Friday, October 30, 2009
This month features Derek Richards, Felino Soriano, A.A. Veitch, David Kowalczyk and Sergio A. Ortiz
the doctor ignores my demands
for stronger painkillers
push, keep pushing
my wife grips my hand tighter
offers encouragement i don't even know why we're having this baby
we each share a dislike
for anything seven years and younger
i push again, harder
thinking that after this is all over
my wife and i need to talk
how to fail as a rock star
(originally published in MediaVirus)
attend yoga classes daily
shampoo your hair
purchase pre-ripped jeans
fall in love with a girl
who doesn't have issues
name your child when sober
drink vitamin water
smile for the camera
learn to dance
save your money
i am the anti-christ
i've got the answers to all the worlds problems,
no one has asked me yet.
i speak well in public.
my fiance reminded me that i wore
a black winter hat
all through christmas dinner.
black winter hat.
my favorite number is six.
so maybe i'll want to repeat it
a couple more times.
my last relationship ended with these words,
you are the fucking anti-christ.
my full initials are D.G.R. Devil-Guy-Rising...?
i've presented just some of the evidence,
then respond to this poem
with flattery and offers of cash,
because i'll be seeing you around.
After performing for years, as both a musician and poet, in and around the Boston area, Derek Richards has recently decided to begin submitting his work for publication. So far he has been accepted for publication in Ghoti Magazine, Lung, MediaVirus, Word Riot, Right Hand Pointing, Tinfoildresses, The Legendary, Breadcrumb Scabs, Shootsand Vines, Cantaraville, Soundzine, The Centrifugal Eye, Strong Verse, Underground Voices, River Poets Journal, Halfway Down the Stairs, Dew on the Kudzu and Opium 2.0. His poetry aims to be direct and honest, brilliant and lucrative. He is currently residing in Gloucester, Mass., happily engaged and cleaning windows for a living.
Painters’ Exhalations 642
—after Brian Simmons’ Old Town
Old town wears
segregating aspects of
hoary shadows. Home is
allowing quiet corners
containing specialized memories
spiraled walls of choired hymns
cannot claim existence
such as the pluralized patina forming
beautiful streaks of turquoise
stares into abbreviated newness.
Painters' Exhalations 643
--after William Phelps Montgomery's Slow Dance
the back room music heard on sight of
birds' majestic slapping flap-wing rhythm,
resting within residue’s origami
Earth's 24 time 2/4 echo holds
hand of cloud's delicate
crafting pull, covering eye-sanity
fathom, future freely
seen in virtual expose,
naked the bodies move of tandem,
terrible recognition when torn
from designed rendition of
Painters’ Exhalations 644
—after Maria Mann’s Cold Comfort
Inside indigo’s largest
masculine sleeve (barrel-grand garment
housing articulate mansion-base
no index of flying X’s
round into focus haze finds fortunate on penultimate
guidelines (last, death).
A cold, distant cold
manmade bruise on heroine
circulates among an air nearest dust’s most
Felino A. Soriano (b. 1974, California), is a case manager and
advocate for developmentally and physically disabled adults. He has
authored 16 collections of poetry, including “Altered Aesthetics”
(ungovernable press, 2009), and “Construed Implications”
(erbacce-press, 2009). His poems have appeared at Calliope Nerve, Full
of Crow, BlazeVOX, Metazen, Heavy Bear, and elsewhere. He edits &
publishes Counterexample Poetics, www.counterexamplepoetics.com, an
online journal of experimental artistry, and Differentia Press,
www.differentiapress.com, dedicated to publishing e-chapbooks of
experimental poetry. He is also a contributing editor for Sugar Mule,
www.sugarmule.com, and consulting editor for Post: A Journal of
Thought and Feeling, www.postjournalofthoughtandfeeling.com.
Philosophical studies collocated with his love of classic and
avant-garde jazz explains motivation for poetic occurrences. His
website explains further: www.felinoasoriano.info/
A. A. Veitch
(Previously published in bear creek haiku)
Because we wither
like whispers in the
wintertimes of our life span
Loss is the sound of
pulling a thousand
The insufferable feeling of it
still shatters my heart
into countless ghosts;
with buttons for eyes &
wounds to lick
(Previously published in freefall)
left behind his
in preparation. (No love poetry)
Mowing the lawn
Weeds nosy to our toes.
The blades and hands.
uncut and what we
later do with them,
to each other.
Crimes of humanity, the hilarity.
The extremists and their
nil respect for life,
no remorse for lack of chivalry.
Their passions removing all logic.
Lost weeds in a thick nameless patch.
Barely breathing, no
justified means in religion
exploited for greed, ignorance,
They’ll die, sad nobodies in
an airless tangle of ache.
As if their suicide bombs grant
them rights. Decisions they
raid as though it’s destiny for everybody.
refusing to acknowledge reality.
They’re too dense to know to want it.
There’s no love poetry in the desert of a barren heart.
A. A. Veitch has had poems published in mags such as: freefall, Black Book Press, Lilliput Review, Shemom, bear creek haiku, Nomad’s Choir & The Poet’s Art. She insists that she’s a "professional." She dabbles in art & opinion pieces. Ms. Veitch is a badly-practicing Christian, native Georgian without a Gone-with-the-Wind brogue; new pet parent to a tabby-mix cat & supporter of a bill preventing employers from discriminating against people with poor credit scores. She's shopping out her two chapbooks: 'Poethead' & 'Seasons of Flesh.'
Praying Like Mencius
vanish instantly. Leaving no clues
as to dreams or desires,
no traces of attachment,
no evidence of being.
Still Thy Leprous Tongues
And all the angels,
the winged wonders
wandering in the wind,
"Where will you sleep?
What will still your hunger?"
I tell them:
"Hush. My bed is made
of dreams and prayers,
and my bread is made of faith."
"Something about you makes us
feel like Easter," the angels reply,
their hands no longer fists.
Words Like The Earth Slowly Leaning Forward
turn to sand.
Wild, detached, and,
David Kowalczyk lives and writes in Oakfield, New York. He has taught English in Changwon, South Korea, and San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, as well as at several American colleges, including Arizona State. His poetry has appeared in five anthologies and over seventy magazines, including St. Ann's Review, Maryland Review, and Rumble. He was founding editor of Gentle Strength Quarterly.
Sergio A. Ortiz
Last night I heard
a gathering of dead lilies
in the garden. Their petals covered
my mouth and I screamed: Wait!
I faded into a mist, magenta
dusk, the aroma of stables,
that last evening murmur,
and I cried.
A sandpiper chases waves up
and down the shoreline.
He is a character from a romance novel
waiting for an author.
It takes depth
to write memoirs,
afternoons full of
before my voice floods
Ortiz has a B.A. in English literature from Inter-American University, and a M.A. in philosophy from World University. His poems have been published or are forthcoming in: Autumn Sky Poetry, 3LightsGallery, The Smoking Poet, The Acentos Review, Poesia, and Words-Myth.