\ lens

retina red behind china
thrown phrases as tomatoes
fools
the jester's cornered with wooden spoon

i gave up
for God for fish
no hypocrite
egos jerked
& crystals shattered

a stomach a void ed
geese drip shit
squawking in harmonized headache
the puddle is voyeur
& she stores quiet bullets

cigarette princess
her glass slipping
in hazy verbatim
flattened on knotted tongues

Amelia Marzec


The Mosaic Poem

I ate a beatnik.
It was tasty but not sweet.
Spit out the beatnik.


A Poet's View

Out from my mouth
I pen words
With such emotion
Telling stories so deep
Writing in this ink, as if it...
Were my blood.
Truly now I realize
What it is like
To be an artist
Yet, all I do can be...
overlooked
For my art is mine to share
And not all can see the beauty
Summarizing my life
Until then I remain...
Just a poet.

Daigeaun


Another Lonesome Song

Rama C. Bauer

Sing us another lonesome song,
Billie Holiday--
one that will let me
feel like a man again.

Thrown in a line about
some beautiful, dark-haired girl;
lost in a cloud of cigarette smoke
and minor chords--
softly swaying in time
with her eyes closed,
head nodding to the beat,

let the melody line sweep
humanity off its feet and be
given a reason to sigh.

Make it slow and wondrous,
like a hymn.

Croon it across, gently,
with a blue-tinged voice
then release it back again
into the One, Eternal night.


Bronze me up, I'm frazzled

Pugilistic pug dog of Puget Sound
sounded less than great late late May 2001
mutterings flew into the pier
lusting your lascivious veneer
riding Ryan's general vibe
sullied in Seattle - you've got a landlord's voice
echoing tinny timbres on the answering machine
undulating ocean waves floored me
bon soir regret a demain
lolling wings of wind & lollipop grandeur phenomena
the anarchy of anachronistic enmity
reconsider parameters of you enemy
lest energy of too cool ennui the conglomerate of
ashy cheeked bloodthirsty twentysomethings
a collective cognoscenti undermine the fortissimo
forging through canker sore stomach membranes
the attic of the atmosphere is falling
the city's chrysalis a maroon starlit satellite
guides us to beguilement
inner monologues bloody & frazzled
I'm plankton I'm a lantern
scissors in bed will make a messy mattress
sloppy hair & scar tissue to isolate
my journal could never carry a conversation
ivy tendrils tracing Niagara are fluid
Q-bert jumps pad to pad on cue
I swore to stucco cement structures I did
clanging & clingy to anticlimactic "yes"
tied in knots 'round my neck
the chalk lines lingered 'round hips
bloated blowfish hopscotch toss
church bells resounded through the halls of my brain
eucharistic euphemism, if you will allow
sorry for swearing Mom that's just how
the vertigo gong comes a crashin'
bobcats out at eight in Tucson mesa
inconclusive research produced cocoons
receded hairlines burst through, hooray!
everyone is happy now & certainly no one's
speaking at dinner so there must be nothing
to say I have something to say
a mess of charlatans sure of themselves
vicissitudes in this big cold blueprint
monks gone drunk in Philadelphia
obliterated over cherry grenadine cherubs
suburban flaccid penises subscribing
drop the ax! drop the knife! dropped cough drops
arrested cleft palate fumbling for fuck off

Jason Jensen


the moon smiles high up in the sky, the only source of light along this dark estuary.

reflections of itself dance in the waves like broken mirror fragments below,

as a patchy mist creeps along quietly.

the crickets sing their lonely song as the boats bob up and down at dock.

in the murky shoreline, the tadpoles roam about their stagnant lives.

lights of a distant city, a civilization in space, sparkle hello

as the wafting smell of fire grows fainter and fainter from her.

Samara Gomez


i'm not sure what to think anymore,

living in front of this facade she calls

Herself.

with heavy eyes, the stares speak

a desolate song of disorder.

wafting everywhere in endless nights,

an incessant tear falls

into her abyss of discontent.

and she's queen of her own toxic

waste dump

when she's perched upon

her throne of unhappiness (a monarch of melancholy).

a gradual farewell I bid to the frontal turmoil

presented to me,

while mental au revoirs whispered under the grey

ask me questions of existence.

Samara Gomez


10,000 backlit ventricles

10,000 backlit ventricles
sputter blood around,
messing up this main vestibule.
5,000 of those plugs are mine
the other half belong
to my favorite protagonist:
old lovers & their old lovers too
things I needn't mention but do
in my poems
& on the tops of my hands
into which I've been carving.
They've scabbed over
& hopefully won't scar.
I've been learning
to define things differently:
Bed sheet = insomnia
Coffee = insomnia
Phone call = insomnia
etc. etc. = insomnia
See how that works?
This dysfunctional delicacy
I display, on a highly involved,
yet strictly perfunctory level.
Yada yada yada blah blah blah
& circular hand motions
are my dialogue's main
diagram when I gibber jabber
"Oh, I haven't slept in six weeks..."
"Oh! I haven't slept in seven!"
I'm infinitely more desperate than you!
Motherfucker!
I'm turning cosmopolitan.

Jason Jensen


Liquid Sorrow

She sat in her swing
not feeling,
not hearing,
not afraid.
The sunlight illuminated her skin
like poured honey on an ice cube.
She was alone.
She was free.
She was safe.
It had taken her a long time to feel this way.
She started running at the age of six
and had never looked back.
If she had,
she would see him coming,
feel him closing in on her,
know that he wanted her.
He wanted her to succumb
to his wishes and desires,
and she had reluctantly obliged.
His hands would touch her
and she would shiver;
he would leave the room
and the goosebumps scattered.
Even they were afraid.
Daddy loved his little girl...
his princess...
his toy.
She lay in the grass
not feeling,
not hearing,
not breathing.
The blood flowed from her body
like liquid sorrow.
She was alone.

Erin Mendel