tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86898650387426470072024-02-08T12:34:07.662-05:00The2008 - 2011Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger194125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-7609511399138897432011-03-20T08:07:00.000-04:002011-03-20T08:07:32.256-04:00The EndThe return of <i>The</i> was short-lived. This project is now closed. Thank you for all of your wonderful words and support. <br />
<br />
I am starting up a new project called Ten Pages Press. It can be found here:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://tenpagespress.wordpress.com/">Ten Pages Press</a><br />
<br />
Please join me there. And submit your work.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-5991815357129343222011-03-15T07:24:00.000-04:002011-03-15T07:25:25.832-04:00Tassos by Andrew McCallum CrawfordΕίναι ένα παιδί που συχνάζει στο μαγαζί μου. Κάθε αρχές του μήνα έρχεται. Τον κουρεύω. Φαίνεται πολύ μικρός. Φαίνεται άρρωστος. Τόσο λεπτός, τόσο χλωμός. Μου λέει οτι είναι Σκωτσέζος. Ουίσκυ, ουίσκυ! μου λέει. Καταλαβαίνω. Είναι καθηγητής. Διδάσκει αγγλικά σ'ενα μέρος στην παραλία. Είναι ενα μεγάλο, παλαιό σχολείο που υπήρχε πριν από το μαγαζί μου - 1940, 50. Τελευταία φορά που ήρθε τον ξύρισα. Σε κερνάω, του λέω, δεν θα σε χρεώσω τίποτα. Κοιτάζει το ξυράφι στο τραπέζι, τα μάτια του μεγάλα σαν πιάτα. Γελάω. Μην ανησυχείς, λέω, και του δείχνω την κάρτα. President Johnson. Κάνω καλό ξύρισμα. Δεν θα σε κόψω. Γέρνει πίσω στην καρέκλα και απλώνω το σαπούνι στο προσωπό του. Προσπαθεί να μη τρέμει. Οι τρίχες είναι μαλακές. Κόβονται εύκολα. Δεν τον κόβω. Τον κοιτάζω στον καθρέφτη. Το δέρμα του τόσο απαλό, τόσο μαλακό. Τόσο άσπρο.<br /> <br /> <br />This boy, he come in my shop. The start of every month, he come in. I cut his hair. He look too young. He look ill. So thin, so pale. He tell me he is Scottish. Whisky, Whisky! he say. I understand. He is teacher. He teach English in a place on the seafront. It is a big school, an old school. It was here before my shop - 1940s, 50s. Last time he come in I shave him. I treat you, I say - no charge. He look at the razor on the table, his eyes big like plates. I laugh. No worry, I say, and show him the card. President Johnson. I do good shave, I tell him. I don't cut you. He lean back in the chair and I put the soap on his face. He try not to shake. The hairs are soft - they come off easy. I don't cut him. See, I say. I look him in the mirror. His skin so smooth, so soft. So white.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-48778040227508388782011-03-09T12:24:00.000-05:002011-03-09T12:25:05.526-05:00MIA by Brian RosenbergerLarry has not been to work for days.<br />Someone has bothered to turn his computer off.<br />His manila folders of important documents sit unopened.<br />The company phone blinks angrily, messages still waiting.<br />People arrive at his cubicle only to discover a ghost town.<br />I can see the anxiety on his manager’s face<br />when I see her between meetings.<br />Calls to his home and his cell phone have gone unanswered.<br />Rumor is the Police have been called to investigate.<br />Still no Larry.<br />I smile, a rare occurrence in Hell.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-27303610323519267902011-03-03T06:33:00.001-05:002011-03-03T06:35:01.156-05:00Three by John Sweet<span style="font-weight:bold;">ambient prayer with head wreathed in flames</span><br /> <br />tells her it’s like cutting yrself to<br />let the poison run out of yr veins<br /> <br />tells her it’s like grey ice<br />in november sunlight<br /> <br />nothing that actually means anything<br />and so here we are again among<br />the weeds and the ruined kingdoms down by<br />the water’s edge and so here we are<br />again up on burnt hill road<br /> <br />blue sky and emptiness and<br />never enough gods to fill it<br /> <br />never enough hands to start a war and<br />so the soldier shoots the child instead<br /> <br />says orders are orders<br /> <br />smiles in surrenders like a<br />priest or a coward<br /> <br />smiles like flowers choked by weeds at<br />the edge of the desert and<br />it’s here with the furnace broke and<br />the windows boarded over,<br />it’s here in the neverending now,<br />fucking a stranger in<br />someone else’s room, in<br />someone else’s city, that one of you<br />calls the other by the wrong<br />name and no one cares<br /> <br />it’s later,<br />with the baby crying, with the<br />constellations inverted or<br />obscured, with clouds like<br />bruised silver, like dreams stained<br />with hopeless blood, and how<br />far away were you hoping to be<br />when all light finally faded?<br /> <br />how long did you think it would take<br />to reach a point in your life<br />where nothing mattered anymore?<br /> <br />the numbing weight of failure<br />always arrives<br />sooner than you’d expect<br /><br />#<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">without hope, without desire</span><br /> <br />and then at 30<br />lost and falling and<br />then at 40<br /> <br />some pointless story<br />with an unhappy ending<br /> <br />some fucking poem<br />scribbled out quickly on the<br />back of a gas receipt<br /> <br />roomful of children just<br />waiting to be broken like<br />so many tiny gifts<br /> <br />nothing revealed, nothing<br />given away and it<br />seems like i had a wife<br />when this thought began<br /> <br />remember white space between us<br />and windows with shattered glass<br />and there is nothing so pure it<br />cannot be poisoned<br /> <br />there is nothing left to do in<br />the end but accept<br /><br />#<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">with heartfuls of sand and of mud, with the river run dry</span><br /> <br />sick of myself at 4 in the afternoon<br /> <br />ice on the shadowed sides of<br />sleeping factories<br /> <br />weeds<br /> <br />no news from god since before<br />i was born<br />and then the death of his only son<br />played out for cheap entertainment<br /> <br />this is the world you inherit and<br />then it becomes<br />the one you pass on<br /> <br />these are the dreams you dream after<br />your lover is done with them<br /> <br />daughter was only 3 years old,<br />was filled with cancer<br />and the sunlight was a lie<br /> <br />the moment approached and<br />then it passed<br />and the fear is what remains<br /> <br />call whatever it is you feel<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">faith</span><br />and then see how far it takes youUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-11040581723601463102011-03-03T06:27:00.001-05:002011-03-03T06:27:42.021-05:00Vague by Paul Harrisonis not the word<br />but close enough<br />and vaguely disturbed<br />i am<br />vaguely lost<br />in the hum of the air-con<br />class war on tv<br />there in the corner<br />vaguely dehydrated too<br />but correcting that<br />and vague<br />could be the word<br />but it's not enough<br />vaguely uneasy<br />vague tremors in hand<br />leaning and swinging<br />into the past<br />or maybe tomorrow<br />like the vaguest<br />of feelings<br />you can't describeUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-7639935108388350182011-03-02T06:28:00.000-05:002011-03-02T06:29:35.942-05:00Two by William Doreski<span style="font-weight:bold;">Uncle Chet's Boiled Coffee</span><br /><br />My Uncle Chet boiled coffee<br />for a week. The tar in the pot<br />tasted like a miracle--<br /><br />not the one of loaves and fishes<br />but the one no gospel recounts<br />for fear of a libel suit.<br /><br />The woolen but rainless sky<br />disappoints. The garden soil<br />cracks like Egyptian pottery.<br /><br />Red squirrels squeak in the hemlocks,<br />taunting each other in language<br />ornate as the plaster ceilings<br /><br />of mansions. I can't contain<br />this runaway afternoon--<br />visions of children on bicycles<br /><br />run down by reckless drivers<br />scar the soft parts of my brain.<br />This hurts like an old-fashioned band<br /><br />concert, the kind I once suffered<br />at Weirs Beach, where my parents<br />had dragged me in the full blush<br /><br />of adolescence. The year before,<br />Count Basie's orchestra had won<br />my attention and respect,<br /><br />and two years before, Duke Ellington<br />had battered his piano silly<br />right under my bluff little nose.<br /><br />The lack of rain has saddened me<br />in shades of tepid gray and taupe,<br />but there's still a month of summer,<br /><br />in theory, and the nights still ring<br />with coyote howls and barks.<br />Uncle Chet's been dead for many years,<br /><br />but I can still taste his coffee—<br />which he learned to make on beachheads<br />in the Solomon islands, the guns<br /><br />coughing and banging everywhere<br />and the tropical rain so sticky<br />he sometimes mistook it for blood.<br /><br />#<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Redwoods</span><br /><br />Thirteen years since the murders.<br />The house slouches in the brush,<br />the windows punctured by rocks.<br />No one’s gone in, though. Thick dust<br /><br />carpets the pine board floors.<br />Faint chalk outlines remember<br />the slump of bodies. Furniture<br />lies askew, just as struggle left it.<br /><br />Spiders, black and pink bulges,<br />have webbed the corners of the rooms<br />and booby-trapped the doorways.<br />I enter swinging a stick<br /><br />to dissipate both spiders and gloom.<br />The three people who died here<br />meant nothing to me alive,<br />but have troubled my dreams since death.<br /><br />So I’ve flown to San Francisco,<br />rented a sporty white Saab,<br />and cruised up Highway One north<br />to discover how remote from me<br /><br />and the world this fatal canyon is.<br />Redwoods loom over the crime scene<br />and filter the sunlight, allowing<br />only the bleak of the spectrum<br /><br />to shine on this fragile house.<br />No one has looted, no one<br />has even browsed the spilled books—<br />beat classics, mostly, Burroughs<br /><br />and Genet. Blood spatter has sunk<br />so deeply into the wallboard<br />not even fire can erase it.<br />But willing to try, I pour<br /><br />the five gallons of gasoline<br />I think sufficient for the job,<br />step outside, ignite a newspaper<br />and toss it in. The eruption<br /><br />howls more loudly in the mind<br />than in the world. A fine gray ash<br />fills me. Rain blows off the sea<br />to keep the fire from spreading.<br /><br />I walk a mile back to my car,<br />confident that that any ghosts<br />that survive are only ghosts of me,<br />bored silly by staying alive.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-71805577474704361842011-03-02T06:21:00.001-05:002011-03-02T06:21:38.369-05:00Leave by Luis Cuauhtemoc BerriozabalI want to leave my fear.<br />I want to leave in peace.<br />I want to leave my heartache.<br />I want to leave my dreams.<br />I want to be innocent like children.<br />I want to leave my shadow<br />walking aimlessly on the road.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-46773739932780486792011-03-02T06:18:00.001-05:002011-03-02T06:18:57.636-05:00Cloak the Question for Another Day by Donal MahoneyRiding home on the train he’s aware<br />that after supper,<br />cigarettes, TV and beer,<br />a romp on the wife will cloak<br />the question another day. <br />He’ll fear nothing, then,<br />till noon the next day when<br /> <br />it starts all over again. <br />If his luck holds, he’ll survive<br />the ride home on the train, aware<br />that after supper,<br />cigarettes, TV and beer,<br />a romp on the wife may cloak<br />the question another day.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-25023752896741505332011-02-28T19:18:00.003-05:002011-02-28T19:24:29.180-05:00Black Lace & Diamonds by Craig SernottiClouds are on fire <br />but so what.<br />I'll watch the world end<br />from my couch.<br />With the cat pawing<br />at the aquarium<br />& the dog asleep<br />at my feet.<br />You in the kitchen<br />in black lace & diamonds.<br />Do you hear that?<br />It's the sound of California<br />falling into the ocean,<br />me pulling off my pants<br /><br />- <span style="font-style:italic;">originally appeared in </span>Dogzplot; <span style="font-style:italic;">also published in my book</span> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Forked-Tongue-Craig-Sernotti/dp/0984300619/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1298938908&sr=8-2">Forked Tongue</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-74206442768568699002011-02-28T19:15:00.000-05:002011-02-28T19:16:10.681-05:00Correcto Mundo by Catfish McDarisCreepy Uncle Willy was the last resort,<br />but my parents had to go to a funeral,<br />getting into my pajamas, I noticed girlie<br />books in the bathroom, I was soon<br />walking the monkey, Uncle Willy yelled<br /> <br />You naughty boy, now I'm going to spank<br />you, it will hurt me more than you, he<br />lowered my p.j.s & underwear & bent me<br />over his lap with trembling hands<br /> <br />I could feel him getting hard & I thought<br />he wants to stick that up my asshole, I<br />jumped down & grabbed the toilet lid back<br />& smacked him upside his head<br /> <br />Blood exploded from his nose & his eyeballs<br />rolled white like hard boiled eggs, the cops<br />came & called my folks, at Uncle Willly's<br />funeral everyone looked at me strange<br /> <br />Ma said, don't pay any attention, Pa said,<br />fuck them, the preacher asked if anyone<br />wanted to say a few words, I stood & said<br />he was right, it did hurt him more than me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-24472036376104857532011-02-28T16:18:00.001-05:002011-02-28T16:18:58.518-05:00Prismatic Small Talk by David LawrenceI put a sheet over your friskiness to listen to the purr<br />Of your cat-o-nine tails.<br />You are as black<br />As the crossing of bad luck<br />But you are really white<br />Because I am not a believer in multi-cultural<br />Fodder.<br />I hate cats.<br />I love pussy.<br />No. I love the spirit with which pussy is invested,<br />The woman inside the glands.<br />The conversational<br />Glue.<br />If we talk enough about the fur that surrounds<br />Your rainbow,<br />I will take to task the color of your prismatic small talk.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-14678938514982317562011-02-28T10:26:00.000-05:002011-02-28T10:27:14.843-05:00Speeding Down Interstate 86 South by Jack Henryalone in a house<br />under skies<br />gray and unforgiving<br />surrounded by an empty desert<br />and a dead sea<br /> <br />there are no voices<br />here<br />no sounds that rise from a schoolyard covered in dead grass<br />there are no eyes<br />here<br />no witnesses arranged in a fashionable stance to bear truth upon those of us that remain<br />there are no screams<br />here<br />no cries of ecstasy or pain or confusion from tides unbearable on shores discontent<br /> <br />in the solace of night<br />a meth kitchen explodes<br />into life<br />and burns<br />unattended<br />no crowds gather to watch<br />and dance<br /> <br />in days like these<br />the ones we awake to without fresh skin<br />our feet touch<br />cold stone<br />hands reach out for a glass pipe and torch<br /><br />and little elseUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-50941277830179818892011-02-28T06:56:00.001-05:002011-02-28T06:56:52.732-05:00(56) by Michael McAloranCut close to salve…entwined…gnarl of fingerless trees/ until final…<br /><br />Atrophic heart of pale shadow…breath of shale…ice/ dead/ following…<br /><br />Erupt/ head-sprung/ some silence/ echo/ some step/ silence/ step again…<br /><br />Flush of strained blood…axial/ dislodged/ ablaze…stone breath/ cry out…<br /><br />Follow again/ through which…strain/ heart dead or alive/ unknown…<br /><br />Scattered/ butchered/ salve of night’s purpose(less)…kicking teeth from dust...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-56281528003149768822011-02-28T06:13:00.000-05:002011-02-28T06:14:13.671-05:00Tiny Piece of Night by David McLeana tiny piece of night fell out of me<br />a child's broken toy<br /><br />and rust was a slow ocean growing<br />skin shrinking back to the terrible touch<br /><br />of memory and a frightened night<br />all the tiny pieces that were missing<br /><br />all their listless allegations<br />and we were still alive<br /><br />a tiny piece of night<br />a gigantic chunk of timeUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-20293439522573183242011-02-28T02:04:00.000-05:002011-02-28T02:05:04.744-05:00THE is backI'm reopening <i>The</i>. Please send submissions again.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-50638173347383272472010-10-07T11:00:00.000-04:002010-10-07T11:01:15.944-04:00Hiatus<span style="font-style: italic;">The</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Blood on Paper</span> are both on hiatus. Hope to return someday...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-6294520309249039162010-08-06T08:21:00.000-04:002010-08-06T08:22:27.063-04:00Every Day by Michael H. BrownsteinThere are times in your life—<br />I don’t know when—<br /> <br />Beauty is skin deep<br />and ugliness is not a full color poster of vomit,<br />but the latest layer of your life.<br /> <br />There are days when it is impossible not to step on a crack.<br /> <br />Never cross under a ladder when someone is working above you.<br /> <br />A broken mirror needs to attach splinters to your hand.<br /> <br />A black cat may be a jaguar or a lynx,<br />the magik of night a trick of light.<br />To see a black panther in the wild…<br /> <br />Do you not know ugly layers of life build into scars<br />like the corrosive power of salt,<br />the obsession to spit on a broom,<br />the inability to let go of hands at a pole?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-76133792515228069182010-07-28T07:19:00.000-04:002010-07-28T07:20:00.162-04:00Feeling Down For No Reason At All by Ross Vassilevthe SS go<br />marching<br />through<br />my dreams.<br /><br />I wake up<br />with acne<br />on the back<br />of my neck<br />and a huge<br />centipede<br />on the wall.<br />the phone<br />rings.<br /><br />a woman<br />offers<br />me a new<br />credit card.<br /><br />it's a tough<br />choice<br />between<br />her and<br />the Nazis.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-42412745039322349792010-07-28T07:17:00.001-04:002010-07-28T07:17:25.261-04:00Older by Stephen Jarrell WilliamsI ache<br />between the shakes of excitement,<br />seeing what I want to see<br />under my cap of perception,<br /><br />playing a harmonica,<br />dancing in a bad place<br />with a bad girl,<br /><br />painting her gold<br />later in my apartment,<br /><br />lost in her young years,<br />she does me and leaves.<br /><br />Now angels floating over my bed,<br />sticking needles in my dimples.<br /><br />I'm suddenly old,<br />wanting another day,<br />another night and spit between the sheets,<br /><br />saying my prayers in this prick of a world.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-64261592557910482832010-06-29T07:49:00.000-04:002010-06-29T07:50:41.355-04:00Two by Ross Vassilev<span style="font-weight:bold;">humanity is a bitch</span><br /><br />to survive in America<br />you gotta tiptoe<br />among nightshades<br />of nuclear war<br /><br />dance round<br />mushroom clouds<br />of serial killers<br /><br />escape from<br />the hangman’s noose<br />of poverty and the<br />chopping block of<br />the prison system.<br /><br />when I was young<br />I wanted to save<br />humanity (like you’re<br />supposed to, I guess)<br /><br />now I’m 32<br />and I just say<br /><br />fuck it.<br /><br />#<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">free medical advice</span><br /><br />working the<br />graveyard shift<br />at the factory.<br /><br />there was<br />a big blonde<br />about 19<br /><br />the problem was<br />her face was<br />all covered in zits.<br /><br />I wanted to tell<br />her there’s<br />a cure for that<br /><br />but that got me<br />fired from one<br />job already<br /><br />and I was out of<br />unemployment<br />benefits.<br /><br />I admired her ass<br />for a while<br />then clocked in.<br /><br />it’s people like me<br />who keep the<br />economy going.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-23221051521254729712010-06-29T07:43:00.001-04:002010-06-29T07:43:59.205-04:00She's Not Much For Small Talk by Catfish McDaris"I haven't had any<br />in 5 years. I go home<br />every night & make<br />love to my hand"<br /> <br />He told me this<br />while riding<br />the elevator<br /> <br />A woman we knew<br />slightly got on,<br />she looked at my<br />pal & said, "Damn,<br />you're going to need<br />a bra soon"<br /> <br />I tried not<br />to laugh<br /> <br />Every Tuesday, we'd<br />drink beer & watch<br />Sheriff Lobo<br /> <br />Tuesday came,<br />he opened the door<br />a crack, "Hey, man,<br />I've got a date"<br /> <br />I thought<br />that's cool<br /> <br />Before he closed the<br />door I noticed a box,<br />bicycle pump, wig &<br />lipstick<br /> <br />All for his dipstick.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-80412434619022174642010-06-22T14:39:00.001-04:002010-06-22T14:39:30.936-04:00Shadow Play by Cecilia Stelzeri was young<br />and we would do nothing.<br />but i would imagine<br />that behind us<br />our shadows were in love<br />running and tackling each other<br />in that world we would<br />laugh and fuck in different shapes<br />growing<br />tall<br />and<br />thin.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-14229165595164434052010-06-13T20:18:00.000-04:002010-06-13T20:19:01.223-04:00Lucid Dream w/ Ribbons by Shawn MisenerI sat down on the edge of a fifty foot tile cliff<br />in the lobby of some modern hotel and saw<br />a giant circle of silky paper ribbons below<br /><br />turned to the guy next to me<br />and said: I'm dreaming<br /><br />he replied he knew as much<br /><br />I said: I can do whatever I want<br />with those ribbons<br />and I did<br />making them change colors<br />form shapes like fish and radiating suns<br />and sending lightning ripples through them<br /><br />I stilled my mind<br />and watched how each thought that bubbled up<br />caused the ribbons to twitch and wave<br /><br />I'm watching my mind from up here<br />I told the man<br />he again said he knew as much.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-18363643771987467462010-05-31T23:07:00.000-04:002010-05-31T23:08:00.412-04:00I'm Not Here by Luis Cuauhtemoc BerriozabalI’m not here<br />for no bullshit.<br />Let me leave.<br /><br />You don’t need<br />to contact my<br />family.<br /><br />They don’t have<br />to know I’m<br />locked up here.<br /><br />Can’t you see<br />caterpillars<br />bit my toes?<br /><br />This is why<br />I can’t walk. You<br />should know this.<br /><br />I don’t want<br />my leg cut off.<br />When I die<br /><br />I want to<br />meet my Maker<br />in one piece.<br /><br />Keep your pills<br />away from me.<br />They’re poison.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689865038742647007.post-90365323430044560762010-05-31T08:42:00.000-04:002010-05-31T08:43:08.245-04:00Got Oil? by Joseph M. Gantshoot it<br />stab it<br />fuck it dead<br />dry<br />cold<br />fist that loves<br />you<br />more<br />than nothing<br />smears<br />the juice<br />of rape<br />across eyes<br />and you<br />smell itUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0