111311340252016-07-12T17:06:00.000-07:002016-07-12T17:06:01.503-07:00A Poem by Mark Niehus<br />
<b><i>Co-Op</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Name Box<br />
Date Box<br />
<br />
Yes box<br />
No box<br />
go to question 37<br />
<br />
Hi question 37<br />
Yes box<br />
Can you house me?<br />
No box<br />
go to Section E<br />
<br />
Section E can you house me?<br />
Yes box<br />
with conditions, are you poor?<br />
Yes box<br />
are you lying to me?<br />
No box<br />
are you hiding zee moniez?<br />
No box<br />
please just house me!<br />
Yes box<br />
go to promise box<br />
<br />
Promise me box<br />
I Promise box<br />
<br />
Sign me<br />
<br />
.........................................<br />
<br />
Date me<br />
<br />
........................................<br />
<br />
Now fold me just so<br />
<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
Mark Niehus is a poet and artist who drives a cheese truck, between deliveries he explores the mechanics of human behavior. Belief, need, ambition, self worth, inspiration and hope, occupy his mind while customers comment on the weather. Finding a place for his writing has become important to him, though the reasons for this beyond the obvious are unclear. He likes to get close to instinct and invention to create unique combinations of poetry, street art, music and performance.</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-90355438288788903292016-07-10T08:14:00.003-07:002016-07-10T08:15:44.248-07:00Three Poems by Natalie Crick<br />
<b><i>Love Me</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Two friends.<br />
Chalk and cheese, gelled with want.<br />
The shy one with silver sticks<br />
That clunked on wooden boards<br />
Skipped to a secret song.<br />
<br />
And him, a gauzy giant,<br />
The bitter scat his excuse.<br />
It shines for special occasions,<br />
Shouting about life of biting tongues:<br />
I am history reinvented.<br />
<br />
Blink twice. I am not out of the ordinary.<br />
He tells me how I have a nervous laugh<br />
And how nice<br />
The mice looked, strung up in grey wire.<br />
An easy spear through each socket.<br />
<br />
Would I like to walk with them?<br />
It would be like kissing the flute<br />
With my eyes smoking and hissing,<br />
Ash sinking in each pit.<br />
Let me roll in icy pools.<br />
<br />
The Other does that,<br />
Hair wet and black,<br />
Tossing acid.<br />
Do you ever sleep?<br />
He wants to be loved.<br />
<br />
I do not react.<br />
The sun lets them in,<br />
The moon breaks in two.<br />
Bell, once.<br />
Bell, twice.<br />
<br />
One is finished.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Sunday School</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Madeline loves it<br />
And sits as Mother would.<br />
The priest is like her Father<br />
Dressed all in grey,<br />
<br />
Palms fluttering with<br />
Paper clowns,<br />
Legs and arms spinning anti-clockwise<br />
Like the priest's eyes slide<br />
<br />
From side to side.<br />
We are his for an hour<br />
But he cannot touch us,<br />
For we are jewels to be watched,<br />
<br />
And, one day taken.<br />
Nobody has ever held his hand<br />
But Grandmother, with rings like<br />
Little girl's warnings.<br />
<br />
This is my house of God,<br />
Rain thundering as<br />
Unanswered questions.<br />
Their faces are taught and chilled with frost.<br />
<br />
He is the bee of androgyny<br />
Thrusting candelabras as tusks.<br />
This drone of activity,<br />
It is all too much for me.<br />
<br />
Faces dumb as naked dolls.<br />
He strips them, licking them with stars<br />
Like potential girlfriends<br />
Or meats to be weighed.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>And We Are Hiding Now</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
For some time they sat in the cornfield<br />
And spoke like dull mice<br />
About what would be done.<br />
When the sun, a ruined fruit<br />
<br />
Ripped the dilute garden growth<br />
And spread a red alarm over tall shears<br />
The eldest was heard to say<br />
"Bury them in the cellar."<br />
<br />
Skins of lice lamented<br />
Over the pulsing stalks,<br />
Their drones blanched in the air<br />
Curdled and hot.<br />
<br />
The house was distant and brown<br />
Weeping a creeping shadow from within,<br />
That seemed to warn: "Keep Out."<br />
A blaze from the forgotten.<br />
<br />
Old plastic swing swung over the perimeter,<br />
A goodbye, flinch.<br />
<br />
The sky was high and blue.<br />
In the giant shoots<br />
Lurking softly and surreal,<br />
Two ducklings on the gilded shore.<br />
<br />
The sea was swimming with flushed young men<br />
Severing feathered heads<br />
With long silver scissors.<br />
Pointed thorns in a paper box.<br />
<br />
The woman roared like the man.<br />
"Stop," said the girls<br />
With frilled socks.<br />
Once the heavens were purple<br />
<br />
Like a bruise, the corn<br />
Grew cold and wet.<br />
The house stood waiting, a deadened bulb<br />
With a swift march<br />
<br />
They advanced through the field,<br />
Cutting stems.<br />
<br />
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<br />
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<span style="color: #ffd966;">Natalie Crick has found delight in writing all of her life and first began writing when she was a very young girl. Her poetry is influenced by melancholic confessional Women's poetry. Her poetry has been published in a range of journals and magazines including <i>Cannons Mouth, Cyphers, Ariadne's Thread, Carillon </i>and <i>National Poetry Anthology 2013.</i></span></div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-31690620017130868422016-07-08T10:38:00.001-07:002016-07-08T10:39:48.855-07:00A Poem by Jeff Grimshaw<br />
<b><i>Friday Morning with Ducks</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
There is no difference between<br />
Ducks and mechanical ducks<br />
From my vantage point<br />
Or rather my<br />
click*click*click*click*click*<i>series</i><br />
Of vantage points<br />
As I negotiate the<br />
Mesconetkong Creek Bridge<br />
Although I have <i>no reason</i><br />
(Cough!) to believe that<br />
Any of the ducks<br />
Are mechanical ducks<br />
Not even the one<br />
Jerking his head back and forth<br />
Watching the bread crumbs<br />
Float by<br />
Like a mechanical duck<br />
Doing a bad imitation<br />
Of a cartoon duck<br />
At a cartoon<br />
Tennis match<br />
<br />
I am en route to<br />
The post office<br />
I should subscribe to more magazines<br />
I will have to do some research<br />
And see which ones make<br />
The best paper airplanes<br />
<br />
Meanwhile<br />
My Sherpa assistant<br />
Is in the vestibule of<br />
The health food store<br />
Eating a bag of healthy<br />
Potato Chips<br />
And wondering if the song<br />
They are playing on the radio in there<br />
Is a country song or not<br />
Because it is what he<br />
Always wonders. "Jeff,"<br />
He'll say, "Is this one a country song?"<br />
"No, Pasang, this is 'Bohemian<br />
Rhapsody' by Queen. If you want to hear<br />
A country song you have to listen<br />
To a country station."<br />
And then he'll make a notation on<br />
A 7 Grain Bread label and five<br />
Minutes later say, "What about<br />
This one, Jeff? Is this one<br />
A country sond?" And<br />
I say, "No, Pasang, this is still<br />
'Bohemian Rhapsody' by Queen," and<br />
He makes another notation and<br />
This goes on all goddamn night<br />
<br />
But now he's eating his healthy blue<br />
Potato chips and I am<br />
Wiping the ducks off my retina<br />
By checking out<br />
A 17 year old girl with a<br />
Pierced belly button<br />
It is unseasonably warm<br />
For January thank God although<br />
The pierced lip I could<br />
Do without<br />
<br />
My cell phone bill!<br />
A postcard announcing<br />
Brookdale Community College is presenting Little<br />
Shop of Horrors next month! A mutual<br />
Fund prospectus! An envelope full of<br />
Discount coupons I will never<br />
Use! My post office<br />
Box is a Gateway to Exotic<br />
Adventure and Unsolicited<br />
Advertisements!<br />
<br />
Ducks and (perhaps) mechanical<br />
Ducks and Pasang and the teenage girl<br />
With the belly ring all bob<br />
In my wake like flotsam<br />
<br />
My God it is February 3rd and<br />
I have <i>not changed the calendar page!!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
So I take care of that<br />
The mad dash back home is frankly<br />
A blur and the artist<br />
Who lives next door<br />
Is sweeping cat food<br />
Misfired ice melt & elderly<br />
French-fries from<br />
The sidewalk<br />
Wearing her smock so everybody<br />
Knows she's an artist<br />
I suspect sapphic tendencies as<br />
Well but then of course<br />
I always do she has a slightly<br />
Unhealthy blue cast because<br />
I am watching through the<br />
Sheer blue curtains which<br />
Sometimes when the sun<br />
Floods through them makes<br />
My gargoyle pencil holder<br />
Look blue but not particularly<br />
Unhealthy<br />
<br />
AND<br />
<br />
Someone is selling a PT Cruiser for<br />
8K or Best Price<br />
The UCC is having a pancake-and-sausage<br />
Breakfast tomorrow. Gene the<br />
Town drunk is<br />
Lurching down towards the<br />
Delaware with a 24 pack of<br />
Not particularly tasty beer<br />
Earlier today I was stopped at<br />
A red light and he asked me<br />
How my daughter was doing<br />
But did not pay<br />
Overly much attention to<br />
My reply and just now<br />
The artist paused in her<br />
Sweeping to consume<br />
A bottle of Yoo Hoo<br />
I like the way she<br />
Smears the Yoo Hoo mustache off<br />
Her upper lip and decides<br />
<i>This chick</i><br />
<i>Is no lesbian.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
A delivery of French bread sticks<br />
To the restaurant across<br />
The street! <i>Zut alors!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
And now out one more time before<br />
Lunch (meatloaf on<br />
Rye or failing that<br />
Tuna salad) and the ducks take<br />
Off, quacking or (could be)<br />
Clanking, into the air,<br />
<br />
And from up there<br />
The car roofs<br />
Are just so many<br />
Blue and Red and especially<br />
Silver potato chips<br />
<br />
And even 'Bohemian Rhapsody' by<br />
Queen is just barely audible<br />
Enough to permit the ducks to smile<br />
Although of course their bills<br />
Will not.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
Jeff Grimshaw has had poems and stories published (among other places) in <i>New York Quarterly, Asimov's SF, Pyrokinection, </i>and <i>Chiron Review. </i>He's the co-writer of the screenplay for Michel Gondry's movie <i>The We & the I </i>(2013). He generally makes his living as a baker, and lives in Milford, NJ.</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-80754175644822844932016-06-07T07:22:00.002-07:002016-06-07T07:22:41.445-07:00Three Poems by Ken L. Jones<br />
<b><i>Watching and Listening To</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
I never discovered the identity of the highways<br />
That were all mixed into one<br />
And are now as cherished as stolen horses<br />
As they have become happy memories<br />
That are like paint drips and fantasies<br />
That remove all the door knobs of back so long, long ago<br />
When there were adventures of her own<br />
In the tape hiss and the clipping<br />
And the fold rock strums of the riverbank on which she was last seen<br />
But all of that is metal to be refined on some other day<br />
During the hollowness of some far away Sunday afternoon<br />
Because this morning is a vacant lot full of tumbleweeds<br />
Desperate to detach and hurry off toward the drained coffers<br />
Of she who was always only a mirage<br />
That evaporated in the harshening light of noon.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Blink and You'll Miss It</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
After a day whose big sky is like festive fabric scraps<br />
My all night impatience became a house that was empty<br />
And didn't even have enough ink left in it<br />
To wake me up the next morning to the emptiness<br />
Of those blessings whose shaggy hair was Welsh and fierce looking<br />
As they rippled like wadded up sheets of aluminum foil<br />
That sounded like a Russian orchestra as this was accomplished<br />
And was something which was only usually hinted at<br />
In the grimaces of the distorted twin guitars<br />
That are but yet another transition<br />
As time seems to warp into those intimate moments<br />
That suddenly becomes aware of their own ragged blades<br />
And which are nothing less than my complete resurgence<br />
As they skim over these waves towards far from home again<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Vanishing Seeds and Bonsai Trees</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Peppermint vines creep through the ghost like snow<br />
Velvety icy and bubbling phantasms made of penny candy<br />
While the fragments of a harpsichord<br />
To which the water colors of Diego Rivera dance<br />
Become the egg yolk words to the chorus<br />
Of the shallow waters of the reggae ice cream truck<br />
That will always reside in her touch<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="text-align: justify;">For the past thirty-five years Ken L. Jones has been a professionally published author who has done everything from writing Donald Duck Comic books to creating things for Freddy Krueger to say in some of his movies. In the last six years he has concentrated on his lifelong ambition of becoming a published poet and he has published widely in all genres of that discipline in books, online, in chapbooks and in several solo collections of poetry. </span>A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-33751841061604438902016-06-05T05:44:00.001-07:002016-06-05T05:44:11.002-07:00A Poem by Jeffrey Zable<br />
<b><i>Walking My Poem</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
I was walking my poem down the street<br />
when a beautiful woman stopped and said,<br />
"My, what a handsome poem. Mind if I pet it?"<br />
"The pleasure is all mine," I responded, "and<br />
I'll even have my poem recite for you."<br />
<br />
"Oh, to be a virile, young man again<br />
who could catch the eye of beauties like you--<br />
to sweep them off their feet,<br />
and wind up beneath the sheet<br />
for a night of unforgettable release."<br />
<br />
And as she walked away<br />
without the slightest appreciation,<br />
I continued down the street,<br />
dragging my poem behind me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Jeffrey Zable is a teacher and conga drummer who plays Afro-Cuban folkloric music for dance classes and Rumbas around the San Francisco Bay Area. His poetry, fiction, and non-fiction have appeared in hundreds of magazines and anthologies from the mid-70's to the present, most recently in Serving House Journal, The Vein, Weirderary, Futures Trading, Mocking Heart Review, Bookends Review, Unscooped Bagel, Grief Diaries, Houseboat (featured poet), 2015 Rhysling Anthology, Poetry Pacific, Third Wednesday, Flint Hills Review, and many others . . . </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-4437164980998910382016-06-03T11:26:00.001-07:002016-06-03T11:28:43.460-07:00Three Poems from Ken L. Jones<br />
<br />
<b><i>Where Can I Find Her Paintings?</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
TV was a highway of personal beliefs<br />
That were tan all over<br />
Card decks slipping open like rodeo clowns<br />
And all of this still makes patterns<br />
On the cloudy pumpkins in my backyard<br />
As I dive into all that is mild and tender<br />
And will always be a taco stand<br />
That stands up to the elements<br />
Even as it blossoms submerging the hours<br />
As I slowly sip its white grape juice<br />
Laced with rivers that lead to a frozen lake<br />
That now has barbed wire all around<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>A Silence So Deep</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Wow pumpkins are turning into gold tarnished TV shows<br />
And yet this pilgrim afternoon o' the sea<br />
Is my Lord Of Hell is Venus In Furs to me<br />
And as the taper candles that are the stars<br />
Vault my thoughts way beyond Mars<br />
Causing my past and present to dance<br />
Like elves down strings of memories<br />
That are like the Appalachian Trail<br />
Where they are raked up like fresh baked leaves<br />
By Andy Warhol who is greasy from kicking it old school<br />
And planting the seeds for dust and diesel trucks<br />
Late for the multiple layers of the kid in you<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Gifts From The Dark Edges</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
In the underbelly layers of a long time dream<br />
That hardly softens all that is so long lost<br />
But whose after school detention's airy melodies<br />
Are more poignant than any Doors' song<br />
And yet somehow all that has gone before<br />
Makes my remembrances dive and soar<br />
Until they devolve like whatever the dog<br />
Turned into in John Carpenter's The Thing<br />
Served with a creamy thought<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
For the past thirty-five years Ken L. Jones has been a professionally published author who has done everything from writing Donald Duck comic books to creating things for Freddy Krueger to say in some of his movies. In the last six years he has concentrated on his lifelong ambition of becoming a published poet and he has published widely in all genres of that discipline in books, online, in chapbooks and in several solo collections of poetry.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-72023716575803197202016-06-01T05:44:00.002-07:002016-06-01T05:44:53.240-07:00A Poem by Peter Magliocco<br />
<b><i>not a supernova supertrain</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Star ether braids itself thru time<br />
penetrating the gravity of sweet yearning<br />
levitating a breath of multitudes<br />
from trails of dying comets<br />
where sin was born finally<br />
just a bridge connecting humans<br />
<br />
in a race to reach ultra-heaven<br />
coloring my graphs of infinity<br />
beyond the corner convenience stores<br />
selling generic ambrosia as last meal<br />
while I speed thru the stop sign<br />
at the cul-de-sac of your heart-fall<br />
<br />
there starlight still breathes us in<br />
beyond a disinherited galaxy<br />
of little earth stars we homed in<br />
curious substitute for an afterlife<br />
immersing ourselves in cyber ships<br />
(modeled after "The Crystal Ship")<br />
<br />
of classic Rock & Roll perhaps<br />
we had little chance when the dry<br />
cities closed up all around us<br />
squeezing out the flesh of stardust<br />
vampire aliens played with constantly<br />
leaving us husks of forgotten desire<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he's been active for several years in the small presses as both editor and contributor. His latest poetry book is <i>Poems for the Downtrodden Millennium</i>, from The Medulla Review Publishing.</div>
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<br />
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-64526766009214895242016-05-29T06:59:00.000-07:002016-05-29T06:59:02.150-07:00Three Poems by A.J. Huffman<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Good God Mother<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am a straightjacket girl in a ballroom world. I have</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
forgotten how to follow the glitter-</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
brick road. Mirrors
come to paint me. It tickles.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I laugh and break.
Their concentration</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
requires definition – mine.
I look myself up</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and down seems to be the only probability. I jump</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on one foot in the middle of a rainstorm</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
hoping to strike right.
<i>Wrong!</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everything runs. Back
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to basic training I go.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Of Coffee<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
grounds</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
meet</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
water</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
brew</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
energized</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
morning</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
breath</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
drip pools</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
cup carries</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
caffeinated</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
gold</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Reverberations. In Blue.<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am a broken hollow</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
filled with my own echo.
I haunt</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
myself with abandoned </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
desires designed to trick me</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
out as “normal.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It never works. I am
immune to the sound</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of my own voice (not to mention</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
my truly pathetic sales pitch). Still </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I practice repeating retreating</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
repenting (occasionally)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
even reinventing . . . harmony</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
is the definition</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
[of so much more than]</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
horrifying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">A.J. Huffman has published twelve solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. Her new poetry collections, </span><i style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">Another Blood Jet </i><span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">(Eldritch Press), </span><i style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">A Few Bullets Short of Home </i><span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">(mgv2>publishing), </span><i style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">Butchery of the Innocent </i><span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">(Scars Publications), </span><i style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">Degeneration</i><span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;"> (Pink Girl Ink) and </span><i style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">A Bizarre Burning of Bees</i><span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;"> (Transcendent Zero Press) are now available from their respective publishers and amazon.com. She is a four-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2400 poems in various national and international journals, including </span><i style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia,</i><span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;"> and </span><i style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">Kritya</i><span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com.</span></o:p></div>
A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-30827104886902126042016-05-07T06:39:00.001-07:002016-05-07T06:39:30.553-07:00Three Poems by John W. Sexton<br />
<b><i>All Aboard</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
electric jellywhales<br />
pulse opera . . . their myths<br />
of shallower times<br />
<br />
immortality card:<br />
go straight to hale<br />
do not pass gone<br />
<br />
technology keeps<br />
us grounded . . . the<br />
ant subterranean railway<br />
<br />
the bodies<br />
black foliage . . . artichoke-seals<br />
snout the silt-seas<br />
<br />
bond with local life . . .<br />
in lichen cloak and hood<br />
your mind deepens to stone<br />
<br />
tunnel cities of<br />
the fretted terrain . . . existential damp<br />
seals us<br />
<br />
the astromaggots . . .<br />
all aboard the giant plum<br />
for the fall to earth<br />
<br />
Mrs. Eyes<br />
is an innovator with leftovers . . .<br />
candied fly wings<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Full-Stops</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
her pubes of kelp<br />
rich with nutrient . . . her larder full<br />
of drowned seamen<br />
<br />
old granny ten-tits<br />
. . . the elepig<br />
squeals the sky in half<br />
<br />
falls a paragraph of fog<br />
. . . moon-silver<br />
a dog barks in full-stops<br />
<br />
an innocent evil . . .<br />
the shadows slip<br />
from their puppets<br />
<br />
three fine mice-men<br />
the serval girls<br />
purred you petrified<br />
<br />
oh that mad hairday . . .<br />
a lather befell<br />
the city<br />
<br />
through a door<br />
in your soul we entered . . .<br />
we rifled your light<br />
<br />
from his cabinet<br />
of paralyzed faces . . . her lips creased<br />
for the everlasting time<br />
<br />
my darling abalone<br />
your mucous body slips<br />
from its dress<br />
<br />
one kiss<br />
the frog prince turns<br />
into a glass summer<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Those Innocent Days</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
his spine cracked . . .<br />
Dick Shinnarry<br />
is lost for words<br />
<br />
tethered to his winged goats<br />
. . . blue, the goatherd doesn't wake<br />
on the moon<br />
<br />
travel by slime machine . . .<br />
leave in disarray<br />
arrive in a heap<br />
<br />
space krill<br />
were once called dark matter . . .<br />
those innocent days of science<br />
<br />
the slush oceans a hint<br />
of vanilla . . . narsharks<br />
display their sweet tooth<br />
<br />
the mirror overcoat . . .<br />
we admire ourselves<br />
down his long back<br />
<br />
the ant's chair . . .<br />
yes, your arse<br />
looks big in this<br />
<br />
expleting the crossword<br />
tussle . . . lost for swords<br />
nine down<br />
<br />
all the truths<br />
that ever were lost . . . and this is the ear<br />
that Jack has<br />
<br />
violation a way of life . . .<br />
glove puppets<br />
accept the finger<br />
<br />
Matryoshka fell<br />
asunder . . . no custody<br />
of her lesser selves<br />
<br />
a downpour of diamonds . . .<br />
the solid steel river<br />
rings<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
John W. Sexton lives in the Republic of Ireland and is the author of five poetry collections, the most recent being <i>The Offspring of the Moon, </i>(Salmon Poetry, 2013). He also created and wrote <i>The Ivory Tower</i> for RTE radio, which ran to over one hundred half-hour episode from 1999 to 2002. Two novels based on the characters from this series have been published by the O'Brien Press: <i>The Johnny Coffin Diaries </i>and <i>Johnny Coffin School-Dazed, </i>which have been translated into both Italian and Serbian. He is a past nominee for The Hennessy Literary Award and his poem "The Green Owl" won the Listowel Poetry Prize 2007. Also in 2007 he was awarded a Patrick and Katherine Kavanagh Fellowship in Poetry.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-67439348419358557892016-05-05T05:22:00.001-07:002016-05-05T05:22:24.452-07:00A Poem by David Russell<br />
<b><i>Checkpoint</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Lurching, they bluster--ghouls into the chasm.<br />
<br />
Fierce lava, blowing, nullifies their fall<br />
And dissipates harsh gravity's concussion,<br />
Forces a seething screen of phoenix cowardice,<br />
Leaping to swell<br />
Into a fresh, mendacious crust,<br />
Tripping and throttling the led<br />
Into a smear upon pure metamorphic beauty.<br />
<br />
The skeleton's jaws yawn apart;<br />
A stranded mountaineer was frozen<br />
At his prime pinnacle,<br />
Denied warm, compromised decay;<br />
A calcium landmark now, but broken loose;<br />
A boulder never neutral<br />
To those in fear.<br />
<br />
One gouged and bored--<br />
New Sisyphus, with ever-sinking aspiration<br />
For no stress, no fall--<br />
For him the indefatigable light<br />
Breathes limbo silicosis.<br />
<br />
Can they combine? Eternity transcends the cheap ideal<br />
Of mutual obliteration.<br />
<br />
A mountaineer trapped in a submarine,<br />
A miner in a satellite,<br />
A megalomaniac performing his own precious lobotomy<br />
Hoping the abolished question mark<br />
Can keep things safe and solid.<br />
<br />
Purgation's smudged when bound to fire,<br />
Denied release from fizzy process,<br />
And even air can clog and sludge<br />
The ultimate suction of life's syllables<br />
Into fatuous pinprick stars,<br />
<br />
No line can break full circle.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-13955052466320733452016-05-03T15:44:00.001-07:002016-05-03T15:44:27.097-07:00A Poem by David C. Kopaska-Merkel<br />
<b><i>Eyes to See</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
The flavor of carrots is generated by 36 genes;<br />
29 of these genes,<br />
inserted just so in the human genome,<br />
confer near immortality--<br />
works on 11% of us.<br />
<br />
Folks don't react well, knowing<br />
the people next door are going on without them.<br />
Disaster on this scale is a cultural tsunami.<br />
<br />
Not content with their brief<br />
day in the sun, many of the 89%<br />
burn, rend, scream, kill:<br />
embrace death,<br />
if only they can take some<br />
immortals with them<br />
to the vanishing point.<br />
It's over. No one speaks of that time.<br />
<br />
After the Mayfly Wars we begin the <i>Live:</i><br />
artworks on a grand scale,<br />
literature refined to pellucidity,<br />
but creative breakthroughs, not so much,<br />
that's a game of youth<br />
and there is so little of that.<br />
<br />
Carrots, carrot genes,<br />
everything tastes like carrots<br />
broccoli, corn, potatoes, carrots<br />
tomatoes, peas, raspberries, carrots<br />
filet mignon, even human flesh:<br />
carrots, all.<br />
<br />
Then folks get desperate, but<br />
nothing works<br />
the taste is in <u>us</u><br />
not the foot<br />
not<br />
tires<br />
sand<br />
potting soil<br />
asphalt<br />
you can run, but, you know . . .<br />
<br />
So I'm trying to remember that genetics shtick<br />
and it's hard, oh so hard, after unnumbered years<br />
of purposeless satiation,<br />
but I'm teaching this kid,<br />
and she's getting it, and I've never prayed so hard<br />
for eggs, potatoes, rosemary,<br />
onions, chicken, pepper, apples,<br />
chocolate, artichokes, mango, mustard,<br />
ANYTHING,<br />
but no carrots.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
David C. Kopaska-Merkel lives in a hollowed-out gourd hanging from a red oak out behind a house occupied by a colony of artists far more accomplished than he is. A leaf lacquerer by trade, he edits The Lacquered Leaf and dreams of a day when his gourd will be hung from a black walnut.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-48047455469751656012016-05-01T06:43:00.001-07:002016-05-01T06:43:28.915-07:00A Poem from Brendan McBreen<br />
<b><i>when life gives you lemons</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
the grass is greener<br />
keeping the doctor away<br />
the mice will<br />
make mountains<br />
out of the frying pan<br />
into a gift horse's mouth<br />
but don't cry over<br />
all the tea in China<br />
because the bigger they are<br />
in glass houses<br />
the harder they fly a kite<br />
without a paddle<br />
until the cows come home<br />
in sheep's clothing<br />
<br />
remember<br />
measure twice<br />
die by the sword<br />
<br />
and when in doubt<br />
<br />
panic<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Brendan McBreen is a poet and workshop facilitator with Striped Water Poets in Auburn Washington. He is a humorist, a haiku writer, a student of Zen and Taoist philosophy and psychology, a collage artist, a sometimes cartoonist, a Gemini, and an event coordinator with the Auburn Days festival in August. He is a former coordinator of the August Poetry Postcard Fest and in 2009 was awarded a residency at the Whiteley Center in Friday Harbor. Brendan has been featured at various local venues and is published in many journals including <i>Raven Chronicles, Bellowing Ark, Crab Creek Review, bottle rockets, Leading Edge, Origami Condom, Circle Show, </i>in the anthology <i>In Tahoma's Shadow, </i>and in the UK journal: <i>The Delinquent.</i></div>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-49009401724983960652016-04-29T15:41:00.000-07:002016-04-29T15:41:13.157-07:00A Poem by Bryan Damien Nichols<br />
<br />
<b><i>Desires and Dreams</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<i> -- for Alexander Shacklebury</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Your desires are seen through dreams,<br />
And your dreams, through desires:<br />
<br />
your desires: your dreams:<br />
<br />
As patent as an etching in graphite,<br />
The result somehow stained in<br />
Aureolin, boysenberry, turquoise, and lime--<br />
<br />
Like strange ferns thrusting through electrified water<br />
At chimerical dusk--<br />
<br />
Like a Christmas tree you've never seen adorned<br />
With bulb and trinkets and tinsel<br />
<br />
but hanging upside down.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Bryan Damien Nichols was born in Houma, Louisiana, on August 30, 1978. He earned a B.A. <i>summa cum laude</i>, in Philosophy from Baylor University, and a J.D. from the University of Texas School of Law. He has practiced law both in Houston and in Texas' Rio Grande Valley. Bryan currently lives in Los Fresnos, TX, with his loving wife, Michelle. Bryan is best known for the poetry he writes through his two heteronyms: (1) Kjell Nykvist: and (2) Alexander Shacklebury. These two heteronyms were featured in Bryan's debut poetry collection, <i>Whispers From Within</i> (Sarah Book Publishing). In this new collection, by contrast, Bryan writes in his own name, and explores numerous themes and issues that are important to him personally.</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-82140083154838317822016-04-27T07:17:00.001-07:002016-04-27T07:17:32.904-07:00Two Poems by Sheikha A.<br />
<b><i>Salt</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
from a pot of pestled roses;<br />
the hour of midnight prints<br />
labels on foreheads of walls<br />
hiding behind dirty glue, dried<br />
toilet smells and secret closets<br />
of re-fleshed skeletons; scrape<br />
back a few inches to see life<br />
curl into a wrinkled death, skins<br />
on bones peached pink/melba<br />
desserts/laced torso/girdled<br />
thighs/bedside candle-plumed/<br />
carpet of glass/lotion and whip--<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Invariability</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Blue mountains on white snow<br />
rest like gods returned from war;<br />
chest armors scuffed with dust,<br />
rectitude attacked with iron blades;<br />
caves of victory like dug reticules--<br />
worms once feasted on ripe roots<br />
now travel towards a shortage<br />
to harvest sleep under vapored<br />
time; they will grow scorpion<br />
claws, suck marrows dry,<br />
tear out of sands,<br />
be who they are,<br />
wreckage--<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Sheikha A. hails from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. With over 70 publications in various print/online publications such as Red Fez, Ygdrasil, a New Ulster, The Penmen Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, Poetry Pacific, Mad Swirl to name a few, and many anthologies, she has also authored a short poetry collection titled <i>Spaced</i> (Hammer and Anvil Books, 2013) available on kindle. Her poems have also been recited at two separate poetry reading events held in Greece. She edits poetry for eFiction India. She maintains all her publications on her blog sheikha82.wordpress.com</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-81241399647535555662016-03-05T07:12:00.000-08:002016-03-05T07:12:25.325-08:00Three Poems by A.J. Huffman<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Embracing Change . . . <o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m settling in </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and every minute can be</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
daunting. Becoming</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
your nothing, I’ve met</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with suggestions </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on tweaks and additions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the biggest developments</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
is a hope that you devour</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
what you love. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And what you don’t.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Masterful Interpreters of the Human Vibe<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought everything was right</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with the world. I saw
dark</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
eyes below the surface.
There were deep</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
days of secrets. I
thought I had everything</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
contained. I soon
learned betrayal</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
was a one-room efficiency </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
across the parking lot.
I have one foot</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in a place I knew I could never leave</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
without dying. I did
not want to grow</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
up. I did not want to
learn</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
about wearing my sins like a blanket,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but I was in no position to change things.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The risk of chaos was always near,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and poison literally hung in the air. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw it as the subtle difference</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
between hope and desire.
There was still</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
something pure about that.
Of course,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
it helps to be able to breathe</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in dirty air.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Ungusted Wind<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Heavy silence </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
weighing on lungs, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
waiting for another breath</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of memory. A
tussled-hair anticipation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A relief from smothering</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
heat that never comes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">A.J. Huffman has published twelve full-length poetry collections,
thirteen solo poetry chapbooks and one joint poetry chapbook through various
small presses. Her most recent releases, <i>Degeneration</i> (Pink Girl Ink), <i>A
Bizarre Burning of Bees</i> (Transcendent Zero Press), and <i>Familiar Illusions</i> (Flutter Press) are now available from their
respective publishers. She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a
two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2500 poems in various
national and international journals, including <i>Labletter, The James
Dickey Review, The Bookends Review, Bone Orchard, Corvus Review, EgoPHobia,</i> and <i>Kritya</i>.
She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.
www.kindofahurricanepress.com.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-15231268971889405762016-03-03T06:53:00.000-08:002016-03-03T06:53:36.379-08:00A Poem by John Pursch<br />
<b><i>Flytrap Knuckle Sawdust</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Into hand and out of mind, the coldest of ancient time-lapse fusion generators peddles its wares to childhood memories of long-forgotten carousels of nameless visages gone to fallow graveyard icicles in soldered unknown pirouettes of bifurcated ovens, folding subterranean rivulets in periodic building creaks, settling boneyard catacombs for futuristic generations to dream about in wanton heat replay of slo-mo's levitating jungle.<br />
<br />
Stumbling into memorized rotisserie of highfalutin crockery and tailings sifted hourly by time-reversal junkies stirring cream in partly cloudy skyline beach on lunging temporal islands, standing lunatic lobotic leaders in numbered turnstile overcoats of fleshy gabardine solution sets, frosting differential brainpan gears with choicest bits of drilling sturgeon sideways glance from hovering groupies bent on pants regard and buttoned flytrap knuckle sawdust, pent in pending pentagrams of sawed-off cocktail roundhouse blues, topless scurvy shopping lists, and catatonic spouse machines, left beached and frantic, unattended in the checkout eyes of cancelled kisses.<br />
<br />
Down to final swallow of succulent drip-shoot coffee canteen cafeteria blintz eruption police evasion escargot, she laughs a lot in solid rewind perspiration, seated over caustic influx bellhop door of dourly diurnal dihedral detrimental daguerreotypes of dawn-smoke doppelganger decoupage, deftly daft in toffee-tapered topographical toboggan tense of crammed grammatical thunder, cashing year-long photographs of librarian heads in thuds from well beyond eternal stacks of spearfish periodicals from decades drummed with thumbing thigh-scan surgery of lost enabled duodecimal decisions dogs on skewered impetuosity to sweaty fever omnibus in cornered trimaran of basal hat collection crosstown catnap snips, ferociously entailed in governed mental squad rant volume population drift.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice nominated for Best of the Net, his work has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, <i>Intunesia</i>, is available in paperback at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. His experimental lit-rap video is at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He's @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-35713187853850646112016-03-01T15:31:00.001-08:002016-03-01T15:31:57.036-08:00A Poem by Linda M. Crate<br />
<b><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">100% Cruel</span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i><br /></i></b>
there's a 1/16th</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">of me that's curious to see</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">where you went,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">but the other 15th of me is just</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">glad you're gone;</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">i wouldn't want to live a life</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">catering on you</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">24/7</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">i could only imagine how exhausting that</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">would be--</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> i told them to tell me</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> when you fell flat on your face because</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> i wanted to see it</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> part of me still does while</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> the other 1th of me</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> says that's just plain cruel;</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">can't be any crueler than the 100%</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">of you.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvania native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. Recently her two chapbooks, A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press--June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon--January 2014) were published. Her fantasy novel Blood & Magic was published in March 2015. Her novel Dragons & Magic was published in October 2015.</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-3688028890635672022016-02-28T06:53:00.006-08:002016-02-28T06:53:59.266-08:00Three Poems by April Salzano<br />
<b><i>Spoke too, Gone too</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
soon. Decubitus. Succubus.<br />
Fuck you, bitch. Trapped<br />
between two worlds, one all goddamnit &<br />
other polite and subtle as a hemorroid.<br />
Excuse me. The disease<br />
of powerful seething, driving<br />
to distraction.<br />
Phone on hold.<br />
Hold the phone.<br />
Stop the fingers<br />
on screens they aren't really<br />
touching. A book<br />
on Auschwitz. Life<br />
on fire. Death at the door.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>I Know Where My Hands Have Been</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
They find things in the dark,<br />
proud tongues talking, taking<br />
signs away from languages and cupboards,<br />
cupping the moon and casting it<br />
aside in favor of brighter light.<br />
How bare their intention,<br />
how wrinkled their skin.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Let Every Sound Be</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
anything but familiar, all excuses,<br />
original as origami<br />
animals and balloon breasts stuffed<br />
high in shirts that are too<br />
small. Let anyone who can,<br />
do, and those who can't, crawl<br />
on fours across floors<br />
made of water.<br />
Let the sun go out.<br />
Keep the moon on hold.<br />
Dictate the way the cards will<br />
fall, and sweep them under hand-<br />
loomed rugs and quilts of clay.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
April Salzano is the co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press and is currently working on a memoir about raising a child with autism, as well as several collections of poetry. Her work has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in journals such as <i>The Camel Saloon, Centrifugal Eye, Deadsnakes, Visceral Uterus, Salome, Poetry Quarterly, Writing Tomorrow </i>and <i>Rattle. </i>Her chapbook, <i>The Girl of My Dreams,</i> is available from Dancing Girl Press. Her poetry collection, <i>Future Perfect, </i> is forthcoming from Pink. Girl. Ink. More of her work can be read at aprilsalzano.blogspot.com</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343963320167212853.post-25128466933530843872016-02-26T06:32:00.001-08:002016-02-26T06:32:14.394-08:00Three Poems by Joanna M. Weston<br />
<b><i>The Depth of Cold</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
a wedge of rime on the sky<br />
this glacial sheet of stars<br />
<br />
where tossed paper napkins<br />
and a footprint coin snow<br />
<br />
pigeons lost in hoar-frost<br />
are speared by fallen icicles<br />
<br />
an apron of milk spilt<br />
the gelid end of solstice<br />
<br />
in a river of ice-floes<br />
shards of arctic moons<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Unfocused</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<i> -- 1st line from Sylvia Plath's "Years"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
they enter as animals from the outer<br />
rim of countries stretched by hunger<br />
<br />
stealing comfort from the night<br />
fleshed bones gnawed to the pith<br />
<br />
incoming nightmare spectres<br />
spiders weave old catastrophes<br />
<br />
each broken promise spells our past<br />
these strained smiles glisten<br />
<br />
a paralysis of searchlight fear<br />
marooned in focused high beams<br />
<br />
horror's welcome plastered on skin<br />
time disables our emotional centres<br />
<br />
faith blankets all uncertainty<br />
disbelief burned at every stake<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>These Nights</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<i>-- 1st line from Thomas James' Love Song</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
love, the gold mouth has broken open<br />
silver tongues spill on creased sheets<br />
<br />
an arm fingers cradle moonlit words<br />
the night's shadows waver over skin<br />
<br />
a movement of dream in curled limbs<br />
whispers of sweat speak wild roses<br />
<br />
what questions can be asked of love?<br />
lips caress night's hand and breast<br />
<br />
the tide falls and sleep moves in<br />
mouths close on raptured speech<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Joanna M. Weston is married, has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. She has a middle-reader, "Frame and the McGuire," published by Tradewind Books, and poetry, "A Summer Father," published by Frontenac House of Calgary. Her eBooks found at her blog: http://www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com/</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0