Three Poems by Felino A. Soriano

in the poem of rhythm

 

or

in

            the immanent faculty of language’s methodology…

 

staggered

                        sentiments

upon emotional aggregated fathoms, whole or whole in the halved architecture of

 

a sonnet’s implicit salutation

 

echoed

 

 

in the wholeness of rhythm

 

querying the immanent self (subjective as the mirror’s rotating back)

                        can

a

            section be

considered whole in the aspectual meaning of dictionary intelligence?

 

then

                                                as though the body ignites becoming interior to the flame’s

oval-fingering

recalling unzips its etching phenomena

reenacting reactive

oppositional consultation

resulting in the remembering of youth’s antediluvian                        achromatic

feature:

 

whole is

the naturalized experiment

realized amid extent of thoughts’ physical

composition of an echo’s unfailing

dissertation

 

 

in the morale of rhythm

 

containing

 

                                              deconstructed fathoms as meeting the need of tonal

                        refinement

            of

sound

                                                         in the symptoms of absolute healing

                        hearing

                                              hoping

upon a mathematical

style

                        logic constructing balance hardened by the delivered

meaning of

confined fervor

ability application excitation,             belief

 

 

 

 

 

Felino A. Soriano has authored 55 collections of poetry, including In the parallel of pursued occurrences (Fowlpox Press, 2012), Quartet Dialogues (white sky ebooks, 2012), and Of language|s| the rain speaks (quarter after press, 2012). He publishes the online endeavors Counterexample Poetics and Differentia Press. His work finds foundation in philosophical studies and connection to various idioms of jazz music. He lives in California with his wife and family and is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities. For further information, please visit www.felinoasoriano.info.

A Poem by D.M. Aderibigbe

MR TICK-TACK

The new English teacher has been re-born through
The mouth of the school children, and re-named.

His new name is Mr Tick-Tack. Reasons

1. He tickles the bridge of his nose a lot.
2. He tackles the students for being sapient and for being vapid.

A week after Mr Tick-Tack resumes, he resigns. Reasons

1. He tells a girl in my class to come and tickle his
Stick-like manhood with the tip of her tongue.

2. He tackles the school principal for lampooning him
Over his preposterous exploit.



D.M Aderibigbe is a 23-year old Nigerian. An undergraduate of History
and Strategic Studies of the University of Lagos. His poetry and short
fiction have been published or forthcoming in 8 countries, in journals
such as Wordriot, The Applicant, Red River Review, Ditch, Kritya,
Thick jam among others. He's a die-hard Inter Milan fc fan. His poetry
is greatly influenced by writers such as Octavio Paz, Seamus Heaney,
Ilya Kaminsky, Natasha Trethewey, Naomi Shihab Nye, Maya Angelou, Wole
Soyinka and Lola Shoneyin. And singers such as Bruno Mars, Ne-yo among
others.

A Poem by G. David Schwartz

Don't Talk
        
Don't talk thought your nose
thats not the way that thing goes
not normally anyway


G. David Schwartz - the former president of Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue and Midrash Working Out Of The Book. Currently a volunteer at The Cincinnati J, Schwartz continues to write.
His newest book, Shards And Verse (Baltimore, PublishAmerica, 2012) is now in stores or can be order on line.

Two Poems by Jordan Jamison

T.S. Eliot’s Veins

 

The apartment festers like open sores on feet, memories of dope itches and milky spoons of diseased liver brown, Coca-Cola brown, everything is brown.  I continue to think of you, T.S. Eliot; would you write a poem about the apartment, about working-class beaner friends who double as modern day Dantes?  Probably not, but my arms hurt.  My veins are an adorable apple bruise barely oxidized.  I love my veins, always have.  Sometimes when I can't sleep and my nose is running and I can hear the water in the wall and the delicious couples screaming at each other out on the sidewalk, I wonder if you love your veins as much as I love mine.

 

 

 

Phoenix

 

Anne drowned in Gatsby's dirty bathtub-listening to Marge Simpson pubuc hair and A Tribe Called Quest.  Saint Peter rejected her at the gates of Glendale coffee shops, Auschwitz and Wrigley Field.  She sat in her car all morning eating cups of tetanus nails and chasing them with atom bombs, Olde English, and Fentanyl enemas.  The Buddha turned out her formal complaint and Maricopa County Superior Court appeal by sticking a lit cigarette through his bellybutton and she laughed her Zkylon B laugh walking to the psychiatrist on 51st and Thunderbird muttering why why why.  Her sister respected her but didn't understand her and they went to Holocaust Addicts Anonymous meetings in Wall Street church basements also used as shooting galleries by truckers and priests and John Coltrane.  She knew enough was and shot a 20 dollar bag of saline and Gary Sinise's favorite ping pong paddle and walked to Nitrous Row thinking about Otto the Orange and Dutch courage and another hit of hipster typhus and she could cop it quick and easy from any Dominican in Tempe if only she could hustle up the paper.  On the way up to the whippit spot she talked Dali into using her as his model for The Persistence of Memory and he agreed greedily in Gestapo glee and asked for a list of her references and she told him she was Jack's original pick then that bitch Rose showed up but she did a photo shoot at summer camp last year and he told her to call him Salvadore from now on or if she preferred The Bear Jew or Teddy Ballgame.  She left him in the smog and walked over flaccid fool's gold and Prius windshield cow paddies and yen pox opium left out to dry and suckly by Mao and Stalin to give their timed orgies a rush and she breathed out methylenedioxymethamphetamine and she felt the Turkish semen and steak and eggs and pocket cocain from yesterday blurp out on the basketball court of Parkridge Park and she left before Neil Armstrong's neat anal probe could catch up to her because it was not welcome on the Row and Buzz Aldrin was always too sober to walk to Daisy's raves.  She saw Osama's palace and the crematorium pouring out virginity and hope and balloons and empty Reddi Wip cans.  Jesus was on the stoop and he fingered his pet Chia Cheeseburger and his quiet disciple Lee practiced target shots reliving the glory days of November nineteen sixty three bragging that Newt Gingrich was next and he texted Himmler calling him a Jew loving communist and when she walked by they whistled and asked her if she wanted any good Soviet ketamine and she ignored them and made it in the mansion and didn't say hi to anyone and immediately saw Gahndhi across the room blowing Spice smoke down on a stinkbug the he carried around to conquer anorexia and John Travolta jokes and the Pakistani Raj flag and she grabbed his hand from twenty feet away and they went in the bathroom and had a fifty-six day hunger binge and she drowned.

 

 

 

Jordan Jamison is from Phoenix, Arizona.  His poetry has been featured at Hayden's Ferry Review, 32 Poems, Poetry Magazine, and Ploughshares, among others.  He has an MFA from the University of Arizona and is currently working on his first collection of poetry, Dancing With Trains.  He is alive and well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Poem by Emma Ambos

GreenLad

Green without gills

they f-loop-p-ed in the sun

(when mama’n’papa napped)

they raped with delight

the ecstasy of RuffLife

color-skinned they duked the cat

‘nd took-another-toke

 

 

 

Emma Ambos is a writer of oddities and outcasts and all that is just too lovely.

Two Poems by John Pursch

Imogene Tonic

 

Whipsaw implications lack accords of inner rations, alimentary and propagated by tea, catching surds in bifurcated mule team anguish. Sheltered tropics coagulate in sandbar trowels, vexing pitchmen, ordering tuple sundaes for indigenous gulfstream brides. All unfurnished showers cringe at ballroom candy herbivores, leafing overture pennies into brawny wedge parole, spooning with barge heroes. Entropic smidgens migrate beneath a neon silence, seemingly orphaned by lewd ichthyosaurs, loving drainage floss. Transparent steeples topple dawning feather eaters, petting yellers, skimmed of fallen cash coat monkeys. Slanting toward skylight seals, some condor iterates on very able consonants, violating sequestered nouns, incensed to fabricate esteem. Speeding ingots cauterize inculcated boondock plaques, coursing out of sounding kittens, fathoming a phantom’s pure acidic greed. Knotted whorls incorporate to bleat exploding banter, carding ungainly orchid beasts to denigrate affluent leisure tones. Rangy oodles peculate embattled haughty sidebars, carting stirrups into hickory jargon’s ouster. Truculence uncovers bimodal effluent, forming concrete emetics from animal drought, keenly spattering moot octopi. Winged gloaters gesture blithely, imitating Popeye, drawling to jejune caboose fanatics, crippling the sunshine. Gaffers spill enough garrot munitions to jangle strung caverns into botched cone trails, smugly interceding for soliloquy germs. Watchmen wind down corkscrews, venerating alluvial bans, effacing stucco fashion cans. Whoever derives crested hedges from cereal goiters will turn a frozen pestilence into dollops of steamboat clues, sampling Dixie’s barnstorming daze. Cyclic hose engulfs sentinel broth, boiling allied waddlers in craven mothballs, stamping in renewal plunks. Tightened foam decries belittled mace plats, rescinding Hoosier teal erasure’s statistical Skee-Ball heft. Trying eighteen jurors, smelted trains imbibe deferral truncheon booths, filed to notable lenses, spinning ozone into baroque cottage lashes. Slinking off the fantail, lasers drive a shaven seed to trollop loot eugenics, hoping canker pores wilt before a thespian’s instep peels. The softer glow of droplets, clean and prescient, volunteers our salivary oeuvre, quavering with beef. Sacred causal sediment dissolves in coastal Imogene tonic, flapping morning stove gorilla feet to fan the vernal hoax in basted claims.

 

 

Oxide Swirls

 

Grain clangs on serried childhood spume, cacophonous and geriatric, ruminating on cresting queues of avian piasters. Gargoyles immerse corn sheds in crepe shutters, forging eastern pollywogs for timely caravans of nude Peruvian cheeks. Fists of shamanic zeal tailor mockeries from sand, glossing impasse rituals into mossy gloom, caricatured in lox. Gables girdle gravel groves, losing gimbal lock, skating highway elbows in placid osmotic valor. Parking clots, emblematic of owl police, cruise on hirsute streetcar piles, hedging for answer feast emergence, easier to wind than iffy oxide swirls. Paws eat ordinary spacesuits, dribbling ancillary gypsies down louvered matchsticks. Ample reflectivity inures the margin’s canny cellar to skinny sidecar storms, flexing a warning’s windscreen till crop dust tiles the clovered sky. Sleuths employ erstwhile garnish jewels, clucking off knackered berms, working up yardarm cheese for banyan toasters, ominously understated.

 

A toffee blurter winds historic aerials between decaying bark mobiles, slashing titration grates to cool diffraction pellets. Trained organs plead for lemon tines, chomping on pseudonymous raffles, baiting interred castaways to festive ergot pools. Money sets on sidling carbs, flits across a pineal droop, and catches analytic mirth in diverse chanting trilobites, only to deem an uncle’s loopy fencepost swarthier than dueling dermal existence cares to rusticate. Pin setters can’t interview exogenous wolves, gearing down to relish cards, flossing tallied Rotarians with jungle goo. Sinusoidal flagrancies glom and cower, scaring currency hives to haystack trades. Salting raises chippy snores, harshly owned in superbly stenciled toes, grinning head-to-county-oven-trees, shipping soiled mystics to orphans for a loafer’s fueling pod. Havens sew respiring clout into agoraphobic gist, epitomizing naughty icicles, crooning for spurious beets. Needled strays incite a cackling sty to sleepiness, merely maundering for tinsel tonsure’s diatonic haze.

 

 

 

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has appeared in The Camel Saloon, Counterexample Poetics, experiential-experimental-literature, and elsewhere. His fiction piece “Watchingstoned, T.V.” was recently nominated for the Sundress Best of the Net 2012 Anthology. His first book, Intunesia, is available in paperback from White Sky Books at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks . You can follow him on twitter at http://twitter.com/johnpursch or on facebook at https://www.facebook.com/john.pursch .

A Poem by Amit Parmessur

Kit Kating

I tear the red wrapper. What

a confection. Compared to

hypocrisy, in endless supply.

I eye the two middle bars.

Truth is as usual in the middle.

I snap the two bars free

recalling Forrest Fenn’s poem.

Terrific man the old guy

calling us to find

a million dollars of antiques,

compared to friends who call

when their Titanic hits an iceberg.

I cut the Kat

and sweep the sweet mud

off the wafer with a thrilled tongue.

I am not a man to keep

the mouse out of the house.

Not a painter keen

to wake up on his page missing.

Kit Kating brings me to Macau.

Freedom.

Kit Kating brings me to Groppi.

Transcendental bliss. I

Kit Kat while my black Kat

(thats how I call her) purrs

pleasure into my veins.

I become slightly political.

Walking about, I learn that 600

million Indians have no electricity.

Well, I need to Kit Kat on the moon

and learn tagalog some time soon.

Amit Parmessur lives with his black cat and two cute dogs nowadays. Since 2010, his poems have appeared in over a hundred literary magazines, like Ann Arbor Review, Salt, Hobo Camp Review and Red Fez. His book on blog Lord Shiva and other poems has also been published by The Camel Saloon. Born in 1983, he was nominated for the 2011 Pushcart Award and lives in Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius.