Tag: life

The Gray, Brutal Desperation

the price of wet socks
by Keith Landrum

when mother nature is depressed
she cries for a week
but some say it’s god
taking a piss
on all of his sinners

and really
either explanation
seems reasonable

because there is
a gray area
void
of color
or warmth
a place without
smiles

and that’s where I’ve been
standing
on the front porch
under leaking gutters
watching the gray
float from the end
of a desperate cigarette

as the weatherman
defends his honor
with science
declaring
all of this rain
all of this gray
all of my blues
nothing
but a simple
brutal wind
designed
to
burn
the
hearts
of
man

—–

Keith Landrum paints, works, draws, writes, and drinks in Chattanooga, TN. His work can be found in various print and online small press publications.

Churning Eternal Chaos

The Churning Guts
by Scott Thomas Outlar

We feast,
we shit,
we fuck,
we rut,
we live a little while
and then we die.
It’s all the same actions,
the same emotions,
the same experiences.
It’s the same sperm,
the same egg,
the same womb
when we are born.
It’s the same worms,
the same casket,
the same grave
when we perish.
It’s all very ugly
and brutal,
but we try and tease it,
to play with it,
to smooth it out
so that it takes on
the illusion of being beautiful.
We create words
and signs
and symbols
to try and frame the eternal chaos
into some sort of fake order
that is easier to digest
for those with
squeamish stomachs.

—–

Scott Thomas Outlar burst forth from the womb with thoughts of Renaissance, Revolution and Revelation dancing around the newly enlivened neuron synapses of his consciousness. Wasting no time, he huffed some oxygen, then got down to the business at hand by hammering out poetry, essays, rants, manifestos, and experimental, existential, prose-fusion screeds dedicated to the Phoenix Generation. His work has appeared in venues such as Dissident Voice, Loose Change Magazine, Record, Leaves of Ink, Jellyfish Whispers, Aphelion, and The Fanzine. Scott can be contacted at [email protected].

These Mundane Tortures

SPARKS
by Jared A. Carnie

when you see photos of yourself
that remind you of
trying to smile

when you can’t quite sleep
and the dog’s next to you
already snoring

when you’re so excited about connecting
to novel, film, song
you can’t focus on the rest

when solitude gives you
adrenaline
and nothing to do

when you regret paying for something
by the time
you’ve got it home

when you want them so much
you can’t do anything
that helps you have them

those friction lines
between touching things
and touching things

that’s where sparks, depression
illusion
hope

begin the mundane tortures
that keep us going
that stop us stopping

——————

Jared A. Carnie recently returned from the Outer Hebrides. In August he featured at the Inverness Book Festival. He can be found at prettyneet.wordpress.com

The Skates of Holy Bloody Joy

In Line at the Bank
by Ryan Hardrgrove

street kids
skate in the park
screaming holy bloody joy
not caring about anything
besides how to have more fun
They think
“we have to be home later”
that. is. it.
even eating isn’t a problem
kids are fed
the kids will always be fed
it’s the parents who starve

the skate park hangs over
the bank parking lot
and I listen to them
from my stale car interior
growing staler every second
there is some sticky residue
lacquered into the cup holder
and the kids are laughing

Inside the bank it’s hot
the walls are blue
a middle aged woman teller
counts money quietly
while a frail old man
scrupulously mulls over the
different types of deposit/withdrawal slips
a fan runs somewhere unseen
that cocaine smell of money

the vault is just off to the side
I stare back into it
It seems to be open just a little
and I think that I could probably fit
but when I look back toward the tellers
the middle aged woman is looking at me
like I’m a raccoon rooting through her trash

so I leave
keeping the 97 dollars in my pocket
I hit the parking lot
and the children are still laughing

I want to go buy a skateboard
with the money
but I don’t know how to skate
and the electric bill is due
so I drive home
grab a beer out of the fridge
drink it too fast
then sit there burping
and fingering the money in my pocket
wondering
how it came to be like this

—–

Ryan Hardgrove is currently wading through his late twenties as a feckless bartender and responsible father. He is also a writer and a musician. He lives in Pittsburgh, PA with his common law wife and their son.

Shared Edens of Thick Pages

Why I Can’t Finish Raymond Carver’s Biography
by Cheryl Rice

For months I slogged through that new
bio of Raymond Carver, that
massive headstone of a volume that
details his lumberjack childhood,
child bride waitress, educational gallivants to
Yakima, Berkeley, Iowa City, with
Israel thrown in as a stab at real class,
rocket speed lives propelled by
alcohol, ego, love, and I realize
I remember the best parts already.

They remind me of my parents, guessing at normal,
Sunday cookouts with aluminum grills,
charcoal briquettes and plenty of lighter fluid,
lawn chairs repaired with new plastic webbing,
easy weave repeating its Woolworth glory.
Their only major move, though, was South,
to Florida, when they’d finished off
life on Long Island for good, a final decade
of hard work off short piers,
illogical chemistry driving them into the sunset,
holding pattern horse track surrounding
their Eden of silent palms, around and
around, brass ring out of reach.

Here on my own carousel, I pick up the book,
put it down, thick pages turning too slowly.
I roll over, shut my eyes, try to go to sleep,
but see Syracuse blizzards, oil drum cannons
exploding with independent fire,
brown American Schaefers lining ancient
suburban sidewalks, awaiting inspection,
sacrifice of hamburgers, hot dogs on a rolling pyre,
Dad turning, turning the meat, Mom inside
constructing potato salad thick with mayo
and regret, biting onion tears.

I hear when I close my eyes the Good Humor man passing,
and the sun slanting sideways, Atlantic sparkling
like a rabbit’s watch, time trickling on the
way it does on either coast.

—–

Founder and host of the Sylvia Plath Bake-Off, Cheryl A. Rice has run her RANDOM WRITING workshops throughout the Hudson Valley. Rice has lived there for over 30 years, after growing up on Long Island. Her poetry blog, Flying Monkey Productions, is at http://flyingmonkeyprods.blogspot.com/.