Wednesday, August 30, 2017

Nate Maxson Implores Your Paper Moon in the Radiating Summer not to Fold Like a Failed Polaroid

A Brief History Of The Eventual

The blood-smell does so excite us
Following it in infrared through skyless forests
Unknown animals: thee and thou, me and you, king and queen, ditch and spring

Just to be sure, I’ll be obvious about my intentions

There are witches beneath the frozen Earth
Their veins shot out like the roots of gnarled Lilacs
We dreamed
Or vice versa
Sirens/ swans
Fell from storms like slow winters
First I walked barefoot through the weeds
And then the forest grew,
Twisted higher than ashy Eden
Whose wounds I chronicle as reductions to ultraviolet night

Those of you listening through these veils of wire and time discontented
Let me see
Your paper moon
Like I did the first time,
Brighter than the protest of a thousand howling pyres

Heartland, Age 12

The cornfields we used to steal from,
A few ears at dusk

I remember
How cold the rain was

The end of summer
Like a dark green river dreaming

Wingspan/Post-Flight Measurements

A vast act of remembrance, this
The Blizzard Forever, 1989 to 2017 (so far)

You hardly notice
The wingspan spreading overhead
I assume
A deliberateness to the motion

Dark water in small amounts
That’s your vaccination
Against exposure kid, against the cold
Folded like a failed polaroid

It could be a dream
I’m in conversation with
But whose?
There’s no great comfort
In the sterile clockwork mathematics of all this
Of course the machinery could be perfected eventually
But it’s less interesting than leaving the grit inside to eat up the gears
I prefer to think in terms of catastrophe, in terms of thirst
A choral ode, a downturn: saltwater in a moon-white teacup
Mistaken for light and sipped with a civilized grimace
Whatever it is that makes you feel better
The etymology will be painfully obvious
Most of the time I measure it in dents and bruises
Compared to the last crash landing
What heals tallied next to what doesn’t
Except on some dusks when I am spectral, uninhibited and wounded
X-rayed till I hiss:
Dancing slow in the thinning shade alone
This way
The divide
Before it disappears,
Before a world begins

A déjà vu is etched in sudden snow

Nate Maxson is a writer and performance artist. The author of several collections of poetry including 'The Whisper Gallery' and 'The Age Of Jive", he lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

Thursday, August 3, 2017

Daniel Y. Harris in the Cytokine Storm with Eugenic Nanocapsules to Fight the Body Snatchers

Exergue XXI 

Sal Dracu’s cybercult peaks in lipograms, eber aural,
his mode d’emploi wrong as divagari. Radio splice option, next
exit. Mimicker out. How many ears are sautéed? We mean
corpus cavernosum not palladic trinkets. Better
augment klipspringer jump mod.  H2-infused droplets
ionize beams. The Oulipians kill their queen with Atreus’
cuckold seed. Lucretian particles burst. What catachresis?
What pun? Start with pubococcygeus muscles
on the pelvis floor. BINA48 loves man buns. Bodies
have their aisthesis. Geotia’s black magick is creosote
on taffeta or symplegma left by idlers. Filibuster the bill 
and salvage ancilia. It’s heart is cardiomyopathic.  
No sloping or queasy joints, no slouching rafters and sills. 
Quantal, the mated pair. 766 filial piety docs or Paramin’s
blue devil odes? Not this time, Sal. Torture a derash. Bit
sigodlin or oblique, aren’t we? Line 382: printf(“[scanner]
FD%d error while connecting = %d\n”, conn->fd, err). Role
play coincidentia oppositorum, oralé esse. Slake our thirst
in Willendorf stone. Egad, nobody ogles Sal’s
goder. Naubolidos, best shape. Pass da blunt. Actants
in this set are hoes. Darkland pimps stoke cyanide fires.
What prion? Sal’s index finger is a burnt geode.
Point MF. In the prequel he’s vampyroteuthis infernalis.
Model conversions are PrPC. Too late for overcloaks.

 Exergue XXV 

Gregor’s libtard is Loyd Blankenship. Transphobia
as foregone bacronym for 4chan. In lacteal goo, NRx hunt
old skool SJWs. Our spiritus mundi is hoarse and sibilant.
O Antiphons, cluster the bloodaxe. Body snatchers
pose, supplant their cognates and down licorice water
with catalpa buds. Their motto, ars longa vita brevis.  
The Doomsday Clock tocks in goldtrace, counterheaved.
Aint be dupont, no lawd, cain be honeypot or a goon’s club
trot, styling polezniye duraki. Nothing for the roar, bufera
infernal! Thinair modifications bolster alveoli, choked
by classicism. Analyze this, regressus, the swerve
from masculized eugenics. Where are the demobilized
conscripts? Adapting a treatment for Tay-Sachs disease.
Line 456: printf(“[scanner] FD%d finished telnet
negotiation\n”, conn->fd), or doctores angelici. Gregor’s
lysosomal storage disorder accumulates gangliosides
and glucocerebrosides. “Bugger NeoGauchers,” chortles
Gregor. “Our industry is feminized in potentielle.”  
Blame torsion dystonia for exeunt omnes. Shebang, homie,  
all in for hagall runes and Kreuzzug gegen den Gral. Gregor
wins the Pastores Medal for his work in Trans-Gödelian
Kripke Semantics. Who’s bijective? Thetica’s homo superior
crowdsources trivia. Chance tires God. Death’s
Head Units march in pulpy dram. Take two nanocapusles
with DNA for a more resistant human. Not on psalteries,
but in bloodstock and cytokine storms.

—Daniel Y. Harris

 “Exergue XXI & XXV” are from the manuscript, The Tryst of Thetica Zorg   

Daniel Y. Harris is the author of 11 collections of poetry and collaborative writing including The Rapture of Eddy Daemon (BlazeVOX, 2016), heshe egregore (with Irene Koronas, Éditions du Cygne, 2016), The Underworld of Lesser Degrees (NYQ Books, 2015), Esophagus Writ (with Rupert M. Loydell, The Knives Forks and Spoons Press, 2014) and Hyperlinks of Anxiety (Červená Barva Press, 2013) Some of his poetry, experimental writing, art, and essays have been published in BlazeVOX, The Café Irreal, Denver Quarterly, E·ratio, European Judaism, Exquisite Corpse, Kerem, The New York Quarterly, Notre Dame Review, In Posse Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Poetry Magazine, Poetry Salzburg Review, Stride, Ygdrasil and Zeek. He is Editor-in-Chief and Co-Founder of X-Peri, http://x-peri.blogspot.com/. 

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Matthew Borczon Looses His Bleeding Fingers Across the Parchment of Afghanistan Unleashed Like the Dog of His Poems

the dog

the dog
its leash
and was
it behind
him as
he ran
up on
Nick who
used that
chain to
choke the
dog dead
and then
threw it
onto the
owner's porch
screaming threats
but Nick
is still
not ready
to go
to the
VA or
to talk
the war.

bad habits

about the
war as
I bite
my nails
too close
and watch
the blood
pool in
my nail
bed I
have chewed
them all
down to
open sores
that hurt
with everything
I pick up

with everything
I can't
put down.

civilian casualty

as a
younger man
my sense
of drama
might have
led me
to make
her much
more personal
give her
a name
myself I
heard her
soft voice
call to
her father
but at
45 I
did the
only thing
I could
I pushed
her outside
my consciousness
outside memory
not even
one line
in my
outside of
my life
in the
hospital and
my head
for the
whole time
I was in
some nights
I still
hear her
ghost begging
me to
finally let
her in.

Matthew Borczon is the author of four books of poetry A Clock of Human Bones by the Yellow Chair review press, Battle Lines by Epic Rites press, Ghost Train by Weasel Press and Sleepless nights and Ghost Soldiers by Grey Boarders press. He has a chapbook coming out through Epic Rites before the end of this year as well. He is a nurse and Navy Sailor from Erie, Pa. He tries not to let PTSD rule too much of his life

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Rus Khomutoff In the Thralldom Sullied By Quantum Catharsis

Splash Bombs 

to Michel Majerus

Horns of dilemma, the shadow’s brighter heritage
going beyond the symptoms
quartered revelator of the frayed edge
a week of redolent memory
beset by both the future
and the past
thralldom mastication

The Shallow Between
to Nick Land

Pathos of distance expecting itself
fake eternities of stationary descent
tailored hallucinations that surrender
to the serpentine ensemble of all possibility
hiatuses sullied by memory
ecstasy of the everyday

Catharsis daily

Lions and shadows
labyrinthine emergence
voice in the chasm
obliteration of the possible at all costs
unbegotten and immortal
words that belong to a quantum realm
catharsis daily

My name is Rus Khomutoff and I am a neo surrealist poet in Brooklyn,NY. My poetry has been featured in Uut Poetry, Erbacce, Fifth day journal and Burning house press. Last year I self published an ebook called Immaculate Days. I am also on twitter @rusdaboss

Sunday, July 9, 2017

Peter Jacob Streitz Pushes Bukowski and Shakespeare Through the Bibliotheque Aerial Reconnaissance


That shitfaced
Nah, macho man
The limbs
Of ladies
Or the fattest
With smallish
And suckable
Like the quim colored lips
Of dead
Where beer
In winy utterances
Mixing sex
With fucking
Then love
Or appreciation
Of mirrors
Healing acne
With wisdom
Or cocktails
That pussy foot
From sacks
To racetracks
And back
To paddocks
Of saddles
And whips
Plus horns
And leads
With harnesses
That mount
And cinch
The saddlebags
In stirrups
Of lust
As fleshy bits
Rope heartache
To the rhyming
Of losers
And winners
Who’re eternally
For never
Having placed
The bet
—that women who blush—
Train their flanks
To lap
The track
Where mares
And stallions
In a world
Of wonder
And words
Unless the final
Human nature
Human nature
the last word
Of his story.


The tweeker’s
Boggy, alcoholic eyes
Bulged unblinkingly
Within inches of mine
Setting the stage
For mere players
In this mosh pit
At the intersection of ol’Frisco
And modernity
While the watery whirl
Of rush hour washed‘round
And Dino denied I’ve come—
To that very corner
For the past twenty years
Awaiting my love’s return
from work
But on this day
Where the subway
And the street cars clank
Like two ships
Passing in the night
I unknowingly missed her
As she unknowingly missed me
But Dino didn’t miss a beat
Manically orating his resurrection
As a bookseller
And one who
Only reads the law
And fuck that storytelling
With his countenance
Increasingly inscribed
In an ominous glaze
And his lids hoisted
At half-mast
He pulled back the curtain
For the briefest moment
To inquire
Do you read?
There was no answer
Other than His . . .
Leading to
his sidewalk bibliothèque
Where ten tomes of prose
Sat dog-eared and dirty
Along with a soiled sleeping mat
And a rat
Disguised as a pet
Entrapped beneath
A milk crate
—Much Ado About Nothing—
Was crammed into my hand
While two bucks
departed this fool
And his wad of money
Filled Dino’s head
With sugar plums of theft
Or thirst for some complicity
Whose outright criminality
Got quenched with past drinks
And blackouts
At whore houses
In Alaska
And racist chases
In Texas by Rangers
Who took exception
To the pilfering
Of black velvet
when shit and damn
My cell phone vibrated
And a distraught
Wifely voice
Rung down the curtain
On two role players
In another performance
Of their life.


Unless you consider
They eat the same crap
But you’d be wrong
These low flying
Of the cityscape
Got zip codes
And statues
And ordnances as white
As the driven snow.
In some hoods
They’re the only fauna
That doesn’t attack
And kill
As ordered
Or destroy the trees
With piss and shit
And forget the grass.
Instead, these citizens
Of aerial reconnaissance
Clean-up after bums
And partygoers
Doing such civic duties
As eating
the rice and beans
By soup kitchen
Or their counterparts
Boogieing in
From bedroom
Leaving their suburban
For clean-up
By those living
On the ledge
With only one way
To fall
And no safety net
Dying alone
In their mourning suits
Having seen it all
On the hardest streets
. . . yet nothing . . .
Of remembrance
Not even the homage
Of never more.

Peter Jacob Streitz was born an iconoclastic hick in upstate New York. Raised by a single mom after his dad flew the coop instead of flying The Hump--over the Burma Road in World War Two--where he won the Distinguish Flying Cross by losing both the Japs and his mind. His inevitable departure didn’t affect Peter—as he morphed into an All-American boy and athlete who was awarded a four year, full-boat scholarship to Alfred University (which he rejected) before counter-culturing his way towards the only degree ever given by Boston University in Alternative Education.

Friday, June 16, 2017

Michael Prihoda Leaves the Postcard City With the Medusa Map As the Gardens Scrawl


the munitions factory,
the postcard city.

contain regret
within definite prosperity

when compared
to grace appreciated less.

the nostalgia aware
of different dying

without even names

settled in connection.

what is necessary

these forms not become today
in age ideal. the same yesterday

corresponds to the medusa
reserved for a map. your empire

must be big, not equally real.

what is necessary is imagined.


the route wonders
in a different order.

the eye penetrates
the scrawl of gardens,

the prison, the slum.
the hypothesis

of the traveler
has nothing but doubts.

he is distinct

in existence.

Michael Prihoda is a poet, editor, and teacher, living in central Indiana with his wife and the dream of having a pet llama. He is the author of five poetry collections, the latest of which is The First Breath You Take After You Give Up (Weasel Press, 2016).

Gale Acuff Makes Kites and Chong Yen's P-38s Haunt the Hallways Like Amelia Stephens


While my dog sleeps at the foot of my bed
I tickle his ears with my toes and read
a comic book. The window fan's spinning
and tomorrow morning we'll run downstairs,
Caesar and I, to have breakfast--I'll fix
his first--then fly kites if there's wind. If not
we'll try again in the afternoon, when
the June air's warmer and makes a breeze
to raise our craft without us having
to race against the wind to create lift.
Caesar will bark as the kite rises and
I'll laugh at him for being so silly.
I'd let him hold the string but he'd drop it
and kites don't grow on trees--this one cost me
49 cents down at the Five & Dime.
(It's 1966; I'm ten years old).

Sometimes we make our own, sticks from branches,
glue I make myself, the Sunday comics
for the skin that stretches over the bones.
For a heart I give it mine. For a soul
--it picks that up from the sky, takes it in
if I can get it high enough up there
so that it dances by itself. That's what
I mean by soul. That's why Heaven's over
our heads. To bring it down again I wind
it in, hand over hand, a slow process
and contrary to Nature, I guess, but
I can't just release the line, or break it,
and watch it waft away, no matter that
I wonder where it's off to. Still, the link
has snapped on more than one occasion, but
that was the wind, not a boy and his dog,
who let it get away. When that happens,
we follow it as far as we can. And

one day, what holds me to the earth will break,
too, and I'll fall to the ground, later
be buried inside it, yet float away
and see everything my kite can see but
just as if it's all spread out before me
--much like my life is now . . . but without end.
I'll have lots to live for when I die,
but who will follow me to find out where

I've lighted? I suppose I'll find myself
--a neat trick, better than the loop the loop.


From my attic bedroom I see my school.
It's well and I'm sick--flu, or a virus,
something I caught from my classmates there. Now
it's my turn not to turn up. I feel like
heck. I can't keep anything down. Even
saltines and Coca-Cola. They come back
up. I have a fever and yet I'm freezing.
I get some sleep, in snatches, and have dreams,
nightmares by day, from which I jerk awake
to wonder where I am. Oh, yeah. My bed.
What day's today? Wednesday. Over the hump,
almost, of the school week. What time is it?
About 1:00. Time for recess soon.

I hear the students running to the playground.
Kickball. Jump-rope. Basketball. Ducks and drakes.
I wish I could be there, not that I'm good
at sports. But I like to run and play and
shout. I'm small for my age--I hardly get on base
or kick the ball out of the infield or
make a basket. But when my pals do
I cheer, and when I do they shout, Acuff,
you're oh-kay. Then we return to class and

draw. I like airplanes. I can draw them but
not exactly, not as well as Chong Yen.
He's from Taiwan. He can draw them as if
he's taking a photograph or building
a real bird, right before your eyes. I say,
Look, Chong, at what I drawed. He rolls his eyes.
Drew, he says. Look at what I drew. Then he
comes to my desk and picks up my drawing
and says, No, no, no, a P-51
doesn't look like this at all. Don't forget
the details. He returns to his desk and
I follow. He's drawn P-38s. Wow,
I say. You sure know your planes. I whistle.
He smiles--he's pleased--and looks away. He has

three brothers and two sisters. I know--I
met them at his birthday party. I don't
get invited much to birthday parties
but I did to his. I gave him a plane,
a model plane, a B-29, wrapped
up nice by my mother. Here, Chong, I said,
after we had cake and ice cream and it
was time for him to open his presents.
Chinese have birthdays, too, just like we do.
It's a small world, I guess. It's a small world
because it's so big. Anyway, he took
it--both hands. Thank you very much. I said
You're welcome, which sounded strange because I
hardly ever say that, much less Thank you.
He carefully unwrapped it and folded
the paper flat--he didn't wad it up

like I do. A B-29, he said.
I hope you like it, Chong, I said. Do you
like it? Yes, he said. I am overwhelmed
by your thoughtfulness. No one's ever said
anything like that to me before. Oh,
it's nothing, I said. I'm glad you're happy.
He didn't look at me because he was
crying, which confused me: Chong, if you don't
like it, I said, you can take it back or
I can take it back for you and get you
something else, or just the money. No, no,
he said. You don't understand. But I do.

And after drawing we have history
--Abraham Lincoln and John Wilkes Booth
and Useless Grant and all those men with beards.
Even when they're young they look like grandpas.

I fall asleep to the sounds of my friends.
I'm under the sheets and my eyes are tight
and it's like we're all here together.
I'm sweet on Amelia Stephens. Sometimes
I try to dream about her. It starts with
us in a yellow station wagon, really
more golden than yellow. I'm drawing and
she's sitting right beside me. We don't have
children because I don't know how that's done
and I guess she doesn't either, at least
in my dream. I don't know where we're going

but we're together and heading somewhere
so that's really all I know about love
but it's enough. I love her in my dream
and real life, too, but I'll never tell her
and spoil it. She wears pretty dresses and
socks that come up to just below
her knees. She's taller than I am so my
legs are about as long as her socks. Now

she's sitting beside me, saying, Poor thing,
I love you--when I'm sick my mind
plays tricks on me but it's really my heart.
Then I hear the three o'clock bell ring and
children being noisy as they get on
their buses. I walk to school--I've never
ridden a bus, not even a Greyhound.
It looks like fun, you and your friends going

home together though your homes are different.
When I'm well enough to go back to school
it will seem new again, like a friend
or an out-of-state cousin you see just
once a year, if that often. I mean that
you don't take them for granted anymore,
or at least not so much. That's what love is,

not getting so close that you ruin it all
or needing them so bad it makes you puke.

Gale Acuff has had poetry published in Ascent, Ohio Journal, Descant, Poem, Adirondack Review, Coe Review, Worcester Review, Maryland Poetry Review, Arkansas Review, Florida Review, South Carolina Review, Carolina Quarterly, South Dakota Review, Sequential Art Narrative in Education, and many other journals. Acuff has authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse Press, 2004), The Weight of the World (BrickHouse, 2006), and The Story of My Lives (BrickHouse, 2008).  Acuff has taught university English in the US, China, and the Palestinian West Bank.