Saturday, April 28, 2007

May 2007



This month: Byron D. Howell, Christopher Major, Felino Soriano and Ray Succre


Byron D. Howell


THIS POET'S MISERY

I am the
epitome
of what can be
expected
from a starving
artist.

Any cash that may have
been
on-hand,
went directly to
cover
the costs
of paper,
pens,
and postage.

The cats eat
better
than I do,
and I could
live,
if need be -
on Top Ramen
noodles
with a little
bit
of onion
and garlic
powder.

My grandmother
has officially
given up
on trying to
convince me to get
a real job.

I'm usually
very low,
if not completely
out -
of caffeine
and nicotine.

One of these
days,
the muse
is really going
to come,
and I'm going to be
forced
to snatch a catnip
mouse
right from under
a pussy's
nose
just to be
able
to congratulate
myself
with one miserable
make-shift

cigarette,

which will
probably
make me see
more messed up
things
than I could
ever

shake a stick at.

TWO DAMN GOOD REASONS - TO BLUFF

Poker face.

Nothing more,
nothing less.

A dead-pan expression.

So much
contempt
for just one set of
eyes,
slanted from
the weight.

Did he not
weep
this morning?

Is he unable
to feel?

Could his
writing
be anymore ...

sinister?

Was it rejected,
like him?

He is
the American Idol
disqualified
because of
some previous
conviction.

Sanjaya Malakar
gets away with
murder
every week
with his stupid
hair,
and his:

"Gay for the right
price ..."

attitude.

Neither
are very white.

One has
risen.

The other,
should
fall.

One killed
people.

The other,
songs.

A poker face.

As I touch
mine
while gazing in
the mirror,
I'm grateful I can
write
but not sing -
and I'm actually
proud
for the first time
in decades
to be a free law-biding
American -
one who vents
his own contempt for
Sanjaya,
while stifling
a wicked fascination
of the other.

One has already
been silenced.

The other will
be
soon enough

Today, the world
and the stage
may be theirs,
but either way ...

I'm all in.

Bryon D. Howell has been writing poetry for many years. His poetry has been published recently by The Eleventh Transmission. He also recently had a poem accepted for publication by Contemporary Rhyme. Bryon is also the editor of four online 'zines which can be found on Duotrope.com.



Christopher Major

EASTER PIECE

I didn't want to help
but they made me,
it was too heavy
for him to carry alone.
The streets were heaving,
crowds everywhere;
when we arrived
the nails and tools
were ready,
and the place soon
filled with hammering
cries and cursing.

I watched from
a safe distance,
his sweat poured agony,
contorted face finally
declaring it finished.

3 days later
there was a commotion,
we just couldn't believe it,
they must've had a screw loose -
bloody flat pack......

Christopher lives in Staffordshire England, where he's training to be a Psychiatric Nurse. His poems have appeared in many UK print mags including Pennine Platform, Outposts, Poetry Monthly, Poetry Nottingham, Sepia and online at,amongst others, Snakeskin, Zygote, A little Poetry, Poetrykit, High Horse, Haggard and Halloo, Indite Circle, Gypsy, Blue House,Undergroundvoices, Thieves Jargon and Lily.
Poetry Chap www.whiteleafpress.co.uk
christopher.major@ntlworld.com




Felino Soriano


City Tableau #1

Today winding acrobatic then in a
language of welting dying in vein withering
wind, scooped within hurrying handfuls of scraping
leftover legacies of cracking dying leaves,
myriad of ornamental speed infested men on
colorful bicycles sprint coherently
man-neglected ironically named Mission Street.
Vagabonds bend into begging silhouettes,
vagabonds whose degrees were once
nailed into fading highly veined wallpaper,
have now fallen naked inside broken
glassed, gold-leafed, gift given frames.
They have abandoned pinstriped suits,
cluttered voice assorted classrooms,
self-appointed "wise" colleagues
learning educating consciences by studying
faces of passersby, the innumerable simple smiles
by people of those once casually condemned.


City Tableau #2

The derelict
lit by old lamp post
corner house whose surroundings recall
an imagination demand depictions of
perfections regarding gardens in the vernacular
of golden flowers, silver-stemmed with leaves
curving toward shadows atop perfectly shaved ground—
house with surgically removed legs,
all prior tenants had ransacked
removing all proprietary semblances
sans scruples,
minus compassion
or ability to prophesy
man would rebuild,
in tribute to antithetical
attachment to ending
neighborhood
hostility.


City Tableau #3


A thick natural arm leaps blossoming from the
cracked, half-opened mouth of calloused concrete.
Green.
Sympathetic shadows skim the beautiful burgeon:
hovering dragonflies, sputtering magic of invisible wings
land and in a mathematical twist of flowing eruption,
vanish.

Pedestrians with open vision to outstanding blindness
are vividly ignorant of the gorgeous shadows
to their unaware eyes, marvelous desirable dragonflies
perform naked rituals, mundane to the believers
of simple circumstance, the advocates of the au courant mode,
dealing with popular culture's shadowless beings, hence they
hold heads steadily silent and remain unimpressed—
yet for the riders atop the zigzagging creatures that engage
in crossings atop turquoise backs, the city shall encompass a
landscape of longing toward variation.


Felino Soriano lives in California where he is employed as a
behavioral assistant; he is also currently studying philosophy.
Through his occupation, he is able to counsel, care for and learn from
developmentally disabled adults. Classic and avant-garde jazz are
muses. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in several online
journals including Blaze VOX, Ygdrasil, Bergen Street Review, Houston Literary Review, Persistent Mirage, among others.



Ray Succre


The Motion in Calendars

After months and still more months,
memory a rolling ball dog-pawed
across the yard, and in still more years,
the chance of it being anything
other than this dog, this ball, and this yard
becomes diminutive.

You bounce from steps, a tree, and a car,
and wait for the dog to tire,
rushed like a sowbug climbs
wet sink walls,

yet still, inert, like rubble set
between panes in a museum.

Flow of Daybreak

I arrive at work, 6:10, minutes late because I couldn't find my left shoe. I reach the front door, which has a scan-card slot. I fish for my scan-card, find it, slide it, and the door chimes, clicks. I have one second to pull the door open before it magnetically re-locks. The scan-card slot also registers the time at which I’ve arrived for work. It goes into my attendance record. I have brandyball dreams, figure divine;

and the sweet Negatron was there, Lliam,
doorman, a sentry and yes-man,
but twenty-two and a day,
and to make unhappy imps a record,
a salty rind to inherit.
The doorman saw, vanishing
as if brushed so slight by my momentum,
my ten-minute lateness, and so
charts heavily, to call it some attention.


Farewell, umber pig and spotter,
or how shall I be merry?
Strangely, there are no
happier pipers than
toggled protocols, if/then,
and singing the human in,
not quite four feet tall, just past two feet wide, and barely fitting the outdated computer and old phone, much less me, I breathe a moment. “Shape up.” I hear from the manager.

Sputtering Man

The old, mouthing man, a
confectionist,
changed one button each day,
for seven by week's end,
and threw away his shirt.

He had been boasting about
two hearts led by one mind:
he'd learned a girl, and
his sweets had more angles
than tastes rightful need.

The tail of Winter was
influenzing,
had sorted Autumn.
He and Winter had
removed their women,
put their predecessors in a case
survived by few breezes,
and set them aside.

Embarrasing.

So he formed more candies,
diligent sweets, working,
daylight into twilight,
but could he taste?
Was it pleasurable?

On the back of his life,
he crept into himself,
and worried on the number
of hellos in a day.


Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son. He has been published in Aesthetica, Laika, and Rock Salt Plum, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. He tries hard.

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