Vin Whitman Reveals the Centiperson, Screaming Birds, Leviathans, Orgasmic Blindspots, and the Asterisk as Crucifix

LIGHTNING/BUGS

 This was where we
 Spun our cocoons
 This was where we set the
 Seeds free
 Unaware of our
 Eight-armed enemy
 Invisible filaments drawn
 Asterisk or crucifix?

 Bumbling bee
 Desperate to worship
 W/ drunken lane changes
 Crashes the silken barricade
 And sobers into a hostage

 Butterfly army
 Sleeps through the storm
 As a leviathan would underwater

 Birds scream bloody terror at the
 Oncoming waterfall's windshield
 A weather phenomenon
 That spells hospital
 Or cemetery
 In violet text

 Doesn't even set
 The web askew

CENTIPERSON

 Do you roam yourself like a giant planet
 Discovering secret burial grounds,
 Orgasmic blindspots

 I do

 You could roam into the space
 Just above your skull and pull
 It down through the floor
 To excavate a comfort zone that's
 Become a claustrophobic

 Zoo

 Sheep and kangaroos
 Are people too
 I'm a scavenger of depth, not width
 Roaming a grave and salty
 Undertow

 Few

 Can stay on the surface
 Of their sunny dispositions
 Extreme evolution and
 Stunning photographs

 Ensue

 I could take no pictures of
 My journey
 I had to draw them slowly
 From memory

 Why only roam to your
 Outskirts of skin?
 Lose count of dimensions
 In your centipede of nerves

 THERMOGENIC

 The jaws of rejection
 In a classroom
 Full of meat

 Left out
 To thaw, or worse,
 Thrown to the ground
 Losing teeth

 Post traumatic
 Dents in their faces
 Their slivered cat-eyes
 Flat-lining

 The bias-cut of a few
 Prime numbers

 Taste of a loaded,
 Bulging society
 Passed down in generational sausage

 Links
 A condition that will worsen
 To our hands
 Still shaking
 Sweating
 Giving off heat

Vin Whitman writes in fearful imagery that can make him paranoid, but he's learned to thrive on it. He is working on the social skills needed to do social work. He reads with The Tea House poets in Florida.

Michael McInnis Speaks of the Crank Time of Einstein's Trains and the Effects of Light Pollution

Crank Time

There is no 4th
dimension

in crank time
traveling

faster than the
speed of

light no longer
held in

place by gravity
or dreams

of Einstein’s trains
lurching through

fallout shelters and
frigates

that sail too close
to the edge

while the earth keeps
accelerating

and wobbling ever
so slightly

centrifugal forces at
work while

tides churn and wash
as if all

the whales and sea
monsters swim

to one side of the
ocean at once



1962

All there at the
beginning

the inexorable
descent

into a kind of
madness as

if trading green
stamps

for furniture or a
crock pot

never used or that
display lamp

with the bulb that
flickered

and smoked the
pocket

calculator turned
upside down

always reading
7734

and outside the
plate glass

window a mackerel
sky showering

missiles and
rockets



People Living in Caves


people living in caves
return to the

surface crazy the sun
no longer

comforting the moon
no longer

holding any mystery
and the stars

they never recall the
stars as if

light pollution was all
that remained

Michael McInnis lives in Boston and spent six years in the Navy sailing across the Pacific and Indian Oceans to the Persian Gulf three times, chasing white whales and ending up only with madness. He has published poetry and short fiction in Literary Yard, 1947, Dead Snakes, Monkey Bicycle, Cream City Review, 5x5 Singles Club, Facets Magazine, Arshile, Nightmare of Reason, Oak Square, Quimby Quarterly and Version 90.

MarkYoung's Sine Waves Towards the Surface Tension and Basho Bored with the Heron

A Newly Discovered "Bashōic" Haiku

Looking for a wedge to force into the afternoon, sort of split it in two. Boredom creeping in. Too cold to go for a swim, & if I read or watch tv I'll just go to sleep in the chair. Driving's the answer, that old foot down flat to the floor routine, out & about, Steppenwolf forever.

Decide to take Bashō along for the ride – he hasn't been the same ever since he read William Gibson's last four books in the one sitting & realized the old Japan he knew & loved no longer existed. A little stir-crazy lately, so seeing bucolic might stop his melancholy.

We head south, following the backroads, or at least those that are sealed. Sine waves of fast-braking tyre rubber staining the bitumen. Pick up the vibe but don't try to add to it. Instead

stop somewhat sedately at the lagoon where the black swans are, get out, smoke a cigarette as we watch a couple of eagles ride the thermals above the water.

Lower down a heron stands on a fallen tree trunk until it gets bored by the lack of fish & flies away. Bashō watches it, flicks his dying cigarette towards where it was. Doesn't look at me. Says:

Fuck this nature shit!

Let's go home, watch anime

on cable tv.

urban transit

How to work out

what to in-

clude? The selection

wasn't yours

in the first place—just

things that happened

along a bus route

you just happened to

live on. Never

caught the bus. Some-

times heard it go

by, sometimes

watched it

disappearing into

the not-too-far

distance. Close enough

to see that there

was no-one

in the backseat

telling the driver to

wait, to let you catch

up, to let you get on.

A littoral translation

As if

frozen, that

moment when the

river is / between

the tides. Mud

meters out from

the mangroves. The

rocks exposed. A single

pelican near the other

bank, reluctant to

move, to relieve

the surface tension.

Mark Young is the editor of Otoliths, lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia, & has been publishing poetry for more than fifty-five years. His work has been widely anthologized, & his essays & poetry translated into a number of languages. A new collection of poems, Bandicoot habitat, has recently come out from gradient books of Finland.

James Diaz Brings Ferris Wheels, Thunderstorm Sex, Warehouse Eyes, and A Rust of Wounds

Toilet Romance

Gone
past the hills steel gray
ferris wheel
time when I was imbued with numb infinity
counting cars

since nowhere is still nowhere
I draw a map for you
consisting of my skin
and a collection of scars
this road is warped
I have dreamed of anatomy changing

nothing and no one
I am strapped to a bullet
pulled through a straw
into the record you keep
of time
and it's sleepy spiders
who love me like a god.


Tacky Stockings

one is for the strive
a person places
like bee stings
on horizon's cup

empty barricades
tooth alley
and I hate my streets
this urban over brick over ruined faces of devastated mornings

come through me
each parable
a burning turn
ferris wheels and thunderstorm sex in the back seat
I was pulled from Brooklyn
into New Jersey at 5 a. m.
blitzed out interstate
wrapped around stars
come to the point

I can't realize truth
from the distorted
elements
where time keeps building it's rust of wounds
to hound me down
for all of my artificial kisses.



Suicide As Travel


My death is like dark water
it toys with breaking points
asleep in the head
roach of severed dreams
I ahem in my suicide
after
always after
and flatter than a road
coughing
every lung is tied
to lampposts with cameras in their bones
dry and tired in the socket
where oceans grind their cocks
in a song
I licked
when I was sick
and radioactive
a bad omen
a month of pain
with warehouse eyes
life is good
when I'm stuffed in a car
with a candle light tail
that sheds its skin and shame
as it shoots for the most distant star
a bone in the asshole
which throws a fit
and is terrified of corners
where the staff can rape you
and eat your shoe laces
but they can't pin hope across your wrists
which are dying to be split
like the grin of a damaged God
for good
I am done
a tape loop
unspooled
with busted teeth drinking the wall
the truth is
you are only loved
when your nipples are as cold as gold
sleeping dog
yawn
for I am really ignorant
and know only how to do this one thing.



Bio: James Diaz lives in New York where he is currently trying to figure shit out. Other writings of his can be found in Cheap Pop Lit, Ditch, Pismire, Collective Exile and The Idiom.

Neil Fulwood Smiles the Caprophagous Grin at the Man Behind the Man

Peril

A much-loved cliché

from scratchy two-reelers

of the silent era:

the villain (moustache

extravagantly twirled)

ties the girl to the tracks,

gloats as the express

(gouts of smoke, cow-

catcher prominent) comes

hurtling nearer and nearer.

Fumes as the hero (clean

cut, good teeth) pulls off

the last minute appearance,

doles out the justified

smack in the mouth, gets

the girl and doesn’t even

delay the express. Now

imagine yourself

as the damsel in distress.

The railroad tracks

are your mortgage

and your student debt,

the length of rope

the job you’re told

you’re lucky to have;

the train is the bank

and its carriages are full

of the fat and odious cigars

of those who are fatter

and more odious still.

The villain? He’s president,

prime minister, royalty

and clergy; he’s there

in the bushes, lurking, excited,

his caprophagous grin

untroubled by a justified fist.

Snake Oil

     All governments are lying cocksuckers. – BILL HICKS

All governments are salesmen,

all governments have sample cases

full of snake oil and scotch mist.

All governments are telesales callers,

all governments want to keep you on the line

while they take your details, run a few checks.

All governments are door-knockers,

all governments shove their shiny shoes

between door and jamb. Or use a battering ram.

All governments are a red dot, a telescopic lens,

all governments are the man behind the man,

the voice in the earpiece that gives the order.

Neil Fulwood was born in Nottingham, UK, in 1972. He's the author of film studies book The Films of Sam Peckinpah. His poetry has appeared in The Morning Star, Art Decades, The Blue Hour, The Ofi Press, Section 8 and Rat's Ass Review. Neil is married, holds down a day job and subsidizes several real ale pubs. He enjoys cinema, a wide variety of music, and making abusive comments about the government on social media. 

Daniel Y. Harris' World of Cliched Mesmerism, Komodo-Dragon Bags, and Mutation Masses

Scheherazade 1001 

The logic of a base is misnomer and defamation.
Eddy overrehearses his punk-garage band, Libido
of Eunuch’s, antipop single “Brat Crud Harbinger,”
grafted as condemned stock and mutation mass,
itching to pierce the shape-shifters on a night
of tribunals in flash drives. Sequences of toxic
side-effects coaxed from pricked licks and one
octave chants, court triumphalists to mock-up
and bulk. Eddy Daemon sashays his effete bod
against the press and the bleak community who
seek his agony as black-purple lump strangled
beside a hacked-off head. They’re spoilsports
of an ancient peoplehood. We’re the bystanders.
Eddy’s the falsely accused executioner’s heir.



Nebuchadnezzar 587  

Fatigued with indolence, blunted by a clichéd
Mesmerism—haggard, stony, half-buried wreck
and autoclave of ambition, Eddy Daemon sports
a gigantic horn of spite and ushers in a minute
era of hyphenation and circumventing sleights:
nerve-gleamed, raw-seamed, witty-sullen-jowled,
ghost-crabbed, thorn-tattered, messiah-hived-sick,
god-castrated, sod-smutted, swivel-jerked and tasty
morseled feminazi as manbearpig in low mondaze.
How unjubilant and malice-yielded! Nothing stays
the course, gloss-throated and flaked in foaming
at the mouth. Cylinders and spires pass from sight.
There’s no chance to get a bearing. Even to scroll
back to Ezra’s Walt concession stigmatizes clarity.



Anthropoid 3761

It all comes down to the prophesied sedge:
achenes and solid stems, the blackthorned scag
skullcap and skinsuit of woody lobes with spikelets.
In the marsh, the worn down nub of concupiscent
curds ribs the mascary buggered one or another
as plunger-name of the raw crease. Today, Eddy’s
nosed, clutching his sachet of cosmetics in his gold
clipped komodo-dragon bag. No nostalgia. No edits.
No quiddity with its affected monism. It’s the last
season of day one. We’re on our way kthxbai! Omg
liek u wana c my fab nu jurnal? Dude, no, you make
me sick n00b. Something about searing sophistry
and prelapsarian catpiss. Incomplete, bottomline.
Eddy prostrates before the doorjamb in defeat.


Daniel Y. Harris is the author of Esophagus Writ (with Rupert M. Loydell, The Knives Forks and Spoons Press, 2014), Hyperlinks of Anxiety(Cervena Barva Press, 2013), The New Arcana (with John Amen, NYQ Books, 2012), Paul Celan and the Messiah’s Broken Levered Tongue (with Adam Shechter, Cervena Barva Press, 2010; picked by The Jewish Forward as one of the 5 most important Jewish poetry books of 2010) and Unio Mystica (Cross-Cultural Communications, 2009). Some of his poetry, experimental writing, art, and essays have been published inBlazeVOX, Denver Quarterly, European Judaism, Exquisite Corpse, The New York Quarterly, In Posse Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Poetry Magazine.com and Poetry Salzburg Review. He is the Chairman of the Board of Directors of The New York Quarterly Foundation. His website iswww.danielyharris.com.

Allison Grayhurst Knows That History Is A Hyena Locked In Spiraling Aberrations, Making Patterns On The Naked Land

Desires Traversed 

There are lines that frame me in negative expectations.
There are sweet tufts of weeds I would like to pet like a kitten. And
eyelashes that spark a gentle nostalgia. There are too many eras
walked through, never to be re-entered, and remnants of lore and legends
like pigeon droppings on pavement, washed away by storm.
I have grown too used to the drapes being closed,
to all mannerisms of my fugitive vitality being ignored. Saturn is a vacuum,
galactic in its weighty substance and in its cold temperature push -
condensing my liquid garden into impenetrable ice.
A tightening in my intestines. Shoelaces undone and left.
I eat the seeds I am supposed to discard. I am beyond knowing if
I am broken. And oh the circle of things! Up the escalator.
Colour-coded stars. A dermal abrasion.
Things conspire like sunken feet in the mire
unwinding of doom. Archaeology I cannot speak of,
guaranteeing a false result. Straining to sound a faith that will cleanse.
Distances crossed, to point to and witness
the handicap of being a single being
amongst a kaleidoscope of organic tapestry.
Shifting to let go, to imagine archangel
power and not have it substituted with
a neutralizing force. Force that immunizes
growth from the throes of artful transformation.
There are hills and hallways that draw me to their altars.
Little did I know that dreams too long waited on become waterlogged,
that suffering is not a stigma or a banner to flaunt, and love
is mostly about honouring inner limitations,
challenging them to consolidate, regain momentum then
unequivocally be breached or be immutably restored.
I am dissolved into this squeezing, into denying
the little that I know that quivers precise, deconstructing the intricate
solidity of greed and hard resilient walls.
Orbits are barb-wired.
Countdowns counting, dictating short spurt breaths. As my tendons stretch
only in my imagination. And these doorways become
sunsets I stand straddled across.
History is a hyena, grotesquely curved,
pulling down royal constellations. I have learned that peace can be a pyre
were loins burn exquisite, can also be a dishonest maturing,
where desires are reduced to fruit flies annoyances,
where coming to terms with reality is a step toward
entropy.
Little did I know that bodies melt with their spirits –
more than dead houses or gloves, defining one tick, one
conjoining of fibres, pulsing a fingerprint, pulsing one lifetime
possessed.

Yes

I will stay with you,
acknowledging the four factors that create warriors, faces
of ceramic gods. Taking in these four tides - erratic electrical fumes;
unarguable weight; ripe stiffening; charitable manoeuvring -
this potently controlled receiving, snapping us into a place
where we are never betrayed by our mutual craving for equal depth and ideals.
The way you look when my eyes are closed. I see a visceral chemistry
copulating in your vascular system, changing the consistency of your skin,
showering you with oil. These pressure points owned, wrapped in dark honey -
a sticky rich worship and weeping - myself, dripping against you, inside
a red whirlwind of our joined imaginations.
We have walked rooftops, looked down and felt at home.
We worked many nights on forgiveness, smashing snowglobe sceneries,
defusing any fantastical expectation just to be honest
when we finally awoke, to take each other blatantly,
communing as soulmates should - peeled of barriers, wrapped freely
in fundamental urges and a desperation
for speed.
Pliant movement - karma or coincidence? It matters little, for it is
gathering storm. It reminds me of an unkempt appearance, appearing
weak, watery, but is really like the hollow delicate bone of every bird
built for flight - an aimed and painted arrow, capable of penetrating a crust of sky.
This is our alchemy stripped of ethics. This is us as a curry powder-
and-turmeric mix, mixed, we enhance one another’s scent and tone. Yes,
I will stay with you, stay with our patterns locked
in perfect spiraling aberration, stay on side streets, on wet park floors,
under our green roof, stay with you, holding with solidarity our sunken joys,
precarious compulsions, dandelions or maggots, holding
a constant means of God-given restoration.


My Place

At one end are the setting shapes
of friendships left behind
like the breaking of a mug
or a foggy window.
I leave that end and hold no other.
I stand on the crust of a sandy shore.
Together I swam through the salty flavour
with a dolphin by my side. Alone,
I leave my companion and the waves that serve me no more.
There are things I wish for like
pineapple and starfish fruit. There are
times I believe in the hot sands, believe
in the beautiful face of loneliness. I wave
at the birds and they follow me. I lay still
and the air has filled my thirst. On the
grassy green beyond I know one day I will
move. I know of proud children smiling at the
stars. I know there is nothing that can kill
the large immaculate Love. I died with my flesh.
I am born a new way, cut off from last-year's persona.
I look to the water - its depths
no longer take me in, its blue is but a shallow tone. I close my eyes
and rains descend like an artist's stroke,
making patterns on the naked land.

Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. She has over 625 poems published in more than 300 international journals and anthologies. Her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme Publishers in 1995. Since then she has published eleven other books of poetry and six collections with Edge Unlimited Publishing. Prior to the publication of Somewhere Falling she had a poetry book published, Common Dream, and four chapbooks published by The Plowman. Her poetry chapbook The River is Blind was published by Ottawa publisher above/ground press in December 2012. In 2014 her chapbook Surrogate Dharma was published by Kind of a Hurricane Press, Barometric Pressures Author Series in October 2014. More recently, she has a chapbook Currents pending publication this August with Pink.Girl.Ink. Press. She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com

Some of places my work has appeared in include Parabola (Alone & Together print issue summer 2012); Literary Orphans; Blue Fifth Review; The American Aesthetic; Agave Magazine; South Florida Arts Journal; Gris-Gris; The Muse – An International Journal of Poetry, Storm Cellar, New Binary Press Anthology; The Brooklyn Voice; Straylight Literary Magazine (print); The Milo Review; Foliate Oak Literary Magazine; The Antigonish Review; Dalhousie Review; The New Quarterly; Wascana Review; Poetry Nottingham International; The Cape Rock; Ayris; Journal of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry; The Toronto Quarterly; Fogged Clarity, Boston Poetry Magazine; Decanto; White Wall Review.