Joe Balaz Returns To Bare Knuckles, Grunge, The Bovine Consciousness, The High Heavenly Rafters, And Why Not To Sell The Farm Just Yet

DA HEAD LIBRARIAN IS WUN POET

Da head librarian is wun poet.

Metaphorically speaking

in da suburban pastures

and da fenced in meadows of da city

I stay looking foa Bohemians

dat should be sprouting like mushrooms—

I tink I found one.

It’s not easy to do

cause in dis metropolis

all I see are institutional ivory towers

and other likewise establishments

catering to artistic big wigs.

I need some grunge

and bare knuckles

scraped raw wit experience.

Da head librarian

self published wun book

dat wuz on wun display table

by da back door at da library—

I wen read ‘um.

Den I wen find

his impromptu videos on Facebook.

Da buggah is animated

and he stay in wun way out orbit

so dere’s some kine of affinity dere.

I wrote him wun email

cause I got his address

from da information desk

wen I wen make wun phone call latah.

I wuz investigating

his existence on da local scene.

Funny ting

he wen do da same ting

and he did wun online check on me.

As foa now

dats as far as it goes

cause me and him

are like two  independent mosquitoes

buzzing da same ears

of wun big Cleveland cash cow.

Metaphorically speaking again

I can see it standing

out dere in da fields

wun humungous golden calf

dat all da academics

are dancing circles around.

Beneath da wise sacred mountain

of muse and plenty

in northeast Ohio and beyond

got all kine different voices

doing various and interesting tings.

Still yet all da academics dance

wit dere shiny grants and credentials

as dey scratch dere own backs

and toss flowers at da hooves

of da big gleaming bovine.

It’s wun good ting

dat grass is free

cause anybody can munch on it

and nourish anyting dey like.

LIMITATION SCALE

Keep looking up to da rafters

cause you going see

wun slam dunk extravaganza.

Somebody should have warned you

cause it’s no fun

being da tallest midget on da basketball court

wen da seven-footer walks in.

No contest.

No trophy.

No certificate of participation.

Only wun idiot will stay and fight

wen warriors run foa da hills.

Bravado and self-confidence is admirable

but dere’s wun limitation scale

dat you got to pay attention to                          

adahwise you going get squashed

like wun bug.

No try be

wat you tink you see

while you take off

on dose flights of fancy.

Dere’s wun reason

dat reality is filled wit cuts and bruises

                                        

cause it’s hard and unforgiving

wen you end up falling on your face.

EASY MONEY

Before you sell da farm

to get in on da ground level

make sure you know wat you buying.

Wat you may tink is wun great bargain

offered in heartfelt sincerity

could actually be wun beautifully designed rug

placed ovah wen deep dark hole.

Watch your step

cause da shifty dealer certainly is.

All of da tricky methods

are incorporated

into wun greater shell game.

Some choice too—

It’s like picking between

flesh eating bacteria, Ebola,

or wun non-existent pea

dat will make your arms and legs disappear

along wit your purse or wallet.

Potentiality

always glitters like shiny gold

but dats wheah

you really have to pay attention

cause hard earned cash to most people

can be easy money to somebody else.

Joe Balaz writes in Hawaiian Islands Pidgin (Hawai'i Creole English) and in American English.

He edited Ho'omanoa: An Anthology of Contemporary Hawaiian Literature.  Some of his recent Pidgin writing has appeared in Unlikely Stories Mark V, Otoliths, Tuck Magazine, and

Heavy Feather Review, among others.  Balaz is an avid supporter of Hawaiian Islands Pidgin writing in the expanding context of World Literature.  He presently lives in Cleveland, Ohio.

Thomas Zimmerman Amidst Susurrations, Resurrection Kisses, Mahler And Football, And The Bodies Of Christ And Byron

Zombie Blues

Strange days, and stranger nights. I wouldn’t mind

it weirder. A whiskey in my hand,

and you, well, out of hand. At least I wish

it so. A jazzman’s on the stereo.

He’s murdering the standards, with piano,

bass, and drums complicit in the act:

it’s “Night and Day,” and “Tea for Two,” “I’ve Got 

You under My Skin.” You think the world

will kill you quick, but really it just eats

you slow. Just like I sip. There’s chicken in

the fridge. I’ll chop some greens. Relax. If you

sleep hard enough, it’s like you’re dead, except

you get to live again. You rise a little

faded, but a kiss will bring the color back.

Spider Web

It’s Mahler now this morning, college football

later in the afternoon. The coffee’s

on, but something’s clinging like a spider

web that spans the crawlspace snug between

your skull and brain. An old man, looking like

an oak-tree god, is frowning, asks you, “Fool,

what have you brought?” You swear he’s cut your tongue,

you’re drinking blood. Saliva-sick, you swallow,

wallow in the thought of suffering

but bringing something back. Recycled life,

like Byron, maybe Christ. “I offer up

my body and the body of my work,”

you sing. “The paltry all that anyone

can do.” Phone rings. You shake. The web still clings.

Flipside

John Luther Adams’ Ocean piece is playing

soft, and susurrations comes to mind.

I’ve got last night’s linguini zapped and steaming

in a bowl. The coffee’s gone, but sun’s

come out (I keep on typing sin’s). Back deck’s

still wet. I’m thinking amputation now,

how it’s the wreck of reputation amplified:

Our tough old greyhound Scarlet’s lost

a cancerous-looking toe, but she’s bounced back

(just like eight years ago, with blocked intestines

like a boa draped around our vet),

is trotting now. We’ve got to keep her bandage

dry. I miss our banged-together bodies.

Blown leaves whisper, Loss’s flipside is love.

Thomas Zimmerman teaches English, directs the Writing Center, and edits The Big Windows Review at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, Michigan. His poems have appeared recently in The Pangolin Review and Dirty Paws Poetry Review. Tom's website: https://thomaszimmerman.wordpress.com/.

John Grochalski Laments When The Vodka Does The Talking, First World Problems, Burnt AND Cold Pizza, And The Service Fees Of Being An American

blah blah

he does it most nights
stands a stone’s throw
from my living room window

talking nonsense into his cellphone

blah blah blah
murmur murmur

his fat ass jiggling in the estuary breeze

he is always pleading with someone
in undertones that are still loud enough
to ruin my neil young records and solace

sometimes i’ll stand at my window and watch him

thinking…
who is losing hours of their night
talking to him on the phone?

blah blah blah
murmur murmur

incantations of unrequited love
on his way home with another lonely pizza box

the last time he did it
i couldn’t stand it anymore

i’m getting that fucker, i said to my wife

i slammed down the vodka glass
and shut off the neil young

i opened up the window and stuck my head outside
hey, you fat fuck
some of us are trying to have evenings here

some of us are trying to escape a suicide

but that didn’t stop him

blah blah blah
murmur murmur

he didn’t even know
that i was speaking to him

his fat ass kept jiggling in the estuary breeze

when i popped my head
back in the living room
my wife shook her head at me and said

that was mean

fuck him, i said
i was a fat ass once too
but i never stood in front of anyone’s window
and tried to kill them with words

well…that lead to a fight

my wife said things that she’d regret
i said things that i’d regret

the vodka did a lot of talking for both of us

she stormed off to bed
and i made my own on the couch

i tried to put the neil young back on
but all was lost

so i just laid there in the dark
listening to another bullshit brooklyn night
fart out an ending

blah blah blah
murmur murmur

as he finally waddled past my window
and down the block

incantations of unrequited love
and his fat ass jiggling in the estuary breeze.


burnt pizza

it was pulling teeth
to get a good day lately

it was mornings
sitting in front of the machine
wordless and devoid of talent

it was your book rejected
the overall malaise of city life

some call these “first world problems”
but fuck them…what do they know?

our sorrows are roses
poking blood red out of a scorched terrain
of our own doing

all we wanted was pizza
and vodka, copious amounts of wine

the music of old gods on the verge of death

as we lived on the couch like a soused king and queen
with no worries and responsibilities to speak of

yet there we were an hour later
promises of a speedy delivery broken

our heads poking out of separate windows
like expectant dogs

the two saddest, hungriest idiots in brooklyn

our gums numb
from cheap liquor and loose words

waiting for the pizza to arrive
burnt and cold and not worthy of a peasant

staring up at us from a winedrunk coffee table

like the mocking face of a serpent in hell
daring us to make another plan tomorrow.         



fear and loathing at the ATM machine

i’ve surely
come at worst times
to find this ATM machine down

like when i needed a drink
more than i needed human contact or love
or i hauled my ass over three avenues
hungover with no headache medicine
in the cabinet at home and no cash in my wallet

but why in the hell are you down
at noon on a thursday?

certainly a conspiracy
with the credit card companies

that or you never had your debit card
compromised by little shits at the grocery store
who spent four-hundred bucks on camera equipment
and video games

and you were afraid to use the card again

this is horseshit
this beats all

your little haiku of denial can piss itself

sorry for the inconvenience
but this machine
is out of order

what in the fuck
am i going to buy my turkey sandwich
and nasal spray with?

my charm?

we live in a world where people
can have things in an instant

where people buy and sell each other over lunch

but i can’t even take
twenty bucks out of this crummy machine
to fill my belly and clear my nose

i’m so missing out on the bounty
of self-serving greed that is america

and yes i know i can use my card
at several other banks

but there’s a service fee
and you people have no clue
just how cheap i am

and why should i pay for your incompetence?

your institution must be republican owned
screwing over the little guy like this

you know what?
to hell with you…i’ll starve

we live in an era of protest
and today an aching belly will be mine

a runny nose to show the world
that the people won’t take it anymore
least of all from a piece of shit bank worth billions

who can’t even do their jobs
who can’t even fix a machine for christ sake
who don’t even have the decency
the moral currency and certitude to…

oh wait
there’s ten bucks rolled up in my back pocket

fuck it
never mind.


John Grochalski is the author of The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), and the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016).  Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where the garbage can smell like roses if you wish on it hard enough.

Alan Catlin On Padded Walls, Cave Paintings, Drinking In The End Times, and Kafka's In The Making

The Voice at 3 A.M.
after C. Simic

is the Lunatic after he has
escaped the asylum, after
he has bent the bars of a solitary
life as an acrobat would,
scribbling in the dark the code
of warped genius gone bad
on padded walls before he
finds a place to reside where
only changeling wolves
will go.  Here, among friends,
he stutters, but all who gather
to hear his words know how
easily prophecy may be confused
with truth. Paintings on cave
dwelling walls tell an epic tale,
but what does it mean?



Adios Amigos

After all the false alarms,
it was just another End Times
gathering, even with embossed
invitations, that seemed like
just another excuse for
a party.  Not only had
the novelty worn off,
but the pretense as well.
If a nude descended  a
staircase, no one would
have noticed or cared.
After awhile, even the black
humor, sick jokes about
death and the hereafter,
felt like hollow testimonials
for a deceased office colleague
everyone openly despised.
Only the drinking was real.
The drugs.




Working Class Country Children 1914
                    after August Sander

There is something curious,
something not quite right
with these children.

The two boys dressed in
their Sunday best, heads
shaved to the nubs like
junior Kafka’s before
the metamorphosis or
after the kinder-transports.

The girls are not exactly stunted
but have eyes that are too far part
to be normal, seem unusually intense,
are the kind of growing curiosities
that would be out of place
in a Borges bestiary.

There is a kind of native
intelligence in all these
children’s eyes. The kind
that is harmless now
but in adults, unspeakable.

Alan Catlin has published many chapbooks and full length book. His most recent chapbooks are the movie inspired Hollyweird and Blue Velvet winner of the 2017 Slipstream Chapbook Competition.

Ken Allan Dronsfield Sees The Orbs In The Weeping Willows, The Waltz Of Quartz Crystals, And The Bones In Old Red Clay

A Besieged Mind

A crack in the wall lets in the light from the stars.
Music echos through orbs in the weeping willows.
Dust in tears leave tracks in the fresh fallen snow.
Please Igor, can you give me just a little more light?

Dark holds my candle hostage at twilight's crescendo.
Contemptuous dreams through incessant screaming,
I can't feel strings with my hands of sanded mounds.
Quickly Igor, turn up the bass and let the walls crumble.

Insolent soulless itinerants trap a shard of burning sky.
Toss the aged planets into the blender creating a black
hole of unequivocal despair and treacherous margaritas.
Igor, hit the red button and watch me rise into the nebula!

Jellied stars with glimmering diamonds danced in the night.
Dingy creamy marshmallow giants stomped upon shells
of glowing peanuts long into a harvest on whiskey road.
Light another candle Igor, the night is still wanting her dead.

Remove a black top hat from the parlor rack, white gloves
aside, all these days of triumph and red transfixed illusion.
Waving the black obsidian wand, a magical fantasy exists.
Damn it Igor, I said the top hat, this conjures only clowns~!


As Dead Birds Circled

On a coolish night in late December
an odd stiff breeze was blowing from the North
we sat by the damn with gin and juice while
singing sonnets of warmer days now past.
We sang loudly while the old man strummed then
laughs on the right just as screams echoed left
the levee broke and all drift in the floods.
Cleanse my soul in the fierce muddy waters.

Weeping willows joyously laughed that night.
Tender were the sounds of bare footsteps in
darkness upon the slick moss covered rocks.
Leaves shimmered in a purple twilight as
the levee broke, and tears cascaded down
the breezes died to a whispering chant
windowless walls of tall earth and rock moved
crumbling into the water's great swallow.
Cleanse my soul in the fierce muddy waters.

A thousand eyes watched in a harsh horror
while great birds on the wing circled slowly
the damn broke and music faded away.
church bells rang out, wrapped in misty attire
blistered sacramental pious whimpers.
Quartz crystals resonate a timeless waltz
rust colored waters moved lifeless bodies
while dead birds on the wing circled slowly.
Cleanse our souls in the fierce muddy waters.

The weeping willows just laughed and rejoiced
as the great levee broke; we were still there
singing dirges; dead birds circled slowly;
baptism of souls join fierce muddy waters.
rising skyward; it's raining muddy tears.



An Absent of Present, Version 2


Has anyone seen me?


I know I used to be here,


perhaps there, somewhere.


I feel so lost, gone like


bones in old red clay.




Dust in a strong breeze.



I feel like a cat nine tail,


standing straight and tall


then bent over in marsh winds


waving to all around the lake,


lost fantasies rise skyward.



Passion blooms; life après.




Depth of a cranky shade


of listless yet excited bliss.


Blessed by the thoughts and


prayers of strangers, love


enhanced by a whisper.







But has anyone seen me?







Elders cry to the children


begging souls return home.


Keep of life's clock, turn the


key and spike the pendulum


humming a sonnet in rhyme.



I'm a musical note, sky-born!



As the demons and hunger


invoke sincere repentance


for thieving loaves of bread.


Will all distressing lives calmly


exhale their last well before the


hot ovens inhale your dead?


Into a grave with 7 million others!


Feel the chills of those evenings


long forgotten, repent your worst,


tarry along to knit your burial throw


forgive a fleeting wishful thirst,


look into the corner, next to the bin.



But, has anyone found me yet?


Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, poet and fabulist from New Hampshire, now residing on the southern plains of Oklahoma. Ken enjoys music, writing, walking in the woods at night and spending time with his cats Willa, Hemi, Turbo and Yumpy. He has one poetry collection, "The Cellaring" and is Co-Editor/Cover Artist for 2 poetry anthologies titled, "Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze" and "Dandelion in a Vase of Roses". His work has appeared in Literary Orphans, The Burningword Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review,  Black Poppy Review, The Blue Heron, The song is..., EMBOSS Magazine and more. Ken is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and twice for Best of the Net 2016-2017. Ken Loves Life!

Jonel Abellanosa Handles Snakes, Star Apples, Moon's Glow, And Venom

King Cobra

And where do I bring this smell

Of reticence, this O of olfactory

Greenness? The wind knows

How I linger, the ways I dwell

In what I might be forced to remember.

The wind always tosses the shapeliest

Fruit, most of the time mango or starapple,

Teasing my nose to inhale the circulars.

I bring my crudest ways

Of recall to the violets.

It sometimes disappoints,

But often makes me realize

I’m a monarch without a kingdom.

Coral Snake

And how do I keep myself hidden

In leaves when I smell the violets?

The rain lends its invitation

And I follow the smells of moss

And lichen. In the forest

Water, when it rises, often

Wears its royal robe of glimmers.

How convincing its argument

That if surfaces are glassy

Transparence is its depths.

I soak myself in the gurgling flow,

Out of my heart’s reticence

And into the moon’s glow.

Taipan

And if my reputation moves faster

Than the wind? You don’t know me.

I’m shyer than the bandicoot, living

Inland, invisible as the homeless man.

I prefer to be left alone, slithering

In abandoned moonlight. The floral

Wind balms my hunger, and I often

Spend the night hungry. Starlight

Is my nourishment, water my soothing

Prayer. They say my venom is the

Deadliest, but I don’t have to defend

Myself, until I’m driven into the corner

Where ignorance, prejudice and irrational,

Unfounded fear might mean

The end of my life.

Jonel Abellanosa resides in Cebu City, the Philippines.  His poetry has appeared in close to two hundred journals and anthologies including, Rattle, Anglican Theological Review, Poetry Kanto, Filipino-American Artist Directory, The McNeese Review and Marsh Hawk Review. Early in 2017 Alien Buddha Press published his third chapbook, “Meditations,” His latest poetry collection, “Songs from My Mind’s Tree” is forthcoming (Clare Songbirds Publishing House). He is a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and Dwarf Stars Award nominee.

Michael Lee Johnson Observes The Common Horse Fly As A Parisian Adventurer In The August Wind And No More Stepping On Him

Heaven is My Horse Fly

A common horse fly
peripatetic traveler
vacationing in my world
into my bathroom,
(ride me cowboy, fly)
it’s summer time-
lands on my toilet seat
pit stops at Nikki’s Bar & Grill,
kitty litter box, refuels.
Thirteen round trips
buzzing my skin and skull-
he calls them “short runs.”
Steady pilot, good mileage,
frequent flier credits.
I swat his war journey,
splat, downed, then, an abrupt end.

Alexandra David-Nee

She edits her life from a room made dark
against a desert dropping summer sun.
A daring traveling Parisian adventurer,
ultimate princess turning toad with age--
snow drops of white in her hair, tiny fingers
thumb joints osteoarthritis
she corrects proofs at 100, pours whiskey,
pours over what she wrote
scribbles notes directed to the future,
applies for a new passport.
With this amount of macular degeneration,
near, monster of writers' approaches,
she wears no spectacles.
Her mind teeters between Himalayas,
distant Gobi Desert.
Running reason through her head for a living,
yet dancing with the youthful world of Cinderella,
she plunges deeper near death into Tibetan mysticism,
trekking across snow covered mountains to Lhasa, Tibet.
Nighttime rest, sleepy face, peeking out that window crack
into the nest, those quiet villages below
tasting a reality beyond her years.

No Longer a Swinger

This painted cat
on my balcony
hangs in this sun,
bleaches out
it's wooden
survival kit,
cut short-
then rots
chips
paint
cracks
widen in joints,
no infant sparrow wings 
nestled in this hole
beneath its neck-
then falls down.
No longer a swinger
in latter days, August wind.

Oh Carol, Poem

You treat me like soiled underwear.
I work my way through.
I gave up jitterbug dancing, that cha-cha-chá,
all my eccentric moves, theatric acting, poetry slams.
I seek refuge away old films, nightmares
you jumping from my raspberry Geo Chevy Tracker
repeat you stunt from my black 2002 S-10 Chevy truck, Schaumburg, IL.
I toss tarnished photographs out windows of hell
seek new selfies, myself.
I’m a rock-in-roll Jesus, a damn good poetry man,
talent alone is not enough storage space to strip
you away from my skin, distant myself from your
ridicule, those harsh words you can’t take back
once they are out like Gorilla Glue, as Carl Sandburg spoke about.
I’m no John Lennon want to be;
body sculptured David Garrett, German violin masterpiece,
nor Ace Hardware, Midwest, CEO.
All I want to be respected in heart of my bright sun,
engaging these shadows endorsing these gray spots in my life.
Send me away from these drum beats that break me in half,
jungle thunder jolts dislodging my heart
popping my earlobes over the years,
scream out goodbye.
No more stepping on me cockroach style,
swatting me, a captured fly.

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois.  Mr. Johnson published in more than 1016 publications, his poems have appeared in 35 countries, he edits, publishes 10 different poetry sites.  Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL, nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/and 2 Best of the Net 2017.  He also has 154 poetry videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos.  He is the Editor-in-chief of the anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze:  http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762 and Editor-in-chief of a second poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses which is now available here:  https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089