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“I THINK I’M IN RAT’S ALLEY WHERE THE DEAD MEN LOST THEIR BONES,” A SOLILOUY APPRORIATED FROM A DIALOGUE BEWEEN TWO LOVERS IN T.S. ELIOT
Sunlight segmented by slats slants to put gold braid On the rectangular still surface of gin as if the gin Were an Admiral. The bottle is bare-headed. Its cap Fell on on the open mouth of a hunting dog that designed the rug, Was staggered on by my steps and became flat. Flat, flat, flat. This occurred during the historical time when the best bark In the cinema was from Rin Tin Tin. I took the bush from my kit To brush the fluid on the door knob, and find out if there were Any fingerprints. There were none, not even mine, or my Persona‗s. When a school boy, I hated school and the teacher‘s
Pious attitude, but I loved to see-saw, to be lifted up, dropped down, Lifted up, dropped down, lifted up, dropped down. But To see-saw, another was required. Never see-sawed, Never see-sawed, never had my love fulfilled. No stranger Ever sat distant from me on a raw wood board. Anne never Sat in the distance and said, ―Stay with me. Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.‖ So I never had the opportunity To reply: ―I think we are in rats‘ alley where the dead men lost their bones.‖
FAR AWAY THE CLIPPED WINGED LAKELAND SWANS
It was a day when Pan had a smooth chin, had shaved off the Triangle of hair, his slave mentality, the fashionable beard and played the oboe. We sipped out of one glass the Vin Nobil Bought for a bargain at an Amsterdam wine store‘s basement sale. A battery radio gave us music from old Vienna, where we were At Pensione Louisa near Scheonburn three weeks ago. We had seen Only swans with clipped wings in public parks, now in the Dike roads Pearly waters with ivory intervals there were over a thousand wild white swans On the beige boulder with pale yellow scarves, a billion gulls. Lind, I remember the deliverance I felt when my palm
Touched the your hand downturned on shore sand. Even the cold gold of your wedding ring became warm.
LETTER TO LIND CALL, NO. 2
Lind , my stocks soared. I plan to buy A red convertible BMW, and drive down Those small, shelled roads by our Gulf beaches, And be admired by the rich hoi polloi. I will wear on my bald head, A wig to resemble the head of that non-artist Who had no artistic talent at all, and thus Being supremely inferior became a millionaire. Our art public is mainly composed of rich psychopaths, Who despise ordinary sex, of which they are incapable, But crave the scatological. The trendy art Is now of George and Gilbert. Even my two sons, Six and eight, from my fourth wife. Came into my study the other day Dressed in identical suits, had identical hair styles, Wear identical shoes, identical socks, Said they aspired to be like George and Gilbert.
Then they took off their clothes, walked out naked. But of course, you know The wig I wear will be copied from Andy Warhol‘s hair. I am going to buy some land on Sanibel‘s Captiva Island. Collect shells, and live where Robert Rausenberg lived. I never could understand why Rausenberg Was considered an artist all, but good taste Had vanished from the 20th century. Everyone Craves what is egregious and disgusting. We Really live in a time of degraded taste. I remember when I was a serious artist, praised by highbrow critics, Overlooked by the middlebrow audience, and Hated by the lowbrows. I lived in a decaying house In the Tampa slums, harassed by city inspectors, While Robert Rausenberg lived on Captiva Island And had string-rays, sea robins on his shore line. But then I invested in stocks, pornography and Faked art, became rich. The item I invested in That made the money, that sold as art, was Old Coca Cola bottles filled with human excrement And capped with a picture of a butcher knife rape. Lind, you will not get anywhere with your painting, For you are trying to paint the beautiful. I know you
Admired Renoir when he said, ―I paint the pretty.‖ Our current high, low, middle classes hate beauty, Unless trivialized and vulgarized. You are too intellectual ever to be understood By an audience educated in colleges by the current Ignorant, insensitive, slave-mentality Ph. D‘s. Give up your painting. Remember the girl, I cannot recall her name, but who was hailed A great performance artist, became rich. She stripped herself naked, rolled in chocolate.
Allen Bloom has written, Romantic love among the young generation Is as dead as Knight-Erranty. I have noticed when a contemporary poet Praises hyperbolically the other, the alterity, The praise is really not applied to the other, But is a metaphor for amour propre. Love is so rare today that people Even find it difficult to love their selves.
Semoticians have already in learned tomes declared That in the 21st century the word ―love‖ Is an empty concept, and only used For commodification in a commercial transaction. I remember reading in one of the Rare good poems of John Donne That love was divine, sacred, a circular form. Andrew Marvell knew much better That love was parallel lines. Donne turned lovers into geometric abstractions, Marvell into ―birds of prey.‖ The only thing that seems divine Among our young is rock music, The high priest who preaches in song Is a drag queen or someone posing To be so weird that he has gone Far beyond all classifications. Poets today seem to excel only in A neo-kitsch vocabulary, in neo-kitsch, The ugly has replaced the pretty, And the ugly is just as meaningless As the pretty was in late Victorianism, But now ugliness is au courant
Among the current slave mentalities. No poet, except some anachronism, An old man in dotage, uses a Romantic love vocabulary, sayings like John Keats That his love burns the brim of his hat, Or like, who in is life seemed incapable Of loving anyone except Shelley, When seeing his supposed beloved Would write, ―I fail, I fall on grass.‖ The depiction of current love for a while Was stabbing the lover with a butcher knife, But that was for our time A too timid and ordinary action, Soon went out of fashion. I remember when a young child, I saw a woman with a bruised face, Two teeth knocked out, One eye blinded. She was Beat up by a man who was frantic Because his favorite team, The Florida Gators has lost a game. She was the live-in lover of this man. I saw her pain, and asked her
―Why do you stay with him. Why don‘t you leave?‖ She replied, puzzled why I Would ask such a question, ―Because I love him.‖ As a child my first impression Of love was love meant That one liked to get beat up. But now as an adult, I am confused, I don‘t know What love is.
AT ALBERGO MILANO NEAR CERTOSE DI PIAVE
A quiver in the twilight azure, The blue a snowy egret flew though. The egret, amber feet stretched out from ebony legs, flown, gone, But the quivering in sky remains, silver spirals, Concave and convex, sway and shiver, gravity disobeyed, A back‘s bright feather detached by air current in flight Floated upwards, accelerating its pace, to go Higher and higher. We watched a white feather Repeal what human beings call natural law.
The feather touched the comets luminous thighs as it went by the light From a dead star that was traveling downward To illuminate mica- spotted bodies mineral bodies now seen after a mountain landslide. Erraticism is the correction, not the error. The old Metaphysics was overcome and untangled From our neurons, everything was physical, terrestrial, But not the physical and terrestrial as believed And spoke of by the people, But a physical and terrestrial that only a rare few knew existed. We had been reading together the Romantics, Now know what the west wind and a burial urn can do. We had been reading the postmoderns, know now Buddha has replaced Freud as the base of psychotherapy and abundant life. We had sat together on a faux leather sofa touched each other, Felt our toes breath. We found Wordswroth‘s Orange moon in our albergo room at noon. Stars were no longer fixed, as believed still at the time Of John Donne, and all the fixed beliefs of he 20th century disappeared,all Faiths to rationalize being dead while still alive vanished From the brains of a few who caressed rice with a press Of thumb and finger before letting rice float from hands Into ponds where wild deer no longer are afraid to drink. We pressed close together with Campari at a raw wood dark table by
The Certosa di Piave near Milano, gazed at the albino deer That appeared as if a medieval illumination Of a divine event that was sketched on the rice paper horizon.
Duane Locke lives in Tampa, Florida, has had 6,593 poems published in print magazines And e zines. Nation, American Poetry Review, Counter-Example Poetics, etc. His last four books 2009-10 are: Yang Chu‘s Poems 376pp, Crossing Chaos( Canada-Order: Amazon), Voices from Grave, 40pp., erbacce, England, Soliloquies from A High Wall Cemetery, Differentia Press, California; A Marble Nude Pauline Borghese With a Marble Apple in her Marble hand, 53pp.,Scars publications. He has been awarded the Edna St. Vincent Millay Poetry Prize, Charles Agnoff award, Poetry Society‘s Walt Whitman award, DeKalb award for best poem, and a Swiss award For best poem written on Europe. Also is a painter. His paintings, quasi 300, on sale at Lisa Stone Arts, 290 Parrulli Drive, Olmond Beach, FL, 3217--www.lisastonearts.com . A photographer, both nature and surphotography, many exhibitions, has done over 30 poetry book covers.
The Legitimacy of a Naked Manning Synonym search in the Merriam put out to pasture, a stolen NATO playbook, assumes a dictionary legible to all. No-fly in Tobruk responsibility to protect, assumes I voted a captive parent in the last My Weekly Reader poll. Dangerous toys in wrong hands, boys in bound hands, assumes I trust my toy chest to the warrant officer hiking nuclear football. Goddess Diana of the thousand-day epoch of Harvey Milk, leading our blessed prayer of Espionage Act assumes I have witnessed her halo afire in a leaked life hereafter Assange assignation assertion assume assume. I assume nothing.
Myriad miles of copper-zinc pipes springing WikiLeaks at each T-joint carry less legitimacy than Bradley‘s hands testing the slipknot, The five centuries of Westphalian honor, Nightmare, triumphalism, more transitory than the piss spattered on Manning‘s toes.
When Nuns Bring Beer Sister Barbara poured two perfect-head MGDs Just as the sun‘s neutrino vomit hit the upper atmosphere She wondered out loud about reeling in the contemplative sisters who dismiss the warmth of the barroom. What fishing lure can return them to the necessary breath? I reminded her that every Stylite needed to eat and shit Even if it took a diocese force-feeder ascending that column. The breath is here, the choice has been made. But then again, Catholics always proved better at works. A new crowbar might be required to pull a Calvinist ascetic from the bubblegum stuckness of prevenient grace. Not stuckness, Barbara smiled, stuck-in-againstness. We could feel the corona spillover while we watched the condensation rings warn us that the necessary breath is a closed circle. Accept the gift, accept the terror of each anonymous death without once averting your eyes. What if the astronomers were wrong, I thought as I got up to leave. Maybe that walk to the car, a seach for auroral lights would leave my bones pliant. She wondered if a squid was any easier to reel in, and reminded me of dozens of assassins, closer than the sun, that might lurk in those last two hundred steps. And besides, she said, you must finish your beer.
What if neither tactics nor strategies are intended to work? – Kent Ingram Wisdom attained from the error of infinite looping is merely Lesson One. Yes, the dessicated nerve endings of the phantom limb howl like gangrenous boneshard. And yes, many students flunk early. Just ask the wrong-angled pile of rag and bone who leapt from the steak-house roof in a dizzy stupor of self-imposed identity theft. He is not having fun. He will have to take an incomplete. But that was first semester’s lesson plan. We skip the obvious sociopath for now. Watch the peristaltic bile in the healthy specimen collect for each lover’s lie, each agile cheat, an acid meant as solvent for chronic pain. Now here comes the hard part, take it to the bridge. Installed the flange upside down. I love my wrong. Let my child hear the audible bile. I love my wrong. Conduit cut to the wrong diameter. I love my wrong. Defrauding the lover that mattered most. I love my wrong. Newbie first-formers chant “The things which hurt, instruct.” You laugh past hurt. Let the cartoon clown hammering his thumb be your silly satori. Every fuckup sparkles in prevenient grace.
Loring Wirbel lives in Monument, Colorado and agitates on any particular subject that holds his short attention span at the moment. When not hiking, ranting, or producing music, he tries to come up with devious schemes for people to actually offer him money for writing. When he remembers to do so, he posts to http://iconocurmudgeonclast.blogspot.com.
Gil Van Wagner
Mad as a Hatter Open a can of dog food and feed it to the cat. Dance in your pajamas and sleep in a top hat. Have breakfast for dinner and cereal for lunch.
Save while you still borrow and spend before you have. Smile while you panic and tell the world you‘re glad. Bizzaro is real easy, truth is fucking hard.
Cause They’re Not
They target the lovers. They target the joy. They target the mighty and pray for their fall. Cause they're not. Cause they're not Cause they're so very not.
They target the smiles, the hugs and the kiss. They target the happy. They target the bliss. They target the beauty, the righteous and true. They target the goodness, the shiny, the new.
Cause they‘re not. Cause they‘re not. Cause they‘re so very not. They target in anger, and hate, and have not. They target their wishes that did not come true. They target the future and try to undo.
They target the pretty, the happy, the haves. They target the giving, the sharing, the glad. They target the laughter, the joy, and success. They target the beauty, the smart, and the best. Cause they‘re not. Cause they‘re not.
Cause they‘re so very not.
They target and target and target some more. Painting their target right on your door. They target from darkness and shoot into light. They target from evil and aim at the right. They target from weakness but miss most their shots. They target the unknown. They fear quite a lot. They target and hope nothing will change. They target their failures hoping to blame. They now shoot in panic and pay any cost. They target while knowing their war has been lost.
They target the smiles, the hugs and the kiss. They target the happy. They target the bliss. They target the beauty, the righteous and true. They target the goodness, the shiny, the new. Cause they‘re not. Cause they‘re not. Cause they‘re so very not.
A laurel wreath, a hardy handshake, and a twenty-one gun salute.
Folded flag, broken hearts, shattered families, futures lost. Widows wonder, orphans cry, as even more are sent to die.
Honor the fallen, the wounded, and maimed. Question why with each thought of their name.
Parades end up in picnics. Soldiers end up in graves. War is a killing thing. Mute the hip-hip hooray.
Gil Van Wagner is a Writer......by way of a military career, years in corporate America, more years running his own business, and lots of adventures along the way. Now he writes...and writes...and writes. Books like "Jersey Sure" and "Dead Drunk" with several others in work. Poems, missives, massives, rants, raves, and much more. He lives his spirituality every day, gives away bodywork/energy sessions, and loves life.
Felino A. Soriano
I visualized the swan vanishing —the ornamental neck swathing continents of my oracular interest
sifted aerial aquatics ballet resuscitation burdening
the yet-built into guilt‘s promenade of parallel ambulation
—my disparate fragile cradle of calm unfastened as sand‘s sift and warming disposition and as my watching became evidential neurological heirlooms dissected writing my presupposed dimension of intention aggregated absence
Ballet of Milestone
Of arrival‘s anecdotical unexpected misery range and collocated attributes of sedentary permissions. To realize spectrum
whereabouts‘ incorporated leaving is vocal deterioration of invalid voice of species‘ circumvented mirrors. Completion caresses the fulfilled physicality of posited nuances. Range and reinstated memories hide and hold ability and arouse mentioning of emission‘s rotating licenses.
Discussion of the Skeletal Occurrences
Child of spoken distance sits constructing castle of alabaster sand.
Waves of turquoise wrists break and farewell brevity of composed articulation. Strands of seagulls round or pearled
bounce upon echoed certainties horizonal typographies resemble fogged reflectional systems tunneling and revel reciting and tearing broken moments of environmental nuances negating progress of the cultural hallucination of motionless survival. blue and blurred
Felino A. Soriano (b. 1974) is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities. In 2010, he was chosen for the Gertrude Stein "rose" prize for creativity in poetry from Wilderness House Literary Review. Philosophical studies collocated with his connection to various idioms of jazz explains motivation for poetic occurrences. For information, including his 44 print and electronic collections of poetry, over 2,700 published poems, interviews, and editorships, please visit his website: www.felinoasoriano.info.
during the daytime but fully open at night heartwarm heartbeat heartfelt
quaint, quiet voice utters commands in 3 / 4 time we are ready, oh so ready alabaster statues sit on podiums throughout as the room stutters windows to the soul latched close
no misunderstanding here it sounds like it looks and that‘s all we can ever ask
barbarians from the mountains for those of us
to be sure unholy – absolutely from denver to venice here now (low-key) ‗where the dream is‘ this city of tales (perkoff, scibella and rios‘ city of midnite alleys and precious words hidden in every crack and crevice along the dying storefronts by the constant ocean) the true barbarians have arrived fistful and oh so obvious in our intent, deadly in our faith, holiness just another ruse another flim-flam we are here from kerouac and casady‘s mountain town with all the midnite-speed runs and dreams of dead larimer street in all it‘s wonder we have arrived intact and alive hear us hear us our days are not numbered/ we are not afraid our standard raised entirely visible‗we shall not die It is too dangerous‘ we have arrived to whatever destiny awaits
with each fleeting moment
with each fleeting moment and time a rare commodity i‘m glad I don‘t have enough sense to come in out of the rain to come into the dry, warm place with teapot full and brewing with silence sliding off the walls into puddle/pools of intense concentration with books piled high, oh so high, some read, some waiting to be read but no sense rain captivates rain motivates rain stimulates told someone once that I‘d never held an open umbrella …..never I love leaning in storefront doorways, collar turned up, cigarette dangling, pint in my pocket watching the rain feeling the rain yea, needing the rain the pale, hazy yellow dimness from old street lamp shows rain lessening pint almost gone now last smoke flicked away so hands shoved deep in field jacket pockets steps slowly to the room slowly to the solitude of the room to the waiting books in the room to the brewing tea in the room
Sixty-four year old retired railroad worker. Flag, Woman & Other Desecrations published by Bowery Press in 1973. Was one of the Denver/Venice West writers/artists from the 1960/70‘s. Currently live in the mountains outside of Denver with my son, the poet MJ Taylor.
Empty I remember the smell of you. Broad hands enticing my body. Taunting until I moaned for more. Your rhythm my rhythm our rhythm. With parted lips I remember The taste of you. Your side of the bed remains empty.
Devil Came Dancing the Devil came dancing in the wan of the moon shadows had no place to hide dawn betrayed as he quelled her light and demanded the lead fruit was strewn and nature sidled away from the painful reminder that was her past musicians cried as realms collided instruments pitched to the floor our throats were dry as we continued to tap our toes to the silence ~ as wallflowers tend to do the blind dog whined as evil preened and waltzed alone, although every bit in control magnificent in his egotistical stride the Devil came dancing and we had the nerve to ponder why we gave him this power of our self-righteous souls we feigned ignorance while he laughed in bliss and blew a kiss and better than nothing to our credit we added his name to our dance card you could feel it then that humanity fell hard we swayed in darkness to the beat of his drum drunk in his laughter, naked in our truth when the Devil came dancing...
Untitled the man in the moon an unexpected surprise ~ slipped through my window
Untitled you know who you are walk into my dimension my arms are open
Paula Lietz ( pd lietz ) a versatile writer, artist and photographer is featured in numerous online articles her work is featured in various chapbooks around the world blog < themoonatthewindow.blogspot.com > <twitter pdlietz > she resides in Manitoba Canada
LIGHTING OF YOU I can stare at you from across the room amongst chaos and smoke like being struck by divine lighting and shocked into focus by what awoke Watching your hands dance as you spark up purposeless conversation mesmerized by your glow and that calming voice of sedation
beyond the crowd your eyes begin to enhance
and your body sets the tone as your hips begin a trance dance
Only in this time can I catch a glimpse of the goddess so vibrant within close whispering and tiny scratches your nature can play my heart's violin Driving each other crazy amongst musical energy it doesn't matter who is around I want to make you a symphony
To wake in you what you woke in me eyes wide open like the midnight sun no fear can stop the touching as now our hips become one
lost, gone--- to that place frozen in time
with us interlaced all because your amazing sight is why I must write....
VENUS, CLOSED She worn a silken-ed t-shirt, and a the eyes of a sea-shell She had the wings of an angel That flew through the gates of hell She watched the males extended And all the asshole semen was cold She had a life full of stories But had found it hard for that one to hold And it turns itself around As we all see her fall apart And the window is closing As she realizes she's not so smart She had the face of the ocean and the world at her feet She was a cloud of perfection but found it hard to be discreet She had a body for passion and a mind filled with suspense She had a lifetime of horror that barely made sense And as we brush off the tables and make just one more meal She sits in all the silence waiting for that feeling to heal
THE DIG Tired of looking at broken mirrors visions of truths I attempt to amend seeing all the might have beens and unable to comprehend The things I can see Used to have meaning The pieces no longer fit and all the scales are leaning
Shoveling through each day Trying to find the heart of it Seeing all those little connections of where my reality was split The dirt piles and whispers is all that I may seize The soft silent stars also carry my disease
I keep digging, there has to be something real I keep digging, what can I reveal Arms tired, back broken
everything else is too surreal It is all becoming clearer as I slowly reach the core All that was and will be anything I had, is not mine anymore
Under a soft dim light, each memory is buried with bliss The muscles retract by moonlight You never said it would be like this Could I be wrong and dig for something that doesn't exist or perhaps my purpose is not suppose to be doing this
Connections from realities, disconnect but the sun sure does feel like a friend I wish no longer to reflect the colors of this time I spend Digging up ships that have wrecked from a life that I do not attend I am tired of looking at broken mirrors reflections of things I do not comprehend
Sad and Deep as you As I wait for fall to cover me, I close my eyes and think of you As I wait for fall to bury me I sit and think of the things you do As I consume myself to the changes I bow my head and admire you As I close my mind to the truth All that you took from me is nothing new... I am letting this go- This perfect tattoo This reminder of how untrue I have paid the price, but I pull through I am not as sad and deep as you
As I wait and sit still I can't believe the things you pursue As I wait for this lovely ending I have cracked the wall to get through I am letting this go- This horrible tattoo This fictitious color dark and blue I have lost sight, but have the view I am not as sad and deep as you I Will let this thing consume me I will let this run through me I will let this feeling accrue I will let this thing kill you
Chad Repko: Someone who lives in Pottstown PA who is still on the journey.. Painting by Stephen Kent
Walk in the Woods I am facing, hearing the gargoyles of fright, guardians of the silent forest perched on each tree. The sights and sounds of walking the woods at night Blind here. Dark emotions have taken all of my sight. Turning my mind into anger that I do not like to be, I am facing, hearing the gargoyles of fright. Hands are sore from holding tight, clinched, readying for what mystery here that will approach me. The sights and sounds of walking the woods at night. Hear hissing. Why are these tunnels not bright? Shakes of nervous sweat is what now binds me. I am facing, hearing the gargoyles of fright. Screams in my head, cutting through with a piercing knife, locked doors busting with a hurt possibility. The sights and sounds of walking the woods at night. Cannot stop my skin from Wish the end of branches The sights and sounds of I am facing, hearing the shaking, would stop touching, whispering. walking the woods at night. gargoyles of fright.
Andrew Scott is 39 years old and a native of Fredericton, NB. Andrew started writing as a way to communicate and cleanse his feelings. The poems written are based on all five senses of emotion. They are stories of him and others, based loosely on conversations and observations. These are brought to him by visions in his mind and relating to his characters as they were real people. Once they are thought of, these people come to life as their story is told. The reader can relate as these are emotions based on everyday life. Andrew has a belief that all can relate and should share in these stories as they have affected him for the better. All people can contribute to affecting someone’s life and we should celebrate everyone’s story. Without them, we would have nothing. To contact Andrew, email …email@example.com
now I can say I've eaten raw eel
I didnt chew the quivering flesh I swallowed, like I swallow
my own slithering words and I laughed
when you told me stories about little chinese men with gender issues.
Now I can float above the red clay
I can dissect a piece of you and hang it from a string around my neck
I can say I love you I can swallow the eel
and know how it feels to love your pale, pretty bones.
Livingston, Montana 8:23 a.m. when I went away that blue morning you were ripe as November and I was scarred there was no air but enough sunlight for a lifetime so I wished it away and the rain with it's tender hands, held me under a blood orange Montana sky
A.g. Synclair's work has appeared in numerous literary publications, anthologies, chapbooks, and 'zines, both online and in print. He suffers from long bouts of writers block, and doesn't have an MFA in anything. A native New Englander, he now lives, writes, and otherwise collaborates in southwestern Montana with his significant other, the artist and poet Heather Brager.
This action might not be possible to undo. Are you sure you want to continue?