Daily Archives: January 7, 2013


“The End” by Candice Weaver

Gently gliding along the surface of the green-blue giant,
I become pleased by the camaraderie we have achieved
With one another.
He soothes the heat from the sun as I conquer the
Roller-coaster ride of champions.
Unexpected, like a knife wound from a relative, the harmonious
Gathering shifts gears.
I'm submerged into the Majesty of Moisture
Without an opportunity to register the betrayal,
Or a chance to inhale a hope of continuing the previous
Moment of peace.
The fear in me is etched out by reality.
Air in my lungs replaced with the liquid of a salty grave.
My body fights against his force,
Unwilling to appreciate the tango of tides moving it about
Every which way, aware of it's useless longing.
My capsule slowly discontinues the search for the dry substance
Nowhere to be found.
The warmth from sol is the last reminder that we may still belong to this world.

“She Knows So and So” by Cynthia Reed

You know...
She knows so and so
Best friends with so and so
Who is related to so and so
A renowned expert on this that and the other
Names like labels on soup cans
No one knows what lies within
While we are doing without
We act like we give a fuck
About who she knows
What they know
To be in the know
She knows nothing
They know nothing
We know nothing
Nothing... is all there is to know

“The Old People Police” by Cynthia Reed

Home sweet home
Strapped to a chair
A cozy bed with guard rails
So much healthier, convenient
Christmas time visits made simple
Grandchildren turning up their noses
The smell of death
Take the day old cookies to be polite
Bingo dabbers, yarn
Brittle hands folded neatly
Vacant eyes watching
Offspring have yard sales
Everything in this box for dollar.

“The Luthiers Weep” by Sy Roth

He stole the violins.

A hair-greased-back Chanticleer
struts in his barnyard without fret
his seconds upon the stage
the violins stacked in the coop.
Worthy hens clucking lustily to play.

Venom spilled from lips dipped in Goethe
while Sonderstab Musik minions looted.
The Cornish hens played tunes to a smiling Chanticleer,
plucked Johann Straus waltzes for the wounded
squeaking out tender blessings to all.
Mahler, Mendelssohn and Martinu silenced,
as they stroked the slender necks and bulbous hips
keeping State secrets in their dancing bows.

The Others shambled to cattle cars
relegated to the ash heap,
unworthy chickens
musicking on only their anguish intact,
long-playing sadness pecked out on discarded millet.

Sounds devolved,
disappeared into the thickness of hate.

The luthiers weep.

“The Circumstances” by Allison Whittenberg

The man whipping my double latte
Has a deep knife scar
Across his throat
Whoever got him got him good
I wonder...
Was he victim or victimizer?
There's a stereotype for each scenario
Was it one of those mismatched fights—fist to switchblade?
Did he welch on a deal?
Does he have a bad-ass girlfriend?
Could it be from a jealous ex?
Accidental, was it?
Had he done time?
Is earning six-fifty an hour
Making four dollar
Cups of coffee
Getting on the right track?

“Buddha – The Shakyan Sun – By Venerble Upali Sraman” by Upali Sraman

Princes and kings there so many were
In the whole human history,
For the conquest of truth, you did persevere
In comparison to you no one I see.
Conquest of land is what kings do,
They fought, some won, in defeats sank in sorrow,
But your majesty the greatest conqueror you were,
Kings fell on your feet at no cost of any war.
In the battle that you fought all alone,
No bloodshed, no ruin of life anyone saw.
In the human history above all you shone
As the perfection of wisdom, the moral law.
You are the greatest man, the sun of Sakyans we call
The ignorance you burn, the light you show to all!

“Paternal” by A. Ortiz

what is the point
of forcing it to be coherent?

so snooty simpletons can stare at my
mentally disabled children, nodding in
approval at their well-behaved conformity?

man walks around in
a constant state of intoxication,
liquored up by language,
symbols and order representing n o t h i n g
tangible.

those fly-traps keep folk occupied
for the duration of their lives,
like a dog chasing his tail. me included.

so, forgive me if my writing
is lacking military garb, forgive me

if my writing wants to writhe in public,
and I am beaming with a father's pride.

“Death of the Future” by A. Ortiz

billboards choking country-side,

a little boy consumes the sign,

beautifully displaying:
death in luxury!
now the deceased can
rest in total opulence!

he smiles.

the coffin of the future,
complete with satellite television!
satellite radio! GPS! WiFi!
a contour pillow that reclines
to alleviate even the stiffest neck!

meanwhile, wal-mart is making
millions from the knock-offs, and

the living cannot wait to die.

“Loneliness” by A. Ortiz

lonely hours are vicious,

like waking in an iron
maiden, each minute penetrating
deep into the vaults of one's
anatomy.

one imagines hanging one's
self with a shower curtain, as if
paying tribute to an angel that has
seen one naked every midnight
moment of one's life.

what hurts so much is
that one does not exist alone.

no mirrors, no echo, and
no eyes to see one grin,
one becomes a 4 a.m. static
television.

one projects nonsense, and
not even mice are bothered.