​Death is a bitch and a whore
comes with hat on or off,
Jewish, Christian or lover years ago called Nancy.
Death is a passport, a left behind baggage note.
My leverage sinks, I see you pass human.
These my fears, your fright, being broke, old-royalties stole Suzanne.
Now branches, extended limbs, point outward nowhere-
doors Montreal collapse tomb, dance with me,
end perfume love, a few dead flowers.

​The angels of wings are always in flight
be the devil or archangel Michael.
I'm a hawk, I'm a night owl night
barroom flights, fighter,
seeing eyes that eye me contact,
not blind, a rhythm of sensuality.
I take my shower, deep breath,
scrub good off my skin, breathe
in the single night, air alone.
These shadows highway unknown
Jesus crosses my night path
Jesus crosses my sky early morn
with a paintbrush, a rainbow
and a promise when
I wake a new dream begins.
Single life is a barroom bitch.

​Lorie, you want to see me clearly
through this joy of my naked body
avoiding the sweat of my emotions,
just breathing on my neck
rubbing this baseline of my groin-
will not find us here again.
Go away, leave me thinking
louder than your breath-
body moves quietly
in a lazy sway of indifference.

​Classic 70's chick
scent of these times
gold digger want to be.
Poet & scholar stuck on
T.S. Eliot “The Waste Land.”
She tracks down a few stray men,
prospect hunks, & greenback dreams.
Her long legs stretched out
beneath this dinette table, these
high wooden heels hang out
@ Dusty, Dingy Bar & Grill.
She's drenched-Charlie by Revlon 1973,
high hopes 4 sugar daddies,
fragile body, insecure but lean.
She wears that hot apple, sex red, jumpsuit.
That yellow bandana hangs
around her neck lowered downtown
below her bosom with a grin.
Her head stuff, insulated with cotton candy dreams
cramped in a Chinese fortune cookie aphorism.
G-String strung up itching @ her buttocks
positioned in spot her world for a change.
In action verbs flow,
this dance, these melodies,
Walt Disney world,
her magic pen, her ink that flows.

Saskatchewan
sky,
just a preview of love,
chip off
an edge of
prairie
chip an edge off
winter-
and opening
multiple eyes
toward spring.
They-lovers, find themselves
near evening bush fire-
great seal fish and open lake,
cuddle together-
so wonderful there-
where she comes from,
where did she go to
from here.
 

​

​
What does it matter what reality is outside myself – Baudelaire

You want to live your other life in a room
with blue bottles, where the light outside
is understood, where words filter through the blueness
and cover you with a new kind of need.

​Fuck nostalgia and its bony fingers
stroking my wrist like a lover.

I once pined
about a time

when everything I owned

fit in my car.
Now our days move

like invisible freight trains.
I count them and then

recount them.
I've stopped writing poems again.

There's war. but that's not the reason.
Debt - should I die today
they'll bury me in it.
Perhaps health and love so casually mulched,
or the dexterity of greater wit.
No.
Sometimes I can understand
the sad fabric that floats
like chaotic lace.

Other times I know one word
is too much.

​The streets sing mud songs.
We listen.
 
Stephen saw it. Nicholas too.
A headless man walks
out from the river.
 
We march in innocent
rag armor to ships
that wait where the sea
fails to part.

They wave
from one shore,
then the other.

Our destination
is always holy.
 

​On land the winds do blow—for now they breathe
The dust does sting. It leaves a coat of sand
She loved the Earth gone now—dirt tastes like beets 
The dark of night makes haste, she waits for you
 
The frost of night indents the soul—tonight
She waits for you, in black the pale decide
As fate requires—the tears embrace the sky
Suspend that time in space, a cry for help
 
A sound is heard amongst the stars—behold
The bat between the clouds reveals to you
A reply arrives too late, regret and fate
Declare the end—in time she waits for you

​Jack Burney
your Beautiful Dreams hide
in a stream of black smoke
trailing the Chicagoland Express
 
on the outbound train riding through
the great wheat plain
 
We Listen
to Beautiful Thinkers who quietly
Tinker on the creaky train
(drinking grain alchyhol
at 3 a.m.)
 
 
We are Gautama
-Buddha
Meditating like Neruda
 
I
Kiss those hands Your prose stained hands
We breastfeed and suckle
 
I
On Tecate
You on Quetzalcoatl
 
O
 
The old man screaks
while
Curtis, my brother
Pulls the curtain clouds Apart to sneek a Peek
 
 
He Hears:
 
“Which way to San Francisca?”
The pushcart peddler bares a toothless smile
from his whole hearted soul
says
 “Li Po needs a ride”
while
Up from Mexicoland Mother Earth transforms herself
Scrub brush
Dances
 
Motherless mirages blanket the horizon
Cacti stand
-sentinels manned
The barrage of dust coats
My lungs
 
I Point up to say
 “Heaven
lies in the ground you seek”
 
Jack Burney
On the night express Enroute to Midamerica, U.S.
-Train trail rider
Your journey ends as the crossroads
portend
 
 
 

​On a Kansas prairie, the winds exhaled 
gales of dust that settled
land like thick fog. Ethel rode
her Phantom Rider load beyond the wind’s
almighty grip, she honked her horn past the locust-
plagued corn that destroyed a midwest farmer.
 
The prairie wind stung her face. Covered in dust,
a barn the color of night hung on
the horizon. Ethel’s legs grew weary
with the few turns of the spokes.
The wind blew. A weathered old farmer
in blanched, patched dungarees hollered on cue,
 
hello
 
His voice rang in her ear. The wind breathed.
She stopped, eased a sweaty hand to greet
the old fella’. Devils of dust were born,
slowly, Ethel’s level voice  sliced the wind.
The dust coated word resonated
with the frustrated, broken granger,
 
hello
 
He blotted his forehead with
a checkered bandana . A clotted line
of tobacco juice dribbled down his chin.
As long as the prairie wind let loose
they remained content to remain
apart. When it stopped, Ethel went away.
 
She hollered,
goodbye
 
 
 

mirrors unavoided
for mother returns therein
she lingers faint in my scent
mother kept violets
with petals like my thin skinned hands
how we loved to watch the sky
​

​Perhaps, you see
what you want to see, who knows?
Around me there is beauty, gathered,
culled, sorted, bought, given;
enclaves of beauty.
 
Sitting in an earth-colored room subdued
in shades of gold and rooted in brown;
my pulse subtly throbs in a
raised blue-purple vein,
waiting, wanting         not.
 
At times, when the sun’s bold,
I walk in the green,     full,
absorbing the jade of moss,
the yellow-green of a frog’s skin,
the emerald of a spruce.
 
Chin-tilted, bathing in cornflower-blue sky,
my eyes englobed in white search for
the cumulus effect of yesterday’s brisk-
winded, absent, warriors.
 
A gray-gravel path provides
a stumbling lure for my rock-hunter soul.
How its crumbled mica flecks, salt and
pepper stark, call me back to younger days.
Ground, down, as the granite, walk
to a finer state than youth.
 
The comings and goings slow,
the bursts—the peaks—level,
red blood-rushed angst dissolves
in being, no more wishing,
just me.
 
 

​tentative          we touch—gentleness a brushed lingering
rising waves  of repetition unfold  aching   with intensity
crisp as wetted  bell-glass   engorged             we listen
 
heartache drowns, satiated with longing   life races forward
toward the thin petals of skin—to quicken lust—to fan orgasm
on-point emotions pirouette   death spirals in languorous flames
 
trailing across  tympanic membranes  feathered vibrations--
string—sliding-up and down scales   invoking cacao kisses
darkness’s G-sharp allure    ivory keys tone chained reminders
 

​Deadheading the golden pansies—spring’s leavings in summer’s heat roil.
Gray days of dew-plump strawberries—Robins in flagrante delicto dine.
Sea breezes draw me hither to sand—other cheeks are exposed.  

​A late afternoon sky bruises the horizon, concealing
what might have been and soon would be, a maleficent
sun—hiding in shades of cerulean.
 
Rain falls fitfully, unsure, above a glassy ocean—befuddled
by the lack of constancy, scolding burgeoning clouds up
on the breeze, shooing them toward landfall, as Sol
 
bursts free posing rainbows on the horizon. The vault of
heaven rises majestic, multi-hued as crisp spring air dances
waywardly—a blatant tease. Lightening blues, the blackness,
the golden hour begins.
 

​Sitting upon the piano bench
on a padded chair, attempting an astral
high-jacking of the Lord’s
Amen
Hallelujah,
the conductor signals.
 
The choir’s clappers
belt out high C’s.
 
Mouthed platitudes rise from a pasty face
his bald pate shines. A Soft smile cajoles.
 
How many packs of pickled Peter’s
had he ploughed with parsimonious
platitudes?
 
Voices rise to orchestrations call.
Patched colored chords rise and fall
like maple leaves drawn out by painful
promises of future solos.
 
Across the ivory keys, past the teeth,
over the tongue, and behind the ass of
weekly worship,
spinster sisters
hum.
 
 

Carol Lynne Knight is the co-director of Anhinga Press, where she edits and designs books. She has worked on more than 100 literary publications, including books by Naomi Shihab Nye, Diane Wakoski, and the late Robert Dana and Judith Kitchen.  Her book of poems, Quantum Entanglement (Apalachee Press) was released in 2010. Her poetry has appeared in Louisiana Literature,  Tar River Review, Poetry Motel, Earth’s Daughters, The Ledge, Slipstream, Broome Review, Comstock Review, Epicenter, Redactions, Iconoclast, Epicenter, HazMat, So to Speak , and Another Chicago Magazine, and in the anthologies Off the Cuffs, Touched by Eros, The Poets Guide to the Birds, Beloved on the Earth,  and North of Wakulla.

​Taxi from the airport, past
the neon facades, past
the country club green
and posed palms, past
the motels with murky pools
and sagging lounge chairs,
the painted sand and sage.

Keep driving

till the desert
almost swallows the road.
Turn left when there
is no where else to turn.
Drive to the end of the cul de sac
with the bent palm tree,
its brown fronds weeping
into a sepia yard of gravel.

Enter the blue house with the open door.
A candle will be burning
in the foyer. Distorted mirrors
will line the hall that leads
to a sunken living room --
where all could be revealed:
the past with its painted backdrop,
the future codified and scrapbooked.

Don’t go there.

Face left and climb
the spiral staircase to the loft.
In this false twilight --
for I have shut the sun
with old blankets hung
over the windows --
I will be waiting supine
on a bed balanced
on concrete blocks.
The AC will rattle like
early morning sanitation trucks.
​Ignore the clamor.

Open the small box on the nightstand.
Lift out the secret that will return
our skin to its slick and sweat,
create an oasis for desire.

There will be nothing there but me,
no distractions except the hotel television --
lioness’ tongue grooming her mate
as I gaze across the sheets.
 
Meet me in Cordele.
The interstate will whine in the parking lot,
humming thru our first few minutes
of awkward conversation --
happy-hour traffic on Friday night
in Tifton slowed to a stutter,
I-75 a crazed blur of longing,
of rain and condensation --
like our skin now: slick, bright,
bluish with TV flicker.
 
Meet me in Cordele.
The Chinese restaurant is mediocre,
but good for hunger, and foreplay --
eyes lingering over lo mein,
hands like shadow puppets playing
on the red dragon in the window.
The fortune cookie says you will find success --
And you will, I imply.
 
Meet me in Cordele,
meet me when you hunger,
when the lions mate.
Meet me halfway.

I’ll be waiting in the bar
on the 22nd floor --
the one that slowly rotates
atop our convention hotel.
Find me on the white couch facing west.

And when we are deep into our boozy preamble,
the one that precedes a brief liaison,
that sculpts a Rodin kiss from our implied desires,
I look up, find we are in a different place
from the lunar backdrop
of your artful opening line.

Meet me in Atlanta while the full moon
slowly turns away and the skyline,
lit with a Mondrian of office windows,
hovers over the street below,
a boogie-woogie of people in motion.

Soon, a new city emerges below us,
a wild Rousseau forest quilts the park
with neon leaves — forgotten when
we enter the glass elevator and plummet
to the 8th floor — dizzy from whiskey
and the vertigo of falling too fast.

Meet me in Atlanta.
There is chocolate on the pillow,
taut hotel sheets difficult to loosen,
and our clothes falling to the floor,
as if we know each other --
meet me before the moon fades

and I remember only
the slow tableau of landscape unfurling,
the plummeting elevator --
not your shoulder, its anonymous
outline against the thin white wall,
or in the morning, the susurrus of
your shower while I grope for my robe
in the room’s mauvish light.

Later, from my balcony, I glimpse
your Hawaiian shirt drifting
thru the staid palette
of navy suits at ground level,
know that you also will forget
this fleeting brush with moonlight.
 
 

​The pristine snow-covered soccer field outside my window:
A blank canvas.
Shadows of smoke from a nearby chimney
Begin to drift in ever-shifting patterns
Up and over and away, up and over and away,
Purple-blue swirls from an unseen brush.
A gaggle of geese gracefully descends;
Webbed feet hatch the field with white-on-white.
Their huddled forms dot a far corner
With pleasingly asymmetrical daubs of black, tan, and gray.
The composition,
Beautifully sparse
Yet paradoxically full,
Is complete.
 

​From the stark white marble block
his rough sculptor’s hands freed me,
shaped me into a flawless form
to love, to pamper, to worship:
an ideal,
free of all the “vices” and “flaws” of my sex,
which he despised.
He put me on a pedestal.
Literally.
 
And for his passion and his silent prayers
(and unmitigated misogyny),
the Goddess of Love made me flesh
and gave me
to him.
 
And now that I am alive
and his,
I am filled with fear.
What if his critical eye
finds some overlooked flaw?
What if time steals too much
of the beauty that would have been eternally preserved
by cold marble?
What if, now that I am truly alive,
a woman of flesh and blood and mind,
what I say or do displeases?
What if, in his eyes,
like all the rest of my sex,
I am found wanting?
What then?
 
I often wish some other goddess,
one not made of sea-foam and blood and semen,
one who valued respect or kindness or equality
instead of erotic obsession
had heard his prayers.
What reward would he have received from her hand?
And what would she have made of me?
Would I have been free to leave,
my own woman instead of his,
to teach him the price
of possessiveness and unreasonable, uncharitable expectations?
Or would I have been allowed to continue to sleep
and dream cold, hard dreams
in unyielding marble flesh?
 
O Goddesses, grant my prayers!
If I must be an object, let me be as I was:
unfeeling, unthinking.
If enslavement rather than freedom be my lot,
free me at least from knowledge of it.
 
 
 

​An itch neurotic on my nape
nags for what it needs. Nails
uncut, my fingers oblige, pawns
of the mind that yields. In the cold
shower, the strong soap stings
the claw-marks down my skin.
But it’s superficial. I’ll be fine
in an hour or two. Won’t deny me
sleep. Another epidermal irritation,
and I’d do it again. I look forward
to your warmth tonight. Won’t ask
where you’ve been. You know
that I take tenderness in lieu
of truth. Sometimes. Some nights.
When the body, not knowledge,
draws out my docile claws.
 

​Perhaps a keener sense would have done me good:

To have heard, bat-like, the reluctant creaks as mousy squeaks,
and discerned the protracted countdown of the staccato ticks,
and thus avoided the hand that alternatingly turned the key
and pushed the lock (habitually till finally).


If I only knew that this hinged piece of wood sufficed 
to mechanize, magnify, and measure
all departures and temporary tenures,
then I…

It need not be having malevolent hands
clasped around your neck,
or being within the confines of a barrel: 

Dawn, and I witness
dew on leaf gasp,
tremble, upon formation.

Now, the winding river
slackens its current and moans,
pleads, to overcast sky
for more clearings, more hues of blue,
to breathe, to sigh... ​

​This ain't no freeze dance.
Neither musical statues/
statue dance.
 
There's only music
and statues: no dance.
 
And they remain frozen,
whether the music plays
or dies.
 
 

​I hate crying for any reason
But when I think about you
And miss nobody but you
I fall in love with my tears
Because every drop owns
A scent of times we shared
I adore talking to your shade
That I could create it nearby
Your tomb that ends our love
Tonight, I will pull the trigger
To fold our romantic story for
No reason and burn the pictures
This life can’t bring you back
A lover like me suffer till death
And jokers will still ignore me
My poetry is not readable cause
My wounds are growing up and
I’m the young and drunk sailor
Sailing over my blood and tears
Witnesses see me and never give
Me a napkin to feel the blessings
I will finish drinking my aches and
Get myself drunk with a bit of pain
Maybe, I shall smoke a cigar to die
Like a homeless on the dirty street
Nor like my poor grandpa who died
In his house alone by the dusty bed.
O God why I’m suffering with a broken
Heart that beats like a weeping clown
Let today be a greatest day to breathe
Life and forgive all haters and forgive
The cause why do I feel powerless with
Or without someone to trust my keys with.

It's cold outside and I'm
On my own with cold hands
By the car lights and terrific
Yet, you are still in my mind
Nobody wants to hear me
People are busy with their own
Daily routine and bit of problems
And I'm weeping for missing you
The winds blow lots of leaves
And the autumn clouds drop rain
With lovers dance under the moonlight
While I'm singing to all the stars
The street gets less busy and
Kids' sleep on grandparents, old tales
Meanwhile, I'm drawing of your perfume
And smiling from your smiles in pictures
I prepare myself a warm cup of tea
With a few cigarettes left in the pack
I smoke and write about the days we loved
I warm my lips to recall your words
One thing keeps me stronger is that
You are in paradise and it feels good too
See you beautiful without makeup nor
Tears from all the years I waited to kiss you
 

​I live a life surrounding lines
The purest air is now toxoid
My choices are quite down
I had to breath of the sinner
Since then I am always wrong
Visible mouths smoke cigars
Bring tears and dark bubbles
Cause I recall my father smoked
His suicide from the same pack
Of lung cancer that I shared with
Can't get enough spring below the
Lost garden and the blood of flowers
The woman who caused the moon
It's the first hostage and last destiny
In the road to the emergency room
Oprah drinks of the sweet water and
Dies and nobody stays by his dreams
The guns of Baghdad have chosen me
As the body deserves the death penalty
I wonder who moved my beats of my heart
 

​I have one kiss to my religious prophet
Who offer me a religion in forgiveness
And peace with myself and to others
I am who I am I love you for the way
You are and not the way others judge
You for the freedom of speech they own
I have one kiss to the running tears
For making some of my dreams true
For offering me a beautiful woman
Who taught me a lot about myself
Who showed me the realistic me
And stopped me from digging a hole
I have one kiss to my lifetime queen
For making the rain into a symbol for
Bliss and blessings and not a day worth
My death and creating above my mind
A little daughter running 'tween the borders
Of Guatemala and Iraq happy forever
I have one kiss to the writer about love
For making him into a sweet and pure
Tree with green branches and loving
Fruits to taste and making alcohol to
Drink all the leaves to get drunk later
And wake up with a bigger sunny smile
I have one kiss to the sea of no regrets
And mini kisses to the grain of salt in it
Who help the refugees to sail safer and
alive to a greater land to their little kids
And adults as well, and leave their worth
To start a life facing the face of racism
I have one kiss to the church and temple
For letting me praying to my God without
Holding weapons behind my head with a
Question if I am Christian, Jew or Muslim
And accepting me the way I am myself and
Didn't ask me questions to change my believe
 

Keith Burkholder has been published in Creative Juices, Sol Magazine, Trellis Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Journal, New Delta Review, Poetry Quarterly, and Scarlet Leaf Review.
He has a bachelor's degree in statistics with a minor in mathematics from SUNY at Buffalo (UB).

​She has this illness,
It affects her greatly,
Through relationships and holding a job,
Mental illness is real,
It took her a while to understand this,
Her life is different now,
She spends most of her time alone,
Most people don't understand her,
People are hard to figure out,
She will continue on with her life,
She is unemployed,
She writes a lot and goes with the flow,
Disability is what she has as an income,
Illnesses affect people differently,
This is the case for this woman,
Time will continue,
Her life will continue forward, too,
This is bipolar,
This is her illness,
There is nothing more to add,
I wish her well and hope for a better tomorrow as well.

​Think about this question for a moment,
Would the military be needed if God really cared about us?
For that matter, does God even exist?
Look at all of the tragedies in the world,
You see it in the news a lot,
Or even personal experiences,
The military is needed for extreme cases,
Yet, I never see God or Jesus swoop from the sky to help out,
Not even an iota,
People still believe in this stuff,
Yet, wars happen and all kinds of mass destruction,
To me, creationism is chock full of stories,
None of it is true,
Let's face it, we will always need a military,
For human problems and the weather disasters,
Yet, God keeps being spread to us,
Again, believe in what you want,
This is all you can do,
Humans love problems,
You can't change humans,
Look at the schools and what comes out of there,
This is just how it is,
The bullying is rampant in schools,
Yet, no real changes,
We as humans need to be better,
By spreading goodness,
Creationism is brainwashing to many extremes,
No realities,
Take care for now and just go down a path you feel is great and carry on.

​Think about this title for a moment,
Imagine if life did really look upon us,
Imagine how greater the world would be,
No crime or poverty,
No wars or destruction,
Natural disasters being taken care,
Maybe, just maybe world peace,
It is great to fantasize,
But realistically, this will never happen,
People are brainwashed into believing in fantasies,
We live in a world of rules and regulations,
This is how it is and will always be,
People, in general, are warlike, barbaric, devious and ignorant,
This is really how it is,
Believe in what you want,
It is a free world for the most part,
Yet, these bad things will continue,
Take care and spread goodness,
Try to be nice, I emphasize, the trying part,
Carpe diem.

​Think about how people behave,
Especially parents,
You are forced into things,
Schooling,
Religion,
Dealing with relatives,
Even making friends at a limited level in school,
I hated high school,
It made no sense to me whatsoever,
Think about college for a moment,
People that wouldn't give you the time of day,
Suddenly want to be friends if you see them in college,
This depends where you go,
I could never have kids,
The world is not a warm place to many,
Yet, if you go on Facebook, everyone has a great life,
It is life a fantasy on there,
I find it like me having a one night stand with Snow White,
Think all you want to about this,
There are no right answers,
Be yourself,
Be good,
Being good is a lot better than religion,
Take care,
And as I have said before, carpe diem.

Srividya Prasad is an ambitious girl, aged 15 years, studying in 10th grade in Sri Vani Public School, Bangalore, India. She is a great lover of books ranging from fiction novels to science and technology.
She has penned around 43 poems. Writing comes naturally to her as she set her foot in the world of literature. Some of her short stories and poems were published in some newspapers like The Hindu, Bangalore City Plus, Kannada Prabha and periodicals.

​I don’t understand whether it’s the tears of the sky
or the shower of gifts from the heavens up high.
Either way, I am in love with the rain,
since it helps so many creatures who are thirsty or in pain.
 
I agree that it stops the fall of sunshine onto the ground,
but doesn’t it light up people’s lives and keep them sound.
The rains are so diligent for they travel high and low.
They condense to form fog and freeze to form snow.
 
Rains fill up vast oceans with pure water
so much that no scientist could measure with a meter.
Well then, do tell me a reason why some people complain,
when such a wonderful art of nature falls down as rain.

​Anger boils in the heart
and kills your kindness like a dart.
It brews and blends and kicks the walls.
It controls you as if you were a doll.
It hypnotises your mouth and your mind
into calling others deaf or blind.
It makes you think you’re doing the right thing
in spite of all the sadness you bring.
In fact, anger is not a big deal
unless you gobble it up as a mid-day meal.
You must learn to trap it in a can
and send it far away with the postman.
Then, you’ll find your life 10 times better
because you are now more caring than ever.
 

​The home I once owned
Is no longer mine
Now, who shall tend
To my lovely grape vine
 
I have no money,
No family, no home
Not enough friends
To take me to Rome
 
When I shiver
In the cold, starry night,
I smile at the sight
Of the warmth of the streetlight
 
I feel like
I am forever alone
While I lie on the road,
Hearing the dogs moan!

​I’m your mother,
I love you.
I give you needed things,
Like food, water and pure air, too.
 
But you turn it into evil,
And let it affect you.
So what should I do?
Should I help you?
 
I’ll just give you a hint.
You are destroying two.
Not just you,
But me, too.
 
I just need a decision,
For this question:
Should I let you,
Destroy yourself and myself, too?
 

​Music is a gift of nature,
Found in every corner of the universe.
From the gushing of a waterfall,
To the tiniest cricket chirps.
 
I find music in a baby's cry
And in the pan when I fry.
Even in the jingling of a wind chime
And the tick-tock of the clock when I check the time.
 
I find music in the rain pattering,
And in the Sunday church bells chiming.
I even find music in silence,
Where it ought not to be.