Four Poems

By Sarah Jean Grimm

Poetry

 

HOUSE WINE

 

I throw my body around the room

Attempting to sweat out a decade

Of harm I’ll keep inflicting

Who am I to disrupt a pattern

Three Poems

By Sam Pink

Poetry

 

SAME THING

 

Talking to yourself

is really just

practicing all the cool shit

you might say to someone else

or maybe

wouldn’t waste on anyone else.

Either way, you know?

 

1.

The internet is

A long hallway and you are

Way down there yelling

Four Poems

By Babak Lakghomi

Poetry

 

Where I Work

 

On the first floor

robots and humans work together

On the second floor

only humans

stare at their screens

wait for five o’clock to arrive

they have lawns to mow

leaves to blow

Some of them have kids

Two Short Ones

By Alec Berry

Poetry

 

I have a few more years to go as I am,

then I’m changing my name to Lyle and disappearing

and getting really into BBQ and BBQ festivals and the people they contain.

I am saving money for this.

Brad’s Face

By Gene Morgan

Poem

My notes for a potential story about Brad’s face on the evening of November 8, 2016

Start with some general thoughts about Brad, maybe just the grass in Brad’s backyard and his cool studio/garage area. Focus on the small stuff that I like about Brad. How nice it was for him to invite us over for the election suicide party.

 

Blue House

 

Once we lived together in a little blue house

Then we moved together into a big blue house

And you said

Look, baby, I built this for you

And I said

Look, baby, I built this for you

I pointed to my chest

I said

If you ever get tired of living in a blue house

You can live in here

And so you did

He thinks I’m about to give him a blowjob but I’m just bending down to tie my shoe. “Can we go for a walk in the cemetery?” But he won’t go anywhere with me unless I promise we can stop at a bakery or pizza place first. On the internet I read ‘when you consume a carbohydrate that has been cooked it has the same effect on your body as white sugar’ and my heart rate increases a little and I start sweating. I’m waiting for him to finish a computer game so we can go out. He doesn’t need to play the computer game right now. My symptoms of depersonalization disorder are very strong right now. “My symptoms of depersonalization disorder are really strong right now,” I say to him.

Two Poems

By Shy Watson

Poetry

 

CONDOMS APPLES TOMATO TOMATO

inconclusive like

im dreaming again

kitsch art on the walls

of an imagined, shored-up room

in manzanita

on adderall

under a ceiling

why bother

at weezer

karaoke

you are noticing things

like when paradise kneels

to her knees

the screensaver reminds me

of hawaii

which in turn now

reminds me

of you

Two Poems

By Connor Ong

Poetry

 

April 19, 1994

Apparently when I was born

I asked the OB-GYN

if the lighting in the room could be changed

I wanted it less direct,

preferred it to be a little more developed

and civil to all things inside the room

especially the elements unfocused

Why poetry?

In my early 20s, I started writing poetry as a way to cope with melancholy, challenge what wasn’t working out in love, work, life in general. I submitted to a mix of college literary journals and cultural magazines and received some acceptances. They gave me the drive to carry on, although some jobs and lifestyle changes got in the way of continuity. About fifteen years later, I started to write short stories and hoped to write a novel one day. Then my late mother suffered a massive stroke in 2006 and I found myself running back and forth between New York and Pennsylvania to help with caregiving. Time constraints led me to resume writing poetry and that’s where I’ve stayed. I consider my poems short short stories. I find it challenging in a positive way to tell a story in as few words as possible. Since 2013, I’ve belonged to an online poetry community called brevitas where 50+ poets share short poems (13 lines maximum) twice a month. I haven’t missed a submission since I started. Many brevitas poems appear in my latest poetry collections.

Since we mostly communicate through social media, texts and e-mails, I think the brevity of poetry makes it an optimal medium for reaching readers with a story, inspiration, some thought-provoking ideas. It doesn’t require a considerable investment in time.

I learned the art of detachment
from a destructive pest
romanticized by poets
whose origins go back millions of years.

Celestial nomads that feast on
leather, wool, silk, felt
and thrive on night
taught me to let go of longing—

After-After

By Shira Dentz

Poem

American is the new German,
German the new American.
A square of window might be
1/4 or 1/12 depending
on whether you think
said window is two panes
or one.
My name is Nazi Avenue.
I have a lot of gifts,
fertility isn’t one of them.
Glass against a night
sky is like paper
for any light before it
to be written on.

What is it with you and the dreams?

That’s a pertinent question. That shows me you actually read my poem. Or wrote it. Either way, thank you.

The dreams have been a muse for a long time; maybe even forever, hence the poem’s title. The dream described in the poem is literally my earliest memory: all my toys dancing in a ring of light around my crib to the tune of It’s A Small World After All.

Your earliest memory, from the cot dreams
toys hoofing in a ring of light, to the tune
it’s a small world, after all that is poetry in itself
apropos of such unfolding, in nonage, in infancy
marriage at twenty-five, offspring by thirty
was never yours, nor office administration
not even the longest term mortgage, to settle you
into the long haul, the long yards,
the back yards, and cats and dogs
none of them yours. It was written in a villanelle
it was ordained by Auden, it killed your chances
you slid by the cornfields, under Van Gough’s sill
you fell into a lustful fate, a pond of muddy water
you swam with the eels, your electric adult
on the blink, powering down and dreamless.