3 of My Poems on-line now at Ishmael's Dog

Three of my poems (all from The Sea, a chapbook due out early next year from Mud Luscious) are now available at Ishmael's Dog

I'm really proud of these poems. And of The Sea.

Ishmael's Dog is a newish blog devoted to criticism and reviews of poetry, movies, etc. And it's just starting to publish poetry and fiction also. Check out my poems and check out some of the posts there.

The Inching Worm, etc -- Some Time with Mud Luscious 9

One of the things I like about Mud Luscious is that although it lacks a bit of user interface (can't click on each author or piece for example) it's easy to print out the entire issue (with other on-line journals this can be quite tedious.)

So, last night and this morning I've been reading the current Mud Luscious (number 9).

Another thing I really like about Mud Luscious is that their issues contain, for the most part,
writers I wasn't previously familiar with.

The following pieces really stuck out for me:

Apart with Other People (Kate Wyer)
Untitled. Diptych (Christina Farella) (especially the first half of the second half)
Obese with Armor (Cortney McLelland)
Other Sisters (Roxane Gray)
Concerning Your Holes (Gregory Sherl)

But the piece that really struck me is "In Five Sentences" by Kimberly E. Ruth.



In Five Sentences by Kimberly E. Ruth

1.

we breathe controlled air. outside, the large mass of weightless, uncontrolled, matter takes recognizable form. i point to the inching worm in the distance. we spear through him with shiny blades and heavy wings. i am in the air now.


2.

funny how the sun didn’t inform the flowers of its departure. they are stuck now, on this shade, like dried foundation on a towel. it's like a censored bedtime story illuminating shapes on the wall. a rooster looks down from a rooftop. close your eyes, you tell her.

3.

i am witnessing the wind and it is moving empty shopping carts. i am reminded of you. you held me tight, once, here, in front of the eggs and condensed milk and i miss that. it is still cold here. a black cloud rolls over and it, too, reminds me of you.

4.

there is too much air up here. the cross roads below don’t. i take out a ball of string, black in all its order, perfect in its shape. i try to tie myself to a cloud but it does not take. quick, grab a camera before the wind comes, he says.

5.

he blew up my balloon and i held my breath. as it got bigger, so did my eyes, as though air were being blown into me instead of the balloon. i was filled with air. it was filling with air. i am in the car now and the window is down and the air is blowing and my hair is blowing and the balloon is dancing and mom says hold it still she can’t see behind her, so, i held it still.


Reading this piece over a couple of times, slowly, I thought, among other things, of Shane Jone's "Light Boxes" and Emily Kendal Frey's "Airport."

All the Messiahs - Mud Luscious (5 new poems)

A handful of my "All the Messiahs" poems are now up at J.A. Tyler's "Mud Luscious"

I've just read through the issue and there are lots of really interesting pieces (poems and short fiction).

Here are some bits and pieces that spiked my brain

from "Brother" by Mike Meginnis


I am not like the moon, I am like a beach. The tide is out. There are shelled creatures and baby turtle corpses and dead jellyfish scattered around him in the gray sand of me. My organs I guess. He is dead on the beach, or sleeping. He is waiting for the tide. There is nothing more lonely than to have a person inside you.



from Killer Time by Pecho Kanev

I have problems with my head
I have problems with the world
I have problems with all these empty bottles
of Beck’s all around me
I have problems with my lonely nights
with my lonely erections-
useless and trivial



from The Final Feast by Ethel Rohan

At the end of the beginning of love lies the origin of man’s inferior spirit, his shriveled heart, violent longing. I know it. I know it and don’t think I can contain the conviction of it inside my skin. No, the truth of the end of the beginning of love must get outside me in the same way that babies must get outside their mothers.



from We Grew Pianos by Russell Thorburn


Instead of gardening
we played the piano side by side,

following as the sun hung there
on our bare heads



and, last, but not least :)


from Intersect by Tia Prouhet

So we leave each other now,
jerk ing and snap ing
our way to other beds
full of flesh and hands
that will teach us
how to curl.



to check it all out go here