Susan Kahil singer/songwriter/poet is originally from the UK but has lived in Southern Spain for the past twelve years. In a secluded mountain valley on her olive, orange and avocado farm. Surrounded by nature lots of animals and wildlife is where she gets her inspiration for poetry and original songs. Susan likes to look for the beauty and infinite potential in all things. https://www.facebook.com/susan.kahil SHATTERPROOF HEART They said her heart was unbreakable Bullet and shatterproof, scratch resistant, impenetrable Against the wrath of hail, fire and brimstone Then how the hell could ‘Love’ leave its mark a binding tone With one delicate tender warm breath wave, whispering an ‘I love you’ of sanguinity Subtly absorbed inside past a labyrinth of defenses unlocking The doors to affinity Releasing a kaleidoscope of fluttering butterflies Flittering wings of lighted lashed eyes Once a shatterproof heart now without encased armour Freely beating to the rhythm of her consummate charmer BECAUSE I I don’t love you because I need you I need you because I love you I don’t love you because I want you I want you because I love you I don’t love you because you are me I love you because I am you I love you because I RED ROSE PETALS He gave his love a red rose With a perfume that was heaven scent And as they smelt that red rose They knew their love was meant As he marched off to war She had tears in her eyes And as they fell upon each petal Her love he was crying inside She pressed each rose petal In a page of the good book And sent one in each letter Which he her love he took He placed them inside a pocket Close to his chest When they brought him home They laid him down to rest She scattered red rose petals Upon his resting place And whenever she smelt a red rose She remembered his beautiful face When the time came for her to join him Her final wish to be That between their two headstones To plant a red rose tree Every year at autumn time When the winds they did blow The petals were scattered upon them As a symbol of their love we know The perfume from countless petals Saturated the earth below And after their headstones had crumbled The red rose tree did grow and grow Errors of fate I tip toed across cotton-fluffed clouds Skipped with the colour strands of the rainbow Hitch hiked on a falling crisp golden leave of autumn Skimmed sliding over the mirror of Venus a frozen lake Did high fives with gushing waves as they rolled into shore Pushing them back into the belly of the ocean Danced under the spotlight of the suns veil Held the breeze and shook it like a clean sheet Until the ashes and dusts of wailing lost souls Into my infinite became a turbulence of resurrections Pleading their cases of a much to soon passage of tempos stolen Swirling and whirling humming to the tune of Henryk Gorecki’s ‘Symphony of Sorrowful Souls’ Picking up gathering their collections of lost hopes and dreams From the deep mucky sediment of tear soaked screams Now mosaic pieces embedded within the earths crust Silence of their past awakenings echoed inside the errors of fates Justice for the rhythms that were interfered somehow modified A time-dependant equation with quantum potential of spirit So I the weaver of destinations that were, shall be and are Unclogged the eroded gears of horrors into reverse transposed Squealing this beat less heart I pushed and resuscitated with cosmic breaths Until rusted worn hands moved towards the wise direction of anti Reset to make something out of absolutely nothing All reserved spaces in time filled by the wretched unfortunate souls Murdered, slaughtered, diseased or by accident waiting their dues Only by the grace of a heavenly scent and a whispering willow Did every speck of dust blown into obscurity become written Penciled into the pages of the book of loves compassion Into an understanding that all sufferings, destinies and joys Are but chains of events wrong or right good or bad interlinked That there be an intelligence far beyond our mortal perceptions Which will aggregate into a shimmering cluster of awareness With a spring in my step I disappeared as a dampening mist into the evermore and the souls followed
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Kasy Long is a senior creative writing major at Ohio Northern University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Sigma Tau Delta Rectangle, Otoliths, The Sucarnochee Review, Glass Mountain, The RavensPerch, and Polaris Literary Magazine. In her free time, she watches I Love Lucy, reads Emily Dickinson’s poetry, and dreams about the beautiful Lake Chautauqua in western New York. After graduation, she hopes to work in communications for a thriving cultural museum. To Miss the Mark I let the arrow soar; it swings through the trees and I watch it disappear. I pray no animals are lost, then I hear the groans. I turn my back and raise the bow. I shoot the arrow into the air, then wait for it to meet its victim. I whisper an apology. The release is intoxicating, the snap of the bow as the arrow flies into the forest woods. Faint whines bounce and echo in the trees. I lower my arm, let the passing fawn wander. Chinless Star For Dorothy Kilgallen Am I right in assuming that you withheld information for your next news article? That you went to the grave with a poisoned throat, a tainted tongue, a swallowed heart? Am I right in assuming that you feared for lost opportunities? You aimed for quick wits and justice. Crimes excited you; answers fueled your brain. You knew who shot JFK, didn’t you? You knew who put a bullet in his brain, who drained American politics, who was a part of the Oswald team. People answered, “What’s my line?” in your presence. Or rather, you asked them questions to figure out the clues. Tell us, what’s your line? You hid evidence behind closed doors; you found joy in scribbled documents. Pencil shavings sprinkled your newspaper desk. A fresh piece of paper remained locked in your typewriter. They found you, dead in your New York apartment, fallen in chaotic bedsheets with an empty pill bottle resting in your cold hand. Tears releasing droplets of secrets on your velvet pillowcase. Ssh, ssh, the secret is too controversial. Ssh, ssh, you should’ve stayed quiet, chinless star. What’s your line, Dorothy Kilgallen? We’ll Be Fine For Langston Hughes’s “Life is Fine” Sweet Daddy came to me in a dream. I sank deeper into my midnight musing, his face greeted me in the dark. I came up from the trance and screamed into the night. I saw him drowning in a cold bed of water—dying with his eyes closed tightly in fear. I shivered in the cot. It was cold! When I shut my eyes, I saw him rising above the ground. He called to me, I wished to bring him to me. I cried for him, my sweet Daddy, I hollered in my dream. “Daddy, no! Life is fine!” But I was trapped in here! Trapped so deep! But living is what my Daddy dreamed. So he chose to live for me. He chose not to sink in the water. I’ll be angry, sweet Daddy, if you try to leave me. Don’t sink, float. We’ll be fine! Fine as wine! We’ll be fine! Ode to the Gentle Dancer Firefly, firefly, when your dancing light twinkles and shines, so does my pulsing, beating heart. It waits for your tempo, your cue, your rhythmic appearance in the nighttime sky. It sees the dancing light and responds with delight. Firefly, firefly, stay with me tonight and shine. Be the ancient star under the moon’s glow. Light on, light off. Light on, light off. Twinkle, twinkle, little dancing star. Firefly, firefly, you bring rays of soft dull hope in the darkness of my midnight musings. A beauty like yours is so rare, shine for me, gentle dancer of the air. Ode to the Remington Typewriter Dripping with themes and metaphors about nature, songs, life—the olive green tool calls to my mind, summons the ghosts of past ideas, and brings them to life. The machine clinks and clanks toward inspiration—sending knowledge to the black keys and ink ribbons. The sewing machine tick-tick-tick of the keys chimes words into my mind. This Remington is not perfect; small scratches cover its edges, keys stick and jam in place, words with noticeable errors on the page. The typewriter resides in nostalgia shops. A vintage treasure-keep, a rusted tool, a friend, a muse, a watchman over my insecurities. Stealing words from minds, turning them into voices. Mariel Norris lives in the Pioneer Valley, Massachusetts in an apartment filled with cacti, crystals, and poetry books. She teaches special education and sneaks poetry lessons into the curriculum whenever possible. A Bard College graduate, she received the Academy of American Poets Prize for Bard in 2013. You can find her Spanish poetry in La voz and English poetry in Slink Chunk Press and TreeHouse.
WINGED SYCOPHANTS winged sycophants feathers studded with real diamonds that refract faux stars against a reluctant milky way violent zigzags with every turn of the wing feather-strobe lights a thousand seizures winged sycophants skin white as the kind of tooth known to slice through every soul in sight making halves of halves of infinitesimal halves the keys to whiteness are a) sunlessness b) drinking pure gold from the master’s blood-red lips winged sycophants sneer for hours at chained nobodies in muddy robes streaked with tears paper skin faces lined with blue-black veins hidden in hoods one endless moan winged sycophants stretch mechanical wings over empty highways over vacant shops over leafless forests where trees are crooked spines broken vertebrae where branches sag beneath the weight of absent birds YOUR WINDOWS Sidewalks yawn and stretch, dry as worn-out lips beneath passersby who pass by like nameless shadows. I watch their little legs that move in blurs and their top hats like thumbtacks and their petticoats like eraser smears. Who are all these people, anyway? Are their footsteps light, or do they drag their boots against the pavement? Are their vocal cords tied in knots? Are they feeling dismayed? Have any of them just fought with friends? No, they’re too little to have any problems. But then the rain begins and drives them away-- sending them shivering to their homes. Now everyone is gone. No one will notice if I leap from my window and brave the falling waves and ring your doorbell and hand you my letter or read it out loud right then and there with your contorted face framed in the door and pull you outside and hold you and embrace you and wait for the downpour to wash us clean. You’re so close—right across the street I see your bedroom windows light up: two glowing squares through the downpour. I pretend they’re your eyes watching me. I watch them back. I watch hard, very hard and for very long. And then I see a flicker of you just a flicker of you maybe maybe it’s you, I’m not sure, for you’re smaller even smaller still than those passersby who were on the street. You’re grayer than everyone. I want to stay and watch, but I must turn away, I have no choice-- I can’t let this go on. As my neck moves it creaks below my skull, creaks. My muscles tense like steel in times like these. It’s a heavy-breathing night with water panting down, but my own breaths are shallow with hope. Warm and dry, it wraps around my shoulders, tingles down my spine, scratches lightly at my vertebrae in its familiar way. LA VIDA DE UNA ABUELA SOLA New day. She gets up slowly so slowly and puts on her slippers. Without thought with movements of routine, she boils water for tea. It is early, and still her world is blurry so blurry. Fruit covers the kitchen counters she sees the colors-- the reds and greens of the manzanas, the oranges of the naranjas, the yellow plátanos-- But she doesn’t see their forms. Each week she buys 23 apples, 17 oranges, and 14 bananas even though she lives alone. Each week she smells the sugar of the fruits melting and becoming a syrup of decay. Her grandchildren would always eat fruit, fruit after every meal, and would run, run a lot through the house, animated by sugar. They’d leap into her arms with light and energy. But now. Now her arms are as weak as the limbs of a barren orange tree, and her grandchildren have moved to America where they are very busy, very, very busy and don’t know much Spanish anymore, not much at all, except “te quiero” (“I love you”), words they tell her through the phone every now and then. They are far away with their new language, and she lives alone, alone with her kitchen and her table with many chairs and her heaps of fruit and her mirror that she neglects because she does not want to see, does not want to see her fragile body, too weak to take a plane. New day. She gets up slowly so slowly and puts on her slippers. Without thought with movements of routine, she boils water for tea. It is early, and still her world is blurry so blurry. Fruit covers the kitchen counters she sees the colors-- the rojas and verdes of the apples, the naranjas of the oranges, the bananas amarillas-- But she doesn’t see their forms. WHEN YOU LEAVE blond tendrils stuck to my forehead ocean-curled salty skin seaweed legs sun slips beneath a royal sky into a sailboat moon sea deeply breathing waves fire pit on the sand beers popped whispers shouts belly laughs crooked cartwheels when twilight takes a nice long sigh the sky turns starless black and everyone goes fast to sleep everyone except me lost roaming through yet another neural labyrinth Happiness-- when you’re here you’re familiar as my childhood blanket soft as Mother’s fingers on my forehead but Happiness-- when you’re gone I forget your face forget your name long for you beneath cold sheets as the waning moon eyes me through half-closed curtains my stomach my jaw my hands clenching nothing tension clenching and then nothing I wake up sore hurt needing something or someone to hold Happiness-- when you leave I wish I could mark on my calendar the date of your return for counting down days months years is easier than not knowing if we’ll meet again BEAUTY V. LOVE Beauty is a tomato sliced in two. Red, sweet, and wet, pulsing like hearts. The pink pearl-seeds seem as wonderful as love. But I have yet to learn about love. Some girls know love well. They’re drawn to round things that are whole like tumbleweeds or the world or pregnant bellies. These girls fall in love with a seed, help it blossom with their tears. Some people have love in and out and all around them. Others are gray and brittle as driftwood. Some people wanting love mistakenly search for beauty instead. They think love and beauty are the same. But beauty is thin to the touch and perishable as a crocus petal. Love is thick as rope bound to a boat, wrapped round and round, round and round. Love is round. At night, I curl inside my comforter, tight as a snail or a ringlet in my mother’s hair. Sometimes I wish I were still a fetus, a tiny seahorse in the waves, a rocking horse in the dead of night. My work has appeared in a number of journals, including Midwest Poetry Review, Coal City Review, Poetry East,and Negative Capability. My most recent books, Leaning: A Poetics of Personal Relations (Left Coast Press/Routledge), Performance: An Alphabet of Performative Writing (Left Coast Press/Routledge), and If the Truth Be Told (Sense Publications), call upon the poetic as a research strategy. Wish Crawling toward your final hour, dragging a fool’s history of errors across everyday’s sharp glass, trying to grab another day, you utter another wish as if desire, that sliver of sun, might soon melt your frozen heart. Final Years Others walk around him as if his age can’t be touched Others sit, fidgeting, wondering when enough time has gone by Others speak, leaning in, loud and slow, as if to a child who won’t listen Others attend, checking, worried, concern covering every word Others drive, after buckling him in, as if care equals containment Others show photographs he can hardly see, believing his life is memory Others forget, as if stopping for a moment is the same as regret What the Skeleton Resents Being an object lesson, labels pointing to all its parts, gathering dust in doctor offices and school rooms, or hanging from a limb on Halloween nights, standing sentry at tombs of the unknown being dependent upon the hinges, the connecting links, how together the parts would move, each twist calling for another part’s turn, each reach carrying the weight below, without asking for consent being bound to protect the heart, the brain knowing how they could suffer a blow, a crack, to keep all safe, how all the other parts get the body’s credit while its marrow does the labor of replenishing cells and healing the sick being placed in plaster when broken, made to suffer written rubbish above its wound, or dropped in the ground, dirt thrown in its face or burned into bits and pieces knowing that once it was more than itself being structures that let lives live, being abandoned, left like fallen bricks. Matthew Johnson is a sports journalist in central New York. He has written for The Carolinian, Fansided and the USA Today College. He has had poetry featured in The Carolinian, The Coraddi, Obsidian Magazine, The News Verse News, the Yellow Chair Review, Jerry Jazz Musician, Sick Lit Magazine and Ink in Thirds. He has poetry forthcoming in the Roanoke Review. You can find him on Twitter at https://twitter.com/Matt_Johnson_D There Was a Snake in My Garden Snakes in the early dawn never intend for good, But maybe the dewing wet in the seep of this garden Have cast your willowy shadow on this lawn To cool the bates in your slithering, looping mood. Snakes in the early dawn, when the sun is coolest, Is a boneless outcast passing round and round Until the birds of the air descend on my backyard, Who squawk for losing another meal, or provide him Nature. Winter in Love I love you in Winter, and in all seasons. I love you in your black, now silver, snow-scraping coat That now shines like a crystalline gown, As the silver, free-wheeling laughs you shout Are only heard by me, the sleeping city and hushed clouds. I love you in Winter till you are toasty. I love you like only love can be loved When we can only be this human, And can only be this young. The smoky wisp of neighboring chimneys And the breath of the moon Only brighten the twinkle In your snowflake, tickled eyes. I love you in Winter, and in all seasons. I love how you leap in bushes of snow As we roam in the flurries dumped by the sky That give reason for your red scarf, And another for why we hold another so tight. Night Watching the Universe Gift me everything about you On this roof-top. Let me know if you think God is up to something. Tell me your familiar things, Tell me your scary things That would make this world Seem like small space, Or death. Or would you like To roam the cosmos Finding stars before the City Light countdown, Or until the universe drops itself? Your Stories Bring me your stories, and I will be your keeper of tales. From your towers damselled in distressed, Let me scribble not theirs, but your escaped lores and fables. Away from everywhere, in the midst of this empty, plastic domain, Paint me your passionate parables impressed on your purpose, For I will stain and dye your untamed spectacles on chronicled lines. Share with me those long walks in autumn, Where the golden trees hang like mythic shadows. Or perhaps where you dropped those last pieces of leaves In those metropolitan cities, where language is wordless. Allow me to capture the welling tears of an unblinking martyr. Tell me His Kingdom, as in Heaven has come. Tell me that God is dead and done. Let me linger in your abandoned howls from midsummer, from beginning to October end, As this weary patience dangles on the fringe of explosions, without escape! For I will seek what you abandoned to hide, And bring your double identity to light. For in all the crumblings of the tellings and findings of what you thought you knew, I will scratch your adventures of living proof for a world and heaven complete, But all I ask, is that you please continue… Kerenza Ryan is a student at Cairn University studying English. Her work has also been published in The Curator, Peeking Cat Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, and other literary journals. She can be found writing about writing on twitter @KerenzaRyan, or working her way through college in Bristol, PA. Alcohol Sometimes, My roommate's live-in roommate Tries to replace me in my very own home Sometimes, He sneaks right by And leaves a dirty sock Takes a corner of her closet Goes by a new name: Controlled Other times, I wake up on the street My clothes in a soggy pile around me And the locks changed. Either way, I lose my home Reckless He runs around the half court In green gripped socks Sweat soaking his new favorite shirt (hospital gown blue) Laughter fills his basketball And the rest of us lunge around the room Rather than let the time bomb fall And deflate Drawing from experience playing in dirty punk bands around Sydney, living in a European homeless shelter, squatting in derelict office buildings across London, adventures into the Himalayan mountains and the Sahara Desert, and ongoing escapades; N.Blood is arranging and rearranging words for your pleasure. N.Blood is Poet, Flash Fictionist, Neo-journalist and a twisted form of modern essayist. https://www.facebook.com/NBloodWriting Forever Combustible Bathed in rays so bright They burn your dark lip-rings and your hair Melts into malted tatters At the feet of the quay ferries that used to pass Denison now blind and butchered So incoherently used up that the world Cannot comprehend And your homeless Ambiguity makes all beasts randy And your ears as hoped up As warp-speed starships Leak attitude And the place you occupy can't stand your vile Irritation But someone loves you, like a flu that will not quit Like an eye watering sting As flies engulf your face Filth and cow shit happy Your endlessness stinks of rotten seventies goth Before goth was rancid And forgotten As everything will be forgotten Over and over again And again and again... Life of Codes Secret codes bathed Deep within the words Hints at humanity Cryptic dots and strikes lace Lines of interpretation Suffocating fragmented misunderstanding Toward dawn and all That is therefore awakened A letter to an old friend To begin- My mother said That- Your mother said That you had a rough night in Spain... I would like to express a deep consternation For the safe keepings of your soul and that of your wellbeing. You can never be ~TOO~ careful In reckless diligence Whilst gallivanting Keep your eyes peeled As if they are ripened oranges, For there ARE ------------FUCKING VULTURES------------ everywhere... Fucking Carnivorous flying beasts poised to strip you of rotting flesh, with phantom bones and tusks and razor whiskers of daylight horrors Protruding from silent beauty Lust, Lush With breast of the most incredible copulations Seething to counterbalance wretched Monetary systems Structured so vastly So indestructible With pure goals Of strict wealth displacement, Prisoning them in holding patterns. Action Welcome Chaplin and Chan And Godzilla or king Kong, -Not only with distrust But circumferenced (by)or circumferencing all that may Swoop or dive, (remember even Leroy Brown had a soft side) And you too may learn to fly. Home will always represent Warm safe things Even on the coldest nights But the lacerations From hacking fingers violently from feeble hands Will never hold Such viral Infectious Joy as risk Taken so mindlessly light-hearted as they do whilst drowning. Hongri Yuan, born in China in 1962, is a poet and philosopher interested particularly in creation. Representative works include Platinum City, Gold City, Golden Paradise , Gold Sun and Golden Giant. The Interstellar Kingdom Sometimes I saw the sky smiling at me The clear empty and clouds of flowers like my old soul watch my figure in the world The earth beneath my feet is a colossal ship towards to the Interstellar Kingdom The cities where giants live in blossom on the Milky Way without dusts The Huge Paradise The giants of soul flashing have a pair of invisible wings Can fly over the Milky Way in a dream to those mysterious Kingdoms Bring the words of the gods Let the stonebe transparent and smile Let heaven and earth revolve wonderfully become a huge paradise The Giant's Song Give me a mirror of heaven let me see my tomorrow Give me a pair of eyes of the gods let me see the prehistoric city of giants Oh , the golden country of legend The angel garden above the clouds Your soul bird returns from the outer space Has carried the giant's song for you The City of Angel's Smile The silvery and white words of the kingdom of the moon flashlight in the dream last night The king of giants in the huge cities of prehistoric times presented me the gem book of the soul I will build a garden in the desert fill the jade bottle with sweet spring from the kingdom of heaven Let the rivers and lakes shining a city of the angel's smile Mark J. Mitchell studied writing at UC Santa Cruz under Raymond Carver, George Hitchcock and Barbara Hull. His work has appeared in various periodicals over the last thirty five years, as well as anthologies including Good Poems, American Places. It has also been nominated for Pushcart Prizes and The Best of the Net. He has three chapbooks in print: Lent 1999, (Leaf Garden), Three Visitors (Negative Capability Press) and Artifacts and Relics (Folded Word) and a novel, Knight Prisoner,(Vagabondage Press). Another novel, The Magic War is available from Loose Leaves Publishing. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the documentarian Joan Juster. TIME TO PLANT TEARS He died for a long time—and then again. His tricks were slick—underhanded, but kind as cats. Making his breath slower than her eyes, he’d slip away, recarve his headstone and laugh under dirt—then cough. She’d never find his living corpse but she didn’t try. She’d feel alone—briefly—then cook or watch TV or shuffle Tarot cards. Her days would grind along. He came back—faithful as a tree-- and she served dinner knowing he’d clear their clean dishes. It’s the game of their years-- or his. She played with her cards not his fears and she was sure it would happen again-- She’d forgive—again—then uncover mirrors. OUTSIDE EDEN This moon makes things cold. The air’s brittle as dry twigs and leaves crack like snail shells. Adam had a name for these days. Adam had a name for everything. The fire’s burned low and glows red. The boys and their wives are quiet-- the girls, moist, and boys are soft. I feed sticks to coals and think of my first boys. The round one-- He laughed like lightning and got quickly mad. He always smelled like dirt. His skin was cool, soft at his middle but his hands were hard-- clumsy as rocks. That other-- I never warmed to him. He chased animals—sure that boys should do that. He made Adam smile—Adam had a nice smile, but I never liked that boy. So I rock on my heels under a cold moon. I feed sticks to a fire and I wonder if my little, round Cain will ever again visit his mother. A SORT OF A SONNET The mirror shows no mercy reflecting this stranger. The mirror is a cold construction built of silver, built of glass. Where could the mirror hide mercy for her forgotten and imagined flaws? The mirror will show no mercy. Her eyes look cold at reflected eyes And they show no mercy. Beaten she leaves the room seeking the heart of mercy. I turn on the cruel mirror, I say-- That is my beautiful Love and she does not need your mercy. CONTRAPASSO The janitors in hell always miss just one spot on the Inferno’s hot doors. That is the punishment for a perfectionist. AHIMSA I cup my right hand over my ear to capture a lost mosquito. How did it get trapped in this warm and throbbing cave? Can it ever leave? Blindly, it bites me. My hand opens like white blinds. It leaves, bearing blood. Wayne F. Burke's poetry has appeared in a variety of publications (including Scarlet Leaf Review). His three published poetry collections, all from Bareback Press, are WORDS THAT BURN, DICKHEAD, and KNUCKLE SANDWICHES. His chapbook PADDY WAGON is published by Epic Rites Press. He lives in Vermont. Quebec The Schwartz brothers owned the Sporting Goods store where Grandma did business even though they were Jews and Jews were no good because Grandma said they were not modest (were not allowed on the beach in Quebec where she lived as a girl there was a sign NO JEWS) but the Schwartzie's sold good stuff plus they liked Grandma because she paid all her bills on time, sent them out as soon as they arrived; one of the brothers was dour as an undertaker unsmiling with a blue closely shaven face the other, bald one, made wise cracks out the side of his mouth the side his cigar was not plugged into; I liked the wise guy best and did not care if he was Jew or what I liked the smell of the leather of the ball gloves and the rubber of the bicycle tires and the fumes of the stogie too. Feed on nights she forgets to feed me I go into her bedroom and slap her face until she awakes some nights even after she wakes she rolls over and goes back to sleep on those nights I head-butt her until she gets up, the dirty slut. Some nights, though awake she falls asleep again at the table in which case I rub my parts against her and give her little licks and if that does not do the trick I bite the bitch which usually works gets her moving to put food on a plate and the plate on the floor where I can reach it, and then the lovely girl returns to bed where I will join her later. The Brown Chair my ass sinks to the floor in this chair I have sat in for years, slept in for weeks, a horrible brown and stained chair worth $10 dollars at a lawn sale maybe less but priceless to me I miss it whenever I am long gone, too busy to sit; I have gone to Africa in this chair have fought the 2nd World War over again in this chair tried to have sex with a girl in this chair; I wonder if I will die in this chair, should probably get up and out of this chair, go and sit somewhere else or stand maybe walk around go somewhere I cannot get to by chair, wherever that is. Piels my beer was Piel's Real Big-Mouth Draft the bottles shaped like hand grenades the opening a half-dollar sized hole like a little pond I could take a dip in to cool off or swim across or float on my back but it always seemed that by the end of the night I was face down. Lights We got stopped by cops in a show of blue light and a cop told my cousin “step out of the car” and made him walk a straight line touch his toes then his nose and my cousin, as shit-faced as he was, somehow passed the tests and we drove off to the club where we picked-up two girls and then drove up to the mountain top with them and parked; the wind howled around the car non-stop the lights of the town dully glowed in the valley below; my cousin and his girl went for a walk. My girl had bow-legs and a pigtail; she unzipped my pants then pulled hers off then straddled me as I lay back, then she sat and guided me inside of her and moved up and down and lifted off just as I shot and the wind wailed and the car rocked and down below the lights winked on & off. |
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