Thursday, March 31, 2016

geri allen/Sean Burn

dark angels   the breaking
        ov breath   the labouring
        ov loves blue daybreak
jailbreak stories & & &
    dream gathering dark angels

That Head Again/Ivars Balkits

Thinking grows as a fresh grass below concentric moons. From one grows a real cranium! masking a face on the recipient...

Below in the tumult small tuning fork of the customer, sprouting a scalp horseshoe...

hair a brain wool... mouth a cork in itself, empties a downpour of bangs from a central follicle... emptying a book of hair, hairlines for its sentences.


Feeding on the full ammo of summer, cloning a fistful of surprises, that hair of concertina wire... head

head, alternative head, mouth where the rest of the face should be... full of questions but only decoratively, eyes tasseled with shadow...


Many are the heads all of one portrait... three-quarter views to profiles and accessories: the extension of the internal into the background,

bound tight by the tethers of contradiction... counting down to the interim... the dark colonial hair escaping, iron bristle rasping a flint chin...


Head tangled in its spine. Head with stitches for railroad tracks...

Stammering Blazers/Thomas Fink and Maya D. Mason

ache through a lunatic’s
loss. Most of the stupor   

implicates an insect hero.
Dare to daze:
sipping the gym ambiance
out of a syphilis glass.

He keeps ‘em in cotton—
goddamned humanitarian.

two creamy stars/Daniel J. Flore III

I saw a girl in her twenties
peeling at flower petals
and all I could do was stare
at how lovely they fell
from her pretty white hands
(which were two creamy stars)
girls like that have a way of hanging around you
when all else is silent
she walks up to you from behind
puts those hands over your eyes
and says "it's me silly"
and even though she's a stranger
you're ready to talk for hours

After Apples, Listening/Tom Sheehan

They have all gone now,
the fire engine-red Macintosh,
under batter with cinnamon,
gone to day school
on yellow buses
with brown-baggers,
or bruised to a freckled
taupe and plowed under
for ransom and ritual.

Some have had the life
crushed out of them
for Thanksgiving cup.

Standing on the stiff lawn
downwind of winter,
I drop the first cold
moon of November
into a fractured wheel
of apple limbs
and hear the bark
beg away.

A pine ridge,
thicker than a catcher’s mitt,
grabs half the wind
riding off Monadnock
and squeezes out
wrenching cries that hang,
like wounded pendants,
on necks
of far, thin stars.

Deep in the Earth,
in a thermal tube
of its own making,
an earthworm grows
toward a rainbow trout
sleeping under ice
and waiting to be heard,
or the last of an apple’s pips
still this side of the grass.

Henry James v. American Motors Corporation/Glenn R Frantz

at a pedestrian crossing,
pedestrians are aliens

the ghost chapter of a sidewalk novel
with plastic margins

an island in popularity

the Magic Ambassador was republished
as a vehicle's hairstyle
with an overdose of genre clothing
in the Romantic era's taillights

an enormous best-selling look

Aha! Pronoun trouble.

authors without hooks,
assorted protective flavors
named the gum novella
a strawberry Dickens

Micawber pouring inventions from his beak
in the workings of avant-garde appliances

2 Poems/A. J. Huffman

I Am Blood

of blood in Olympic
swimming pool.  Diluted,
I am dissolving, drifting
into nothing.  Still, attracting
feral beasts.  Sharks can smell
me a mile away.  I can feel
them circling, but remain
helpless, waiting for anonymous

Midnight Monorail

Metallic mole, burrowing beneath bustling
streets.  High-speed hydraulics
clicking, shifting, zooming through neon-
bright tubes.  Passengers milling like fleas.
You scratch, dropping them
at designated destinations.  Intervals and
intersections of pseudo-humanity, you do not
linger in their light for long.