Jason Ryberg Broken Down With Miley Cyrus National Enquirers, Amish Gangsters, And What They All Say...

1) Loaded Dice and Poisoned Candy 


Hardly even know it’s there
most of the time...

after all, we can be a (somewhat)
fundamentally oblivious species:

whether posited, serenely, in proper lotus position
in the middle of some shimmeringly pristine
mountaintop scenario or deeply steeped
in some sweaty, chaotic configuration of love,

or (just as likely), broke down
on the side of the highway,
I-35 let’s say, just south of Topeka, Kansas
(with five pallets of National Enquirers,
bearing the tear-streaked face of Miley Cyrus,
that has GOT to get through):

a weathered cargo ship
run aground under a brutal, relentless sun,
one-o-one in the shade
and a beer can rolling along all of a sudden
like a tumbleweed in an old cowboy movie,
(and now a dog barking off in the distance,
as if on cue).

So, we are allowed, now and then,
an absolution, of sorts,
from our inherent obligation
to fundamental attentiveness
to most of the obvious         
and at least some of the finer points
of the subtext, metatext and copious footnotes
to the post, post-modernist novel of Life.

But, still it hovers and circles,
always lurking just out of the corner of the eye,
waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike,
doling out fate and fortune,
good, bad and indifferent, alike,

the free-floating nucleus
of the all-encompassing,
all-permeating physics of context,
the fluid matrical mechanica
of how things really are,
the constantly shifting locus
of the very shit that happens to us,
again and again and again
in sloppy viscous loops...

The moment ultimately coming to a point,
like the point of a big red arrow
on the Metaphysical Highway
Rest Stop Map Of Life,

like the finger of God pointing,
just a little too accusingly,
at you (and you and you)
as if to say

YOU ARE HERE
(and here you are)!
Hell,
everything else
is extenuating circumstances
and low-grade
accommodation,

loaded dice and poisoned candy.



2) Ironic, Aint It?


that,
              while constantly
                                               being re-reminded
        by the representatives
                                                   of forces
(presumably)

                          larger than ourselves,
from time to time
                                to time, of one’s (seemingly

               pre-ordained and inescapable)
                                                  holding place
in whatever
                           grand (or even less than
             grand) schemata of peoples /
                                                   places / things
                      you happen to currently find yourself
steeped in,
                   is indeed sobering,
                                             it also,
                                   (maybe not-so) oddly enough,
                         in turn, makes the notion

      of pulling several monster
                                                  rippers off a bong
made from a google-eyed
                                             porcelain bunny and
                 sipping on a quadruple
                                                        Americano
           while flipping
                                      back and forth between
      a (sur)reality show about
                                               Amish gangsters and
bat-shit religious programming
                                         on the local access channel,
                   sound like just as good
                                                            a way as any
                                                                           to start the day.


3) They Say A Lot, Don’t They?


They say fools look for wisdom
stamped on candy Valentine hearts
and go for long strolls
where angels bury their dead.

They say the only difference
between an angel and a demon
is the mood you catch them in.

They say rude awakenings
come to those who nod off
waiting for phones to ring.

They say women who run with wolves
often get bit on the butt.

They say men who somehow manage
to mount a tiger will only begin to fathom
the true depth of their foolishness
when they have to take a leak.

They say those who sleep under bridges
become birds in their dreams.

They say a bird in the frying pan
is worth more than big talk
from a burning bush.

They say God may not play at dice
but He? / She? / It? has been rumored
to give the old cosmic roulette wheel a spin
from time to time.

They say where God builds a megachurch
the Devil builds a fireworks / BBQ / porn emporium.

They say conspiracy is the only true religion
(in which all other religions merely play
their assigned roles).

They say he who seeks vengeance
makes two grave mistakes.

They say desires never satisfied,
ambitions thwarted, needs never met
can cause the blood to cool and the soul
to pool and blacken like grease in a trap.

They say money may be
the root of all evil
but pussy is the fruit.

      They say a lot, don’t they?

They certainly do.

They certainly do.






Jason Ryberg is the author of twelve books of poetry,
six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders,
notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be 
(loosely) construed as a novel, and, a couple of angry 
letters to various magazine and newspaper editors. 
He is currently an artist-in-residence at both 
The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s 
and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor 
and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collections of poems 
are Zeus-X-Mechanica (Spartan Press, 2017) 
and A Secret History of the Nighttime World (39 West Press, 2017). 
He lives part-time in Kansas City with a rooster named Little Red 
and a billygoat named Giuseppe and part-time somewhere 
in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, where there are also 
many strange and wonderful woodland critters. 

Ken Allan Dronsfield's Child Collages, Albino Ravens, Meteors, Sung Simoons, and Corn Growing Taller Than Words

Tasting of Fire


I've thrown myself into it;
thrown myself in.
And the fire has been lovely.
It's flames jump, and tickle,
leaping toward impossibility,
beautiful stars above.
So if today,
my body is dragged down,
the courage which hurled me
into the heart of the flame
has smoldered into mere embers.
The knowledge is there,
even today, when an albino raven
comes to sit upon my shoulder,
my vision doubling all objects
indiscriminately.
Those which I choose to see and
those which I do not,
the images imprinted on my eyelids
over lapping one another,
awkwardly, as a child's collage.
Yet I see beyond the darkness,
beyond the terror, beyond the spark.
Oh life of mine, incredible
harvest, the taste of fire, of
hope which we feed with ourselves.
I've thrown myself into it,
I’m warmed from within,
a soul afire, peace smolders.



Requiem of White Ash



An albino raven meditates

during an alabaster moonrise.

Darkness reaches from shadows

to grasp the soulless.

Hideous cries from the upper branches

of the tall Stone Mountain pines.

Ghosts from another time reincarnate

as swirling mists over fields of cotton.

Magpies joust upon the old sagging roof

of a forgotten plantation cabin.

Hooded one’s chant to their lesser being

who fulfills their twisted dreams.

They praise the Sun and Moon each night

as spirited white flames flicker.

Cherry blossoms scattered in the grip of

a heartless tempest blow.

Meteors strike the golden mountain;

a stark truth is finally told.

Life was hard in the Georgia of yesterday,

pantries stored nothing but memories.

The water from the pump was a hazy red,

smelling like decrepit sulfur.

Witches cast spells; send superstitions to hell,

as white ash rises under the full moon.

Wispy tendrils of foggy spirits rise into a red sky,

as he of the white flame greets the dead.





Tempest of Cold



By the graves I felt the storm

shall Death bring his batters?

Eagerly I looked for cover;

loud thunderstorm drumming

of the tempest that is blowing.

'It's that beat,' I muttered swinging;

That vicious, vicious pounding,

and the floodwaters never inhaling

I sing the splendid sudden simoom;

screech louder than the tearing sails;

crave the becalmed, blowy bellows!

I ignore the smashing, severe sleet;

take thy lashing from out my heart.

I threw its ghost against the walls

I await the defeated, dreich drum,

here stands an unflustered peach.





Witches and Stone



That which gives often...

often receives nothing in return.

Do not be deceived by writing in stone.

Corn often grows taller than words;

words often grow taller than deeds.

In what field strides a dark Witch,

through stalks as thick as bovine legs.

We take a cache and fill silos

forty moons per the fields.

Geese feed in flocks as a night

haze dissolves with the sunrise.

Wrung one’s neck for our bellies

now we give it spit and hot coals.

At dusk, we watch a coven of witches

feed the flames below their cauldron.

They gather petrified stubble and stone

to craft tonics and spells whilst the

crows and ravens pick clean all

discarded husk and bones.

Within a breath, the sun disappears;

darker times fill life’s circle.



Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, prize winning poet and fabulist from New Hampshire, now residing on the plains of Oklahoma. He is widely published in magazines, journals, reviews and anthologies throughout the US and abroad. He has three poetry collections, "The Cellaring", 80 poems of light horror, paranormal, weird and wonderful work. His second book, "A Taint of Pity", contains 52 Life Poems Written with a Cracked Inflection. Ken's third poetry collection, "Zephyr's Whisper", 64 Poems and Parables of a Seasonal Pretense, and includes his poem, "With Charcoal Black, Version III", selected as the First Prize Winner in Realistic Poetry International's recent Nature Poem Contest. Ken won First Prize for his Haiku on Southern Collective Experience. He's been nominated three times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net for 2016-2018. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.

Shawn Yager Presides Over The Airplane Graveyard Trailer Park Childhood, the Ennui Of Progress, Living High On The Landfill, And The Boy In The Plastic Bubble

Ballad of the Sad Trailer Park

Like that airplane graveyard in Tucson,
Here’s a place for mobile homes to die.
As they crumble, residents patch holes with old plywood,
Tarps, or plastic sheeting.

One trailer stands apart, abandoned,
Full of holes, a side caved in,
No windows, no plumbing—
Slanted floor,
A rusty shell.
Given up on.

The horde of kids living in these immobilized homes,
Wheelchairs with flat tires,
They haven’t given up on it.
They love that old broken down metal shack,
Made it their own.

It serves as a pressure relief valve--
When things get out of hand, they go there.
When Mom and Dad are fighting,
When Dad and Uncle Pete are drunk and the guns are out,
When Mom’s boyfriend comes over and they need alone time,
When the police come over to talk to Daddy about where he was last night,

The place actually helped raise these kids.

It is also a lab--
What kids witness at home, at school, on TV,
They try out here.
“Got some beer from my brother!”
“Stole cigarettes from my mom!”
“Let’s play house!”
“Ouch!  Stop that.”

The residents of this park
Could never afford a house in town,
Snuggled up close to its neighbors,
Down the street from the pizza place,
The library, the school, the police station.
They could not even afford the rent on an apartment
Over the general store.

(Besides, none of the families would fit, they tend to be large and unruly.)



Looking Out the Glass Door of the Last Subway Car on the Way to O’Hare


The rails move closer together
As they get further away

They touch the silhouette formed by downtown buildings--
A giant black crown.

You made it this far,
But you still haven’t left.
The car has you hostage.

You’ve gotten accustomed to your cell.

Your past is visible in the present

Your future is known—
Will you get off at the last stop,
Or will you choose to return to your origin,

Seeing the same thing
In reverse.

But the world rotates around the sun, and

Everything is in constant motion.
--So, even if you’re moving backward
` The things you revisit will be different.
Technically, then, you’ll be seeing things for the first time.

Does forward exist?
Does backward exist?
Is there such a thing as progress?


I AM NOT A GOD (But I play one on TV)

From my shack high on the landfill,
I see ships floating on the water.
The big ones bully the little ones,
The little ones call out to me for help.

Filled with sudden senses of purposes,
I, grunting like my cousin the ape,
Heave a cracked toilet seat into the air,
But the injustice continues.
I realize I must do more.

I grab a rope and some wax,
Run downhill as fast as I can,
Through sleazy waterfront neighborhoods,
To reach the harbor--

I am too late!  All the little ships are gone.
Victims of hate
Victims of philistinism
Victims of carpe diems.

I throw my rope and wax into the oily waters, and
Glare at the supertanker, smug in its berth.


Letter to Friends on Vacation in Florida
March, 2004

Hello, pioneers in the melding
of High and Low, alchemists,
Friends of long-standing duration.
Hope you're doing all right in
The land of strangeness and Geritol.
Hope you make it back with
Your insanity intact.
And your kitty cat.

The days of your absence are cold
And empty.

Return, renew, and replenish us,
With your absorbed, radiant warmth,
And stories of weirdnesses,
And all of that which is only dreamed of,
Talked about, up here.

Up here, where it is gray,
And cold and inward and
Vacuum-Packed-Sterile-Until-Opened-But-Never-Opened.
Hurry back,

And maybe we can rip the wrapping off this bitch,
Introduce some contaminants.
I'm sick of this Boy-in-the-Plastic-Bubble shit.


Shawn feels that writing is an act of discovery.  While he has had
seven short stories published online or in print, this marks the first
time that any of his poetry has been published.  He currently teaches English
to at-risk students in southwestern NH.

Matt Borczon Returns To Discuss Bones In Duffel Bags, A Three-Legged Horse, Tipping The Ferryman, Chem Trails, And A Messianic Sailor

Today


is a
Michigan
ghost town
it's a
duffel bag
full of
human bones
it's moths
drinking tears
from the
eyes of
birds while
they sleep

today is
afraid to
come forward
it's drunk
and horny
it's a
tire fire
out of
control and
a coal
mine long
abandoned

today is
hung over
on a
park bench
it's reading
my mail
it's a
rusted out
VW bus
left in
a forest
of bare
trees and
it's turning
water into
wine in
northwest
Pennsylvania

today is
walking a
3 legged
horse into
oncoming traffic
it's fighting
dogs in
suburban
basements
it's paying
its taxes
on time
it's demanding
our attention
and robbing
our sleep
and breaking
promises as
it wipes
the dust
off of
the moon.

Mother Angelica pray for me


 Tip the
Ferryman
your waitress
the dealer
before you
leave the
table exit
the restaurant
sail quietly
into the
hell you
made of
your life
smile and
hope you
get lost
along the
way

stare at
airplanes
leaving
chem trails
like white
calligraphy
across ink
black skies
pray for
a star
to guide
you

and remember
that Jesus
was a
sailor
when he
walked
on the
water.

Matthew Borczon is a poet from Erie, Pa he has written seven books of poetry so far. His new book Code 3 the prison blues is now available from Alien Buddha press. When he is not writing he is a nurse for developmentally disabled adults.

Stefanie Bennett Holds Her Cain Renegade Neutrons During The Trepidation Lid Or Not

SEIZURE    

In my Mother’s House

A deceptive land,

An impulse

Waxes lyric...

While un-encumbered

The axe-head

And wood-block lie – seen

Only from

 The bi-fold window.

There, time steps through

The filaments’

Grasping squall, and

It’s found

How I am – now, twice

As able

As once

Was Cain.

THE TREPIDATION ACT   

Renegade neutrons

Fall apart

Laughing

On the front lawn, yet

You, with

Your cold

Aerial-of-souls’

Clip-board

Hand them

A clean

Bill

Of health. Seems

Strange how

A ‘for real’

Shooting star’s

Never around

When

You want one.

STEAM AND GOSPELS    

So much to answer for.

No-one to answer to.

Maybe add

An arthropod

With intent

And put a lid

On it.

Stefanie Bennett, ex-blues singer & musician has published several books of poetry, a novel, & a libretto & works with No Nukes, Arts Action For Peace as well as Equality. Of mixed ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee], she was born in Queensland, Australia.

Ian Gannasi Loses His Sneaker's In A Yearbook Dream, Ponders Egrets AND Regrets, And Buying The Middle Of Nowhere A Coke

ACCIDENTAL DISASTER

Indispensable figments of my imagination.

Becky beckons.

Whichever direction I go it’s the wrong way.

She was a nurse

With a sexy voice

And nothing to say.

What does it mean to have lost one’s sneakers in a dream?

Old high school yearbooks don’t amount to much.

What kind of a guy

Are you and I?

Despite all his faults he really was an idiot.

A vice when successful is called virtue.

In my father’s high school yearbook:

“From a drip to a dope.”

Pictures of an exhibitionist.

A blow with a word strikes deeper than a blow with a sword.

I got cars you got cars all god’s children got cars.

Well-wrapped in his defense mechanisms,

He got trapped in the bathroom.

THE USUAL MISCALCULATIONS

Like trying to plug the holes in a sieve,

It could have been worse, but not by much.

A bowling buddy?

A driver of last resort?

“Home, Hives!”

“Unsend, Unsend,” “Abort, Abort.”

We have wasted our lives.

Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs

Were an indelible part of the show.

They were completely right, and wrong in part.

I guess you’re as much you as you can be.

So am I, but we’re playing in different keys.

“I don’t know what I’m going to play,” he repeated.

Egrets from the train window.

(Not to mention regrets.)

It is posed and it is posed,

What in nature merely grows.

“Ah, good taste! What a dreadful thing!”

Blue moon, blue cheese,

And whatever else she wanted to sing.

Funny how I didn’t see that coming. I did see it going however.

The executioner took his time as he fondled the lever.

Taking a long time to come to bad decisions:

At the hanging the criminal’s head popped off

Due to someone’s miscalculation.

OFFERINGS

Accused of a crime I was considered to have considered,

I preferred to stay in bed.

“You’ve beaten and you’ve been beaten”

Was the theme of The Lost Weekend.

Me no like.

The thought or speech balloon

Gets halfway there and then deflates.

The anonymity of glamour, the glamour of anonymity,

Dark glasses in the middle of the night.

I’ve about had it.

It depends at what depth one focuses the lens,

At what power of magnification.

Shocking where he got off,

On the platform in what seemed

The middle of nowhere.

I’d like to buy the world a Coke.

All the various offerings are worth a hill of beans.

The best defense against germs is to ignore them.

She had a vivid orange in her tortoise shell pattern.

My paraphrase can’t compete with the original.

Prestidigitation, misdirection,

Valentine cards and mourning doves ...

But no satisfying explanation of the snake

That crawled out of Anchises’s tomb.

Ian Ganassi’s poetry, prose and translations have appeared in more than 100 literary journals. Poems have appeared recently or are forthcoming in New American Writing, The Yale Review, 2Bridges Review, American Journal of Poetry and Clockwise Cat, among many others. His poetry collection Mean Numbers was published in 2016, and is available on Amazon. His new collection of poetry, True for the Moment, will be published in the fall of 2019 by MadHat Press. Selections from an ongoing collage collaboration with a painter can be found at www.thecorpses.com.

John D. Robinson Going Straight For The Throat

I HAD TO

I heard him crying

one night, alone,

I crept downstairs

from my bedroom

into the lounge,

he wasn’t aware of

my presence:

I crouched down

and watched my

father weep, drunk,

confused and

fucked-up:

for several minutes

I remained silent

and then I

returned to my

bedroom and wept,

I didn’t know why

except that

I had to.

A HURTING KIND

He hurt with

his punches

and he hurt

with his words

yet walking away

to go live

 with some

fucking pill-head

whore

and die at the

 age of 43

is a wound

still fresh

three decades

 later.

IF ASKED, I’D SAY

Write something down that’ll

kick-hard between the world’s

legs, let it know you’re

around and that you’re not

fucking-around for applause

or pages in books:

write something down that’ll

seize readers by the throat

and will force the heart to

beat faster, to take away a

breath, to leave a scar, give

no mercy and fuck the

consequences:

write something down,

scribe the truth

and don’t be afraid.

John D Robinson is a published poet from the UK: hundreds of his poems have appeared in print and online: his latest chapbook publications are: 'Hitting Home' (Iron Lung Press)  'The Pursuit Of Shadows' (Analog Submission Press) 'Echoes Of Diablo' (Concrete Meat Press) and just unleashed is 'Too Many Drinks Ago' Paper & Ink Zine publications.