Holly Day… The Friend

 

The Friend

you come home from work and want me
to behave, be good, be someone
you can look forward to coming

home to

but I’m afraid I’ve
found someone new to play
with. he’s fat and he’s gross but
he’s my new best friend

he shows me naked pictures and

he lets me smoke cigarettes.
if you could only see
all the fun we have together
you’d see why

I don’t need you anymore.

we run around naked
laugh at each other’s privates, and
he tells me I’m the prettiest girl
in the whole apartment

building. so don’t worry about

coming home, Mommy. I don’t need
you anymore.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Holly Day

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Dawnell Harrison… Kleptomaniac

 

Kleptomaniac

Light drops from my side

with a new girl screaming

into the silent, rose-filled air.

She loves my face and

her father’s soft embrace.

The baby is a kleptomaniac.

She has stolen my placenta

and sucks my sagging breasts

like a hungry lion.

She cries like a girl as mad as bats

and steals my hearing and sanity.

My stomach still bulges and

my thighs are as thick as tree stumps –

the baby girl shows me she breathes

softly and has no responsibility.

She is a little God.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Dawnell Harrison

 

 

 

 

 

B.Z. Niditch… Wind Sails

 

Wind Sails

Off Gloucester
with the wind sails
burning up the coast
that tomorrow’s red sun
disappears at first light,
my brow beaten
into a Melville frenzy
spotting a Big White
of flesh
that old Ahab
would harpoon
daring to take
a photo with enough
space and time
in these storm clouds
before a voyage landing,
and the breeze taking
even the crows
on the home harbor’s neck.

 

B.Z. Niditch has published five times, thus far, on Rapoetics.com. He has a poem in Randomly Accessed Poetics’ latest Issue No. 6, Ghost House. And will soon have a single author chapbook, published by Penhead Press, released in June of 2015, called “Everything, Everywhere!”

In additon to writing word music, B.Z. Niditch writes plays, fiction, and teaches. He Lives in Brookline Massachusetts.

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Copyright © 2015 by B.Z. Niditch

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dennis Caswell… To Fire

 

To Fire

O leaping catharsis of atomic libido,
you have us. You sold yourself as a god
who comes when he’s called, and now
we lick the sludge off the bottoms
of primeval vegetable drawers
so we’ll never need to leave home
without a tankful of you.
BANG! Remember that?
That was the cosmos beginning.
Back then, you were everywhere
and everything, but now you’ve grown older
and learned to calm down, though sometimes
us clots of you feel you still in there.
Heraclitus didn’t need Einstein to know, “All things are
an exchange for fire, and fire for all things.”
For instance, I can exchange 3500 bucks
for a lovely certificate entitling me
to build confidence and foster a sense of empowerment
by instructing seekers to walk on you.
A Viking circumambulates land
holding a gobbet of you,
and that proves he owns it
(the land, not you).
I can’t figure out if you’re a genius
for making yourself the go-to metaphor
for both terror and sex, or if
you’re as reckless and stupid
as an incurable virus that has no idea
it’s killing its dinner. You have us locked
inside Earth’s garage, with your many engines
running, and not even Vulcan,
Vesta, Nusku, Girru, Agni, Pele,
or Kagutsuchi can make a wish
and blow you away.

 

Dennis Caswell is the author of the poetry collection Phlogiston, published by Floating Bridge Press in 2012. His work has appeared in Raven Chronicles, Floating Bridge Review, Crab Creek Review, and assorted other journals and anthologies. He lives outside Woodinville, Washington and works in the aviation industry.

Copyright © 2015 by Dennis Caswell

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frank C. Praeger… Neutral

 

Neutral

Gypsum, quartz,
an antinomy of parts;
renegade
recused to be host
who wanted to have joggled
rather than to have been a joke.
Flagrant, even if neutral,
dismissive as a gentled touch,
as to have been
revoked.
Thus, seized, regressed while pining for
three days now, a fortuity
that would leave one breathless,
a tocsin for self
whose rampages,
unlikely august,
would go unnoticed.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Frank C. Praeger