Virgil

A poem
by Virgil Cross

Told her she was beautiful
The hesitant kind
Asked me what I expected?
Told her I’m a cowboy
And if cowboys
Loved anything more
Than their horses
What’d be the point?
He’s a widow maker
Who’s never seen the sun
Or the time during the day
Said he knew a man
Who claimed he divorced the sea

*__^ graci.

A poem by William J Toburn

the U.K. wakes up and stretches; its feathers unfurl.
calls immediate attention to the tips of its coils.
they explode and they crawl into so many pools.
the chromosones spread, and leak across the whole world.
("she will die with her dues, to this world, 'an unjust.'"

a ghost pirouettes, dives and it digs,
through all of these servile connections,
just so helpless..
his flawless conscience is lost in search of the 'golden id.'
an accordian design, seemingly by
a catalyst through which he still recalls...
a dream we both once had,
to shatter it all
(until there were only roses).

all lust, all hope, all self-respect.
she wants to make real, those gods i rejected. (in the form of old dreams...)
and i'm sad now to be upon these broken knees (...so disrespected.)
where every nerve-ending will refuse to scream
of some blissful end in eternity.
and the silence stood too bold to scream.
within a dismantled insanity,
the silence stands too bold to scream,
"does not this black-hole grant me any mercy?"

the sunrise showed face and we awoke
inside some late-morning sunday.
by now, i've picked them up, tried them on,
the garments of this martyred evening.
i was looking deeply in the mirror.
but it was done by sun's setting.
of course, i was first to blink
and it's time now that i accept it.

you disappear passed door inside door
(or at least some figment within my head).

we ignore the truth. commence pursuit,
i'm stumbling somewhere far behind.
you escape all loss, evading the law.
i'm here just in time to rewind,
the plotting of, my most epic fall,
into the black; towards the sweetest bed.
to somewhere unattached where misery cannot call.
but it's all belonging to some blissful end.

in a room she disguised and left forgotten in the hall,
these planes disintegrate, frame by frame, lost.
and this game always seems to get in the way
of something more meaningless.
but today, it all dissolves.

we are, dying roses become a funeral's confetti.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Probably Not
by Richy Maine

If tranquility Smells like rain,
the ocean feels
like ecstasy,
hot tea tastes like
my mother's kitchen,
and bells resonate
longing for life;

then award, in shame or celebration,
what lurks above my
shoulders,
because it is his miscalculation
and his paradoxical grin
that has delivered me
to you.

And, if tranquility
smells like rain,
then extinguishing candles
aromatizes home , and
the silhouette is cursing my name

so I’m hunched over love poems
drowning the specifics in alliteration
reminding myself of generalizations
weaving webs and writing fairy tales
for the future of
my daughter’s son.

A. Wright

Addresses

I.

No one's sure whether
the cigarette butts in my mother's
rose garden are mine or hers,

or how the petals swallow
each instant of edible light

these mornings leave waste
in this yard

where we've rubbed shoulders
with both the living
and their dead.

There is a sun that blooms toward me
from the void of sleep in her pupil,
hurrying me to take the scents
of each her gentle suicides
rising between breezes
and let them kiss my chest,
thick as
smoke.

II.

I'd swear the numbers on this house
count the childhoods I spent out back
in the yard,

memorizing the kind of silences
that makes August happen,

tracing old footprints around
in the shade of

another long sun
receding into a living
room painting.






III.

The garden in my belly:

I let my carnations
combust into small
diamond epiphanies
(spontaneous transfusions
of blood & sunlight)
and cough them into the sky
where they will remain
until the sun explodes
to make me whole.

An oak sighs
into her own dust, inhales
the ultraviolet of clouds
passing overhead into her
future.

and enjoy!

2 Poems by Jackson Grind

The razor sharp,

paper thin,

dangling string

of a line.

The silhouetted,

matchbook laden,

plastic headed,

little, limping

line

between love,

hate,

birds and bees,

knees and eyelashes.

The line in front

of each foot

and behind each

great man

waiting be crossed

and accredited

for every step,

heartbreak,

slept off tear,

and empty bottle

of beer in

this

house.

___________

We sat quietly

evading each other’s eyes

studying shoelaces

and dust mites

wondering when we took

the first step

into the sea

I recalled the crunchy

brown leaves

and the muddy tennis shoes

the beach and the

bottom of a well

I was wrong of course

and you so eloquently

reminded me

of the birds and the bees

with stingers

and talons

venom

and razor beaks

you told me there was no use

they had already spotted me

and running now

would only

make them sting

and claw

a little bit

harder

Virgil

2 poems by Virgil Cross

i slip into my jive
while youre asking opinions
and i straddle an old saddle
looking at the wall
pretending you're someone else
i'm not interested
but you remind me of home
like some old horse
wishing he still had a canter
and the hula hoop girls
they're all grown up
dying of cancer
asking about florida
and their options
suddenly i pull my head up
and away from the wall
and you're still tapping
saying something about
haircuts in china
and i curse you
and the horse you rode in on

________________________


from the secret depressions
of a man lacking tinnacles
i stared medusa in the eyes
and felt self concious
when i wasn't turned into stone

and the wolves in the yard
look at me through glass windows
saying things like
why don't you come out and play

we'll bite gently
in the folds
of your skin
that lack nerve endings
we'll bite gently
to prove we've really raised
a few of you

suddenly i noticed
i was missing that part of me
that goes and mingles with a pack
of empty bellied wolves who are hungry

then i turned to go
to walk to the door
that leads to my car port

the wolves in the yard
behind glass windows
got upset and turned on my
favorite pet rock
to sharpen their teeth

then they elevated their split level eyes
and lipped
we double dog dare ya

cuteZ!

yooz pang

Screaming at
The top of my lungs
But the top of my lungs
Aren’t listening
They’re fixed
On what’s
Glistening off the
Water’s edge
There lies
My reflection
You may see
Something unexpected
if you glance from
a different perspective

you’ll see my dinner
spoiled rotten
with gifts and
sweet nothings
humming about
the price
of a sweater
or something

you’ll see my nose
running away with his lover
he still loves her
to this day, but
wont speak ,
not even a mutter,
to me or
his mother

and finally
you’ll see my heart
beating at his brawny breast
celebrating his victory
won from my chest
unless love
(or lovelessness)
Can cause him
To flinch
He will stay hard
And in charge
Of me
‘till the end

Futon Dreams

by chai

our pulse is set
to the bass-line
on repeat
in each if our minds
our temples pound
louder
as the sound
falls
into the caverns of the brain

with the energy
to write everything down,
we've been dancing;
afloat on the third,
redundant, regurgitation
of revolving stone
and soil.

all the while,
every door handle
smiles at night
every high way laughs
and every wool blanket
locks a bedroom door

Hocking County

Something about this place

Makes me tired early

But the silence

Prohibits sleep

There is a loneliness

That can’t be heard in the city

It’s muffled by the busses,

Domestic disputes,

Train tracks,

And tragedy

The trees smirk

Waiting for me to

Finally figure it all out

The birds chirp

Their subtle hints

And I chop wood

Listening for anything

And yearn for the pain

Confusion

And intoxication

Of home