A Poem by Ivan Jenson

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Cougar alert
by Ivan Jenson

lady
you wear your heart
on your sleeve
which makes for
a very sincere
and bloody mess
you also have
all but spelled out
the grammatically
incorrect plans
you have for me
and your frankly
forward propositions would
have to be bleeped
out on prime-time TV
and I retreat
from your advances
because you scared
the smile right off my face
when you hiked your skirt
licked your lips
and winked
when I was only
asking for change
for a dollar
so that I could
feed the starving meter
where I parked

Ivan Jenson’s Absolut Jenson painting was featured in Art News, Art in America, and Interview magazine. His art has sold at Christie’s, New York. His poems have appeared in Word Riot, Zygote in my Coffee, Camroc Press Review, Haggard and Halloo, Poetry Super Highway, Mad Swirl, Underground Voices Magazine, Blazevox, and many other magazines, online and in print. Jenson is also a Contributing Editor for Commonline magazine. Ivan Jenson’s debut novel Dead Artist is available as a paperback and on Amazon Kindle and Nook. His new novel, a psychological thriller entitled Seeing Soriah is now available as an eBook or in Paperback on Amazon. A collection of Ivan Jenson’s drawings and poetry will soon be published by Hen House Press, New York.

A Poem by Michael Snyder

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Peri Banou’s One Thousand and One Neuschwanstein Apts.
or Making Love in a Rowboat on a Bavarian Lake;
Collage Poem #4267

by Michael Snyder

Arthur recruited Lancelot cause he rhymed with Camelot.
The novelty broke bread with 47 Ronin double-negative
ghostriders sussing penance from paradise in this uniphonic
ejaculation of imagination to farthest nether region’s juicy galas.
“Wanna be buried in space? Now’s your chance!” blasts the stereo.
..We caught mono from the monotone learning lifespeak
in translations of Murakami books and bitching
about brightness to the sun.
Vinyl Siding with romanticism is romanticide..
–the live dog nuzzles the dead one.
A steel girder girdle girl riled my flamage.
friend heroine muse lover
If God can be a woman, so can the Devil.
Looking for the massage château in Hieronymous Bosch’s
‘Garden of Earthly Delights’, we run smack dab
thru a taqueria hellscape cornfeeding observatory starlets.
*Before we get too far into the poem, it might benefit the reader
to google ‘tangential’, ‘heuristic’, and ‘random absolute’.

Armoured daffodils breathe easy like revival smiles
and 18 wheelers with “I brake for bunnies” bumper stickers.
He was born on a Boeing 747–talk about your plane of existence.
I’ve had my blinker on for a 200 mile stretch in this nighttime desert;
Norwegian Valhallogens beam light year’s jeers onto this 20 dollar
ritual suicide knife path of fondant twerk coffee haus creamer.
–Shoulda known dressing as a No-Dachi Warlord in a Jap steakhouse
would bring down the wrath of Hello Kitty and Chococat!
(btw, Poets are mostly good for in-breeding and in-fighting).
i slave away to ’36 Views of a Dual Domed Nuclear Reactor’
caught on Fuji film thinking ‘what can make us sink?’
and ‘what will tow us from the brink?’..
Sometimes, though, it’s as if i’ve left myself in the lobby.
Meanwhile Mad King Ludwig trips over the snare drum of his
own beatnik. But beyond the washed up shore, mermaids serenade
on mother of pearl strats sending sunrise frisson into the crook
of our universal niche.

*Don’t worry hipsters, 2 thou of these 2 thou and 1 hits are mine…

Michael Snyder is a truck driver, poet warrior, cat lover, and cheesecake eater. He is a regular contributor to the daily poetry site Haggard and Halloo Publications.

A Poem by Aaron Fagan

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ANTIQUE MOON
by Aaron Fagan

I dragged a garbage bag
Far into the park at night,
A shovel over my shoulder.

Streetlamps dotted the way.
Every so often I’d stop, look
Up and listen to how quiet

A city can be before I found
My place where I could begin
To dig in the earth, far beyond

The threshold of my capacity
For fear or rage, driving me
Down past all sense where

Something else of my perfect
Youth I never knew began to
Course through me as I lifted

The shovel again, momentarily
Allowed to be confused by
The swirls escaping me out

Into the spring evening air.
As I go digging deeper into
The hole and back through life,

Sparse drops of rain came down
And then harder, breaking off
An uneven shelf of earth

Knocking me out at the bottom
Of the hole, the earth came down
With the rain and filled me in—

Letting the bag rest there
Glistening in the moonlight
Between forms of misunderstanding.

A Poem by Shon Toney

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raft of birds
by shon toney

floating down a river of okra
on a raft i salvaged out of
dysfunctional birds with the flu

the earth is my imaginary friend

i am the stomach growl
where some sort of organ of conscious should have been

i am adrift on the tiny chip on her shoulder

her vagina is a giant canyon shaped
like a magician’s top hat

gravity guides us past smiling gravestones
into the currents just off the edge
that jet into open space

everything that ends begins here

in this free for all fall

a raft of birds makes a poor kite

i am
what i feel
is

air

next time i close my eyes
i really will

A Poem by Reed Posey

reedposey

There is no magic if everything is magic
by Reed Posey

I wanted an answer to the difficult questions of the material world:
What existed before the big bang?
If space is expanding, what is it expanding in?
What happened to mar the pristine singular void and submit the lake of totality to the trouble of actually existing?
I did an experiment
I did an experiment to test the effects of magnets on quartz watches
People said it was a crazy thing to do, and that I would look like a crazy person
And that people would be embarrassed for me for doing science in public
Because, as every one knows, I’m not a professional scientist.
I am, however, doing science to try to figure something out that I want to know.
An experiment to test the effect of solar flares on komboucha
You wouldn’t believe the results. You literally wouldn’t. Imagine a nearly implausible result.
Now imagine I’m telling you that’s exactly what happened.
Now imagine yourself not believing me, as I wave my hands in front of me saying
I’m not shitting you, I’m really not.
I did an experiment to test the cognitive bias of people who drink diet coke
And you wouldn’t believe me, but it’s true, they exist as a singular culture
Many of whom who would kill Parent A in in order to save Parent B from Parent A
At age 15 and younger with a gun in the kitchen, yes, I’m afraid this happens again and again. Charlize Theron, your personal suffering has given your characters amazing depth.
I did an experiment and made copies in my brain
Every time you repeat something, your brain makes a copy. Every time you repeat something, your brain makes a copy.
Every time you repeat something, your brain makes a copy. Every time you repeat something, your brain makes a copy.
Every time you repeat something, your brain makes a copy. Every time you repeat something, your brain makes a copy.
An experiment to define the dimensions of the mind, in cubic inches- it turns out you can’t; the mind is 3-dimensional, holographic, and fully scalable with a nearly infinitely rescalable zoom starting at any point- it’s the resolution which changes, ostensibly based on the size of the memory or the thought.
I did an experiment playing 2 different copies the same cd on 2 different portable 10 second anti-skip protection cd players, both of Japanese manufacture, at the same time. They began in synch but got out of synch in the first two minutes.
I took them to the computer lab at UCDavis and the technicians there told me that the CD’s contained exactly the same information. As I had suspected.
I took them down to the electron microscope lab for a closer look. The man at the front desk said they were going to call security if I refused to leave.
When security got there I pleaded my case: Sirs, sirs, when you look close enough at matter there’s nothing there. Everything is made of space and a series of repulsions and attractions assigned to nuclei that are only definable by the forces assigned to them as described in the laws of the universe- there’s no speck of anything there, not when you look close enough.
It just disappears. Everything exists as energy and information: energy synchronized by the forces of data recognition conditions. The implication is that the entirety of our universe is information, and as such, it can be hacked.
The man at the desk told the officers that I was right, and asked them to let me go with a warning.
I wanted to leave them, the officers, and the scientists, with a final thought before being escorted away:
There was a time when humans lived the same as their ancestors had for hundreds and thousands of generations,
and they lived as their heirs would live for hundreds and thousands of generations more.
Humanity was cradled in the abundance of the web of life, the sustainable systems of the world.
But something happened to start an irreversible change, cascading like a virus through cultures, replacing long-standing mandates.
It was humanity’s introduction to the period of time we call history- and how long is history? 10,000? 20,000? 25,000 years? And then what?
Well, consider the metaphor of the birth canal. History, being the birth canal, is the transition zone between our animal bodies and our god-selves.
And if we stay too long, we’re in danger of poisoning the womb.
Our fingers are stuck in the delicate web, and the harder we try, the worse it looks.
Our species is stuck trying to bring its imagination into the material world, but we will all become gods when we understand how our imaginations already construct our material world, our systems of governance, political structure, economics, family structure, eating habits, work habits, aesthetic taste, psychology in general, and cognition totally.
One of the officers blogged about the event. No one commented on the entry.

A Poem from Klipschutz

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THE UNKNOWN LYRIST’S EASTER SUNDAY SERMON TO HIMSELF
by Klipschutz

National Poetry Month or no,
I am, per usual, alone,
in that dreary little cul-de-sac
removed from luck and light,
BOOKS ON TAPE and MYSTERY,
green to yellow COOKING,
the bitter dream of TRAVEL,
surrounded by the pure pith of the ages,
the rotten, ripe and wax fruit of the age.
My eyes fall on an argument,
The Ordeal of Robert Frost,
no doubt misshelved, well-reasoned prose,
which I don’t disturb,
having ordeals of my own.

Outside a weak sun shines
as my Rockports carry me
back to this Tendernob cavern.
(What used to be a “garret, carpet new”
now lists as “atmospheric, skyline view.”)

Okay, he had it hard, we know, we know.
The hired hand comes home to die,
that much I recall, God-fearing solid souls
take him in. Apples, birches, fences,
the virtues of persistence and blank verse.
Still no matter how you slice it,
the ordeal of Robert Frost has gone to sleep.
I on the other hand rock on
from crisis to conceit,
elegy to chorus, cheek to cheek,
beset by editors and landlords without faces.

An early April afternoon could’ve gone worse.
One’s bookworm cul-de-sac is the apple of another’s universe.

Klipschutz (pen name of Kurt Lipschutz) is a poet, songwriter and occasional freelance journalist. This poem is from his new book from Anvil Press.