Featured Poet: Katherine Browne

Ghost of a Horse under the Chandelier


They are too many heads
observing the Balinese
cock fight menstrual like
disease engender lotuses
shifty theories to back
femme bending chatter

vocal or empower
as long as lungs will stand
where id heeds until us too
are silence, in the numbers
should we take to naming
our nookies Grouppersons
or they, bodies land on sexless
jelly or fish on pharaoh rocks

should we gal
around lining our rough skirt
or stay in the mirror, gal

every thingness takes a shape
masks you in or is unrecalled it’s not
things of creation
but duels of how they were

perverted
spirits are no single cult-
ure
exposed delicate
or ure
body region error




Anumodana


Yesterday we prayed on the snail
walk and saw the smallest head
trudge past its open toggling
ears on the re sin surface
that so often connected redden
hoods of your bashful shell
we rustled the twinge likening
stirring the wind’s whooshing it-
self on its face

I watched dots
of your freckles fray an echo
that looks toward the sun’s
sway inching near my many

we held tight to ourshelving
beneath palms neuron
vines trickled across
my queen wasp’s narrow
fastening oneself by the throat
again at breakfast, we wiggled gently
out of our trunks this time
laughing




A Fly of Sucking Parts


The plane
would like to be known
a strawberry

if in the plane crash dis-
patch length antennas on the azure
line

brush the reddie water
with the geom breast

stroke
caulking tongues on the mean
current horn

tittle the moth drabs
then did they divide
the stem earth
on the pleura when the plain ate
the wing

spatter
and pie

I’ll feed you



What are Pee-holes For?


Notsurehow-orwhyweneedpeeplacestottttuuube=sideholes
{splash)inwaterwe--flush========Notsurewhatpurrrpose{spray

-ing)oldbodilyfluid

||

We

all

have

to

spill/

in

*

Preface to a Poem that Will Never Come


Why can’t we replace
we’re place
where place be
cause we are placid nescience




Artist's note: "I hope the language will reflect the distortedness and discoloration of our human plank. I am after all, an artist working on a landfill."

Katherine Browne lives in Chicago, Illinois and works atop a landfill in Crestwood, Illinois.

© 2009 Katherine Browne

Featured Poet: Paul Martínez Pompa

Film Strip

We’ve been isolated from the girls

to learn our bodies. Our desks harder

than our hairless asses. They shudder

beneath us when Mr. Griffey fingers

the 16mm reel. He mumbles directions

to himself, orders Danny S. to pull

down the white screen. We swell

into concentration as grainy scenes

flicker past our heads. The projector’s

clatter surrounds us like criminals:

narrated cross-section of the testicles,

the animated penis a cruel reminder

of our fathers. Strange men we’ve seen

through cracked doors. Their nude

bodies a revelation, a portrait of manhood

larger than anything we could imagine.

Banana Republic Politick

Damn these stacks of argyle I can’t have

just one merino wool V-neck beauty

on my shelves & shoulders fitted cotton crew

I bought more & saved these pretty white boys

are irresistibly high cheek bones my fantasy

factory on display as salespeople who know

what I need is more boot cut slim fit French

cuff stretch my BR card til no more poplin

fits my need-gene inseam button fly

straight leg indigo relaxed light brain

wash.

Men Watching Men

—El Gato Negro Bar

I’m not drunk

enough so I order one

more bottle. He shoves

a lime down its throat

& I see myself

surrounded by men

who watch the night

in a mirror

behind the bar.

We smoke

our cigarettes

with purpose, pretending

courage is something

we can suck in.

Click of the jukebox

& the treble

cuts the air. A man

holds his woman

tight enough to feel her

cock press his belly.

Dance floor strobe light

captures their bodies.

Her cheek on his

shoulder, her breath

on our necks.

These peoms are from My Kill Adore Him (Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize, University of Notre Dame Press, 2009).

© Copyright 2009 Paul Martínez Pompa

Featured Poet: Francesco Levato

Elegy for Dead Languages



Simply because an execution method may result in pain
does not establish the sort of “objectively intolerable
risk of harm” that qualifies as cruel and unusual.

There is a town here named boneyard,
Ossaia in its tongue.

I should be vigilant today,
take notice of my surroundings. Waters ran red,

another town became Sanguinetto;
the meaning, river of blood.

I went down in the river to pray
Studying about that good old way—

The number of dead is a politically charged figure.

“That’s very unusual,” he said,
“A hugely disproportionate number of those who died
were intended to.”

Uptick, violence. When the Threat Level breaks
yellow will we rename the spot Freedom Tower,
or Piegaro, the subdued.

Imagine the blood, the bile that would drive war elephants
through the Alps to settle old scores. Imagine the shock,
the awe, the fall of empire.

And who shall wear the robe and crown
Good Lord, show me the way.

***


The train smells like octopus, of sea salt and burning
rubber, of Fridays when meat was considered a sin.

Thus to his poor he still will give
Just for the present hour;

Today a sack of flour can be had for a bullet,
a belly filled with mud, mixed with butter,
mixed with salt.

But, for tomorrow, they must live
Upon his word and power.

They say the word has been butchered, that nothing
should be called couture unless it has hours of handwork,
and blood and sweat.

Give virtue to my hands, O Lord,
that being cleansed from all stain
I might serve you—

Thirty one rounds of fifty fired came from one single gun.
There was eye contact, an understanding, someone
reloaded.

Make me white, O Lord, and purify my heart
so that being made white—

I may deserve an eternal reward.

We know we are already in negative equity.

Should we ensure the disaster supply kit is stocked
and ready, use terms like violent extremist, like totalitarian;
not compromise our credibility.


***


Your letter asks whether the meaning of cruel, inhuman
and degrading treatment would depend upon identity.

Red Line to Chinatown.

Next train—no, next. Speak clearly not louder. That test
demands an exact analysis of circumstances in determining
whether the relevant conduct shocks the conscience. A body

lying across the sidewalk is more likely to get stepped over
here than elsewhere.

Was it Wednesday, one of the bloodiest in weeks. It was

an astonishing success. They came in groups of ten,
hands and feet shackled, pleas of guilt via interpreter,
next room—sentencing.

Special arguments might be made
for forms of preventive detention. The trouble

began at 8 a.m., an ad-hoc court at the Cattle Congress,
mobile trailers, a dance hall walled with curtains of black.

It has been called an American vocabulary of misery;
like passing through stages of grief.

O sinners let’s go down,
Down in the river to pray.

I just want you to know that when we talk about war,
we’re really talking about peace.


***






Notes (Elegy for Dead Languages)

The towns of Ossaia, Sanguineto, and Piegaro take their names from the Battle of Lago Trasimeno in central Italy where the Carthaginian general Hannibal ambushed and defeated the Roman army on June 24th, 217 BCE. That morning over fifteen thousand soldiers were slaughtered in a matter of hours. The water was said to have run red with the blood of the fallen and a stream feeding the lake was named Sanguineto, or Blood River.

War elephants. At the start of the Second Punic War Hannibal marched war elephants over the Alps and into northern Italy to engage the Roman army.

When the United States government’s national threat level is Elevated, Homeland Security recommends that Americans “continue to be vigilant, take notice of their surroundings, and report suspicious items or activities to local authorities immediately.”

“Thus to his poor he still will give [. . .]” is from the Christian hymn, “The Meal and Cruse of Oil,” by John Newton, an Anglican clergyman and onetime slave-ship captain. He was also the author of “Amazing Grace.”

“[. . .] a belly filled with mud, mixed with butter, mixed with salt” references the practice of making mud patties flavored with butter and salt as a way to stave off hunger in modern-day Haiti.

“Give virtue to my hands, O Lord [. . .]” and “Make me white, O Lord [. . .]” are from vesting prayers recited as priests dress for Mass.

“[. . .] use terms like violent extremist, like totalitarian; not compromise our credibility.” references a March 14th, 2008 memo from the Extremist Messaging Branch at the National Counterterrorism Center titled “Words that Work and Words that Don't: A Guide for Counterterrorism Communication.”

“Red Line to Chinatown.” is a reference to both Chicago’s Red Line train and the practice of “redlining” where financial services are arbitrarily denied to specific neighborhoods due to race or poverty level.

“I just want you to know that when we talk about war, we’re really talking about peace.” is from a speech given by President George W. Bush on June 18th, 2002. “War is Peace” is one of the slogans of the Party in the novel 1984, by George Orwell.




Works Cited (Elegy for Dead Languages)


Benczkowski , Brian A. Letter to Senator Ron Wyden. 5 March 2008. U.S. Department of Justice, Washington, D.C.

Bush, George W. Remarks by the President on homeownership. Department of Housing and Urban Development. Washington, D.C. 18 June 2002.

Epstein, Edward. “How many Iraqis died? We may never know.” San Francisco Chronicle. (3 May 2003). .

Greenhouse, Linda. “Justices Uphold Lethal Injection in Kentucky Case.” New York Times.
(17 April 2008). 17 April 2008. .

Holy Trinity Church Amblecote. The Parish Church of the Holy Trinity. Church of England. 13 May 2008 .

Krauss, Alison. "Down to the River to Pray." O Brother Where Art Thou. Lost Highway, 2000.

Landler, Mark. “Housing Woes in U.S. Spread Around Globe.” New York Times.
(14 April 2008). 14 April 2008. .

Newton, John. Olney Hymns. London: W. Oliver, 1779.

Preston, Julia. “270 Illegal Immigrants Sent to Prison in Federal Push.” New York Times. (24 May 2008). 24 May 2008. .

Saunders, Fr. Williams. “Liturgical Vestments.” Arlington Catholic Herald. (7 June 2001).
.

United States. State Department. Words that Work and Words that Don’t: A Guide for Counterterrorism Communication. Washington: The Department, 14 March 2008.

Wood, Dana. “Faux Couture.” W magazine. (April 2008). .


© Copyright 2009 Francesco Levato

Featured Poet: Chip Corwin

Current


At last,
they finished the tightrope
to the moon.

We walked on out our
window, and after some time
our shadows upon the earth were as
long and distant as a comet’s tail.

We reached the moon and
strolled down her blue
unpaved boulevards,

and shopped in her
round empty windows,
and slept on her cool stone fields.

From a dewless savanna
we watched the world rise
half dark, turning like a sonnet
between sudden moonlight
and white dawn,

and we wondered what
new was burning.





Pod


The sun exploded and
engulfed the Earth.
“Isn’t this fun?” you said,
as we rode the last beam
of light out past Mars,
and through the rings of
Saturn, through galaxies
as black and clear as Egyptian glass.

We went all the way around
the edge of the universe,
until we saw the familiar
sight of our own, old
moon, looking dimpled and crestfallen.
“Hold on now,” I said,
as we sped past, out into nothing
certain.





Seam


I have never seen
this landscape
except, of course,
in my mind:

All it is is
a sea of pines,
split sidelong
by a chilly
trout stream
held firmly
by blue sky.

It is beautiful,
and I would like to
paint it,
so I wouldn’t have
to work so hard
keeping it alive. The problem is,
I am no good at painting,
and, anyway,

if I were to
paint it, I could never
take it with me to such
wild places, or

look at it in
the dark.





To Autumn


I’m not sure
how alone
I feel
any
more

seems
things always
go back
to leaves
this time of year

how they turn
pale before
red or yellow

how they die
first, then
shine,

and then there’s the people
gaping

piling them
up in the yard

burying children

the old
driving
hours to
see every last one

whole families
smiling in front of
the carnage

I will just look
at them

there goes another

if it lands in my driveway
I’ll park on it






Chip Corwin teaches English at Heartland Community College in Normal, Illinois.



© Copyright 2009 Chip Corwin

Featured Poet: Andrew Lundwall

a mess dancing on invisible hooks. blowing & tearing a place. before talk. sublime nothings. destination incredible fast. frame minutes. stoned. mystery nails climb amazed with eat. horse-loads. of spear-point butterflies egrizazzigate. a fountain of fool. will know like the surface of a fall. record stuff. 50,000 whats rotgut. stir with recognize. stir with thirst worm wakings. 50,000 year old rotgut. keeps a vine-eyed ground below a-guessing. where it is. like a-guessing is/was wooden & precious. afflicted zeros caressed serpents. caressed serpents devour. caressed serpents devour incredible kittens.





medicinal ache. the body scans zoom in. remember. was artificial like shape spree. benzodiazepine surprise. senses tinted with chakra fever. a clinical lisped pseudonym habitats. insomnia scenes. glare slurping fugitive amusements. ceremonies of drug everything in a desensitized incline. bees crawl like halos is what is. images have hidden radio rooms. shock the fuschias out of. complex like unbuttoned torchlight. like untangling ninteteenth-century occult fog. the flow of a brick horse chronic with hunch. inkstains engaged in smouldering cursive. multi-limbed withdrawal. the letters home. the feeling of. & the letters home. dear _______. a blue voluptuousness wrecked precious eyeballs. blundered newer new. traumatic in tens. boxes of glanced blind back at the hemispheres. e.g. invisible dining in inconclusive minds are like spiral to destiny. a careless locality.





can of what follows. include numb weather of 1,929 years. other impotent. invalid fuchsia nerves. thoroughly. the trance of what you like. special dice. stations drop splendidly like a treatment. a trick tall dream sensation. must have like problems. a waterway of eyes to guard. all that white-haired ceremonies of grotesque secrets the real deepens. bundle of concerning the grunt of founding muzzles is moon. the charm of assumption's rhythm & its pilgrimage to no place. means the sedative kissed history. anywhere hearts dipped in fragments of slimy wallpaper. hypnotic donkeys writhe awake hastily in brooding forecast flexing mars. a glow heavy lane doses that time there were many anchored in incredible menstruations. a heaving crown. incongruities including hissing. but then. it is unusual arithmetic. notes of uninterrupted foreskin grows back. teeth painted in elevators of rotten skills. croquet as afflictions. one laughing & the other definite. degrees of static into a house had its fireside. augment the limestone bald & two images volley damn fluently. urging such see becoming swarming.

Andrew Lundwall is the editor of Scantily Clad Press (http://scantilycladpress.blogspot.com) Recent poems have appeared in La Petite Zine, RealPoetik, Robot Melon, Tight, & Action, Yes. He has released three chapbooks, klang, honorable mention, & funtime, a collaboration with Adam Fieled.

© Copyright 2009 Andrew Lundwall

Featured Poet: Naomi Buck Palagi

musk

by the time even

I set my love afire

there is the stink

and no hold

of male

coffee grounds

in fresh coffee

sweat

and old wood smoke is man

we all fall in love

and again

says guinevere

but in May we smell the stink

the overdone tree blossoms the fecund

pond

hotdogs

on a grill

love is smell and smell is memory and memory is stink and funk

what did the baby goat say to her mother?

maaaa

she said

maaaa

and how did the tree fall down the hill?

no roots

they say

no roots

the wool of the lamb was rotting and I wrestled

with it while my father rubbed the iodine

the mud was made of shit and pee and the tingle

of fresh rain a moat

of earthen muck

before I set my love afire

there were blazes

in the valley

and even as my love flagrated dewdrops

sizzled wind

what else

would make such smell?

Path as is

This is not the river of my night

I am not standing here singing

beneath the river-trees

My father swam with the current and stopped

My mother washed away, she said

This is not the river of my night and

River rats do not make their homes here and

lovers do not kiss on these banks

From my shoulders flows a long white dress and yet

underneath their beauty-bare there is stubble

in my pits and my simple swing

keeps slipping to the left

calabash

calabash still the night in black

memoralia pretending to the evening light

and mimosas fall from cliff to sea

with no splash

all is night

or early dawn

mud madonna watching

from her tower

the grain mill smooth and worn

early dawn the softness of nightgown

and stone

azaleas arresting

follow the water and not trickle, tickle

our words with morning coffee-foam and a light brush

of long hair

nothing, nothing but mudded flesh

sunwarmed in shower in view of the sea oh see

as far as it is

mimosa stills and nothing, nothing

not taken in and consumed, gusto

early tea and binoculars to moonlight

touch

that easy foam and feel

riptides

through torso

gametes and monacles

touch the old wall

madonna

over all

Naomi Buck Palagi has made her way to Northwest Indiana via many stops, including a "homesteader" childhood in rural Kentucky, complete with goats and lots of bare feet, some years in the Mississippi Delta as, among other things, a furniture maker and ballet teacher, and several years in Chicago doing the small theater rounds as an actor and director. She enjoys shaping tangible things—wood, fabric, sound, words. She has work published or upcoming in the journals Otoliths, Big Toe Review, Moria, P.F.S. Post, and Blue Fifth Review, among others.

© Copyright 2009 Naomi Buck Palagi

Featured Poet: Amish Trivedi

Episode Three In Which Mr. Wyndham's
Cat Kills The Milkman



I.

I think I
used to be an
"I love you" type
of drunk

who would
end up crying in
front of a large
Elvis poster.  Now,

I just fall asleep
with visions of
daffodils laughing

in my face.



II.

"Perhaps the best
thing," she said, "is
to not

think about it."  So
I smashed my face
with
an iron.



III.

In slow music,
one can hear the
gasps of the composer,

who rests his eyes
just long enough to
ignore the lingering

siren.



V.

When peas mix with
other colors, I want
to run around and

hug Republicans

before beating them with
the (still hot) microwavable

tray.



VI.

I wish I could have
myself over for lunch
once.  And that way,

I could tell myself to
dress like I meant to

when I watched TV after
school and dreamt of stardom

over potato chips.



VIII.

If everything around
can be burned like
gas or Hitler, what's

the point in making sure
our beds smell fresh?  Wouldn't
it be

easier just to light a cigarette
and spit when you talk down?



X.

Someone made a
comment about my
race.  I nodded, raised

my testicles and said, "I
hope I finish in the top
ten, though my knees

won't bare me."



XI.

Saltines come in boxes of
120
and slices of cheese come in
packs 24.  My mind's a skipping

record and I'm ready to toss out
the player.  And they expect me to
keep knitting gray socks for
warm winters.



XIII.

What color is group sex?  Because
oral is blue and anal
is red (that makes no
sense!)

so what color is group
sex?



XIV.

God,
what is it about gas
that makes baby's smile,
or a grown man chortle
all day?



XVI.

Once, while I was
intoxicated,

you came into the room
and I shoved my middle
finger into the air
over and over
again.

This, I realize, makes me
the happiest.



XVII.

In seeing him, and in
him pretending to be
Goebels,

there is an awkward,
silent laugh:

He knows he wouldn't
have survived

a concentration camp

(that was my laugh).



XVIII.

Can't more things
be multi-use paper?

Can't she laugh at jokes and
solve riddles just as well as

she becomes an object to
be defiled?



XXI.

With you being Pope
and all,
I wonder this:

Is there a
Vatican proctologist?

Looking up your ass is like
looking up God's ass.



XXII.

She was a dragon, and
I was a dragon.

Pretty soon, we
were burned
out on each
other.



XXIII.

Mr. Pope:

I think a "prison
pussy" would suit

you, since you can't
have a real one.  Since

God must have a beard,
I'm sure he won't mind if

you have a representation.



XXIV.

I got too stoned and
watched the snow

instead of the ice on
the road (FUCK) and now

I'm a cross-shaped figure
in a drift

somewhere.



XXV.

How can you DENY
the Holocaust?  The

only
thing that should be

'denied' is what.  You're.
Smoking (but

are you?)



XXVI.

I don't under-
stand your
meth

amphetamine,

much less your
text-mess

aging.





Amish Trivedi has had poems in La Petite Zine, The Backwards City Review,
Cannibal, RealPoetik, and the e-chaps The Breakers (Absent Magazine), The 
Ink Sessions (Scantily Clad) and Selections from Episode III (Beard of Bees).
An installation piece is forthcoming from Cannibal as well. The Trivedi Chronicles
(www.amishtrivedi.com) are moving to Providence, RI.



© Copyright 2009 Amish Trivedi