Saturday, April 12, 2008


I saw you, old man with your billowy, white beard
hiding the years your body has engraved
as its own personal history
and, though your years are few
compared to the life of the Earth,
you know you are old and you've almost lived too long

Your white, wiry, cotton beard is full of secrets
and I wondered (never guessed!) what they were
while children, hands impatiently holding their mothers',
ask quiety if maybe you are Santa Claus
because children have no knowledge
of the sorts of secrets you may keep
they only know the popsicle and juice
sticky lip to ear playground secrets

Old man, maybe that beard that you never trim,
but comb daily, is your one last material comfort
you have no prized possessions.
But your Kris Kringle beard with no lips, telling no tales,
will be there on your chin, resting on the shirt
hiding your rumbly, rattly old man's chest.
It will be there even after the end to keep you warm
and maybe it will keep on growing,
like your fingernails and toenails.
And when your family has left you behind
as a dusty photo in a dusty book in a box,
you will always have your beard
and it will remember everything
and it will tell no one

by Jennifer Haliewicz

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Thursday, April 10, 2008

Fuck Doll

Fuck doll for the night
holes in all the right places
a face, a mouth, a sex
gosh isn't this fun

When will the morning replace me?
do you think sunrise gives me respect
any more than you do
I fill the hole
I am a hole
guess what,
I'm not the only one

Do you feel my heart beat
it won't last long
numb fingers caress the flesh
that hangs on you
like an old cloth
you thought to drape
as your nakedness

I don't care
it keeps me warm, I think
that is what the night tells me
when I'm all alone
does it talk to you, too.

I say it again
plastic consciousness
runs through my veins
wanna buy a woman for the night?
give me a little affection

by S. Elizebeth Turnquist

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Monday, April 07, 2008

Dirty Poems are a delicious dish

at high noon
at a small cafe near the
local library
during its great grand opening
I sit across from a college girl
young, beautiful; ripe and opinionated
as she read one of my newest poems
I'm wondering what she thinks
not really, just acquiring some
honest feedback
from the more plentiful sex
she stops reading
slams the sheet down
on the glass table
with a look of utter
a dirty poem
she did tell me that she didn't like dirty poems
oh well
it's too late
my eyes are surveying
her griping tone
her sharp verbs
and angry pronouns
my eyes are watching
her breasts jiggle slightly
as she snarls out of disgust
she says she's offended
she says my poem is smut
my poem is not poetry at all
she grabs her purse
and she gets up and leaves
and later on, I get to my room
light a cigarette and start
writing another 'dirty' poem
then, there's a knock at my door
it's the offended college girl
with a mini-skirt on
and a bottle of grey goose;
her favorite, mine on occasion
she said she was so disgusted
by my poem
it made her feel 'dirty'
she spent the rest of the night
helping me write
an even dirtier one

by Marty Matthews

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Wednesday, April 02, 2008

Manic is the Dark Night

Deep into the forest
the trees have turned
black, and the sun
has disappeared in
the distance beneath
the earth line, leaving
the sky a palette of grays
sheltering the pine trees
with pitch-tar shadows.
It is here in this black
and sky gray the mind
turns psycho
tosses norms and pathos
into a ground cellar of hell,
tosses words out through the teeth.
"Don't smile or act funny,
try to be cute with me;
how can I help you today
out of your depression?"
I feel jubilant, I feel over the moon
with euphoric gaiety.
Damn I just feel happy!
Back into the wood of somberness
back into the twigs,
sedated the psychiatrist
scribbles, notes, nonsense on a pad of yellow paper:
"mania, oh yes, mania, I prescribe
lithium, do I need to call the police?"
No sir, back into the dark woods I go.
Controlled, to get my meds. I
twist and rearrange my smile,
crooked, to fit the immediate need.
Deep in my forest
the trees have turned black again,
to satisfy the conveyer--
the Lord of the dark wood.

by Michael Lee Johnson

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