Saturday, July 19, 2014

LOVE IS THE BOMB

Sometimes
grinning openly
like the face
of Jesus
people see
in a slice
of cheese toast

other times
wrung out
& staggering
toward you
with that sort
of concave,
radioactive look,

the night
of a thousand suns
shimmering,

bodacious orange
on black,

& grabbing you
like Khrushchev’s shoe
by the hand.

About Howie Good:
Howie Good's latest book of poetry is The Complete Absence of Twilight (2014) from MadHat Press. He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely, who does most of the real work.

Thursday, July 10, 2014

HURRICANE MAN

anyway,
i laughed.

we made love
on the wooden floor,
our teeth knocking together.

my knees blossoming red,
your hands, your hands, your hands--

later,
you told me you loved me.

later,
you said,
          why should i not?

i’d heard this before.

cognitive dissonance is:
the ability to hold two opposing ideas in your head at the same time

you are:
your mouth
your words

(when you breathe you sound like two men breathing)

at one point you pulled me outside
the wind was blowing
and the ground was wet.

you said
look at the storm
look at the storm

look at the storm coming in.


About Lindsey Siferd:
Lindsey Siferd is a 2013 graduate of St. Mary's College of MD, where she now works as an admissions counselor. Her senior thesis was a collection of essays and poems about her family history, religion, and drug abuse. She had several poems published in her alma mater's literary magazine, Avatar.

Friday, July 4, 2014

AN UNTITLED POEM BY SIMON PERCHIK

You show up late as usual
need more darkness
though you wait

the way each star
smells from dirt
and her eyelids

–the mouth you return to
is already weeds
worn down by the silence

that’s lost its balance
can’t escape
and won’t let go

–some nights
further than others
smaller and smaller.


About Simon Perchik:
Simon Perchick's poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere.

Monday, June 23, 2014

TWO POEMS BY DON THOMPSON



Oriole

To live here and thrive,       
You have to think like dust.

Have to humble yourself
Like languid, khaki moths,

So drab in the dead grass
Predators don’t notice them.

Our visiting oriole
Thrashes in the birdbath,

Trying to wash his colors off—
Embarrassed by bling

Where even hummingbirds dress in
Hand-me-down sparrow feathers.



Turkey Vultures

Selfless as fire, their flight
Effortless as leaves on water,

They draw a circle above our heads
That’s anything but a halo.

Vultures get under our skin
At any distance.  Up close,

They’d have the breath we wake with
After the worst bad dreams.

Eating things we won’t think about,
They look up from their free lunch

And meet our gaze easily—
As if we were old friends.



About Don Thompson:
Don Thompson been publishing since the early sixties, with eight books and chapbooks published in this century. Back Roads won the 2008 Sunken Garden Poetry Prize.

Saturday, May 31, 2014

IN MY CLOSET

ghosts grab at my skin every morning, remind me
that I shop mostly at thrift stores, that the previous owners
of my skirt, this hand-stamped leather belt
are dead. I imagine

the woman who owned this blouse has
died horribly, leapt to her terrifying death
out an open window, leaving emergency workers
with careful fingers to remove her clothes
and wash them in cold water
before sending them to Goodwill.

these shoes are definitely haunted
possessed by an angry ghosts—I can tell
by the way they pinch at my toes
and rip at the back of my heels when I walk
like they’re trying to kill me.


About Holly Day:
Holly Day was born in Hereford , Texas , also known as “The Town Without a Toothache.” She and her family currently live in Minneapolis , Minnesota , where she teaches at the Loft Literary Center . Her published books include Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, and Guitar All-in-One for Dummies.

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

CURIOUS PEOPLE

Science is not for me. On Nova I watch a gassy 
group of planets charming the hell 

out of Hubble, swirled into the beguiling 
figure of an angel. Physics explains this, I guess. 

I don't get it.  The idea of Light Years plunks around 
in my brain for a spot to stick. No place for you here, 

Light Year! I can't be asked to hold as true a random 
idea just to explain the incomprehensible. 

Who are these people dedicated to the make-up 
of rock, to the insides of black holes, to the danger 

of ice? What are they avoiding?  It's of no matter 
to me. I'm not concerned about how the universe 

behaves. I watch my family and want to be 
so ok not understanding them.  I want to watch 

them like particles that are only theoretically 
seen.  Of all science I find only the capacity 

to hurt somewhat spectacular. Take the electro-
magnetic wavelength.  I know, just accept it is a

billion mile ribbon, a continuous buzz grooving 
up and down over us, part perceptible in color

but the mere tiniest fraction. We think what hurts falls 
only in that spot where we see it. But then old aches

stab in the terahertz band, some quantum of childhood 
way out on the gamma end plucks and pain travels fast

faster than spacetime to smack me today.  The limit 
for long wavelengths is the size of the universe itself.

About Kim Suttell:
Kim Suttell lives in New York City, creating spreadsheets by necessity and poetry by choice. Her published poems can be found at page48.weebly.com.

Saturday, April 26, 2014

FAR FROM THE MOUNTAIN

Now you take your tea
far from the mountain.
There are
no more bouts
of wilderness,
no more blind cliffs
rushing the sky,
no more opened veins
of sunrise
at the horizon.

You have fled the mountains
for the fainthearted land
breaking forward and flat,

land of impatience
where no sleep is found
in the red eyelid of an anvil summer,
no way to catch a breath in the
long while of winter.


About Dean Baltesson:
Dean Baltesson lives in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada, where he spends most his time writing music and poetry. He has been published in Island Writer and IthacaLit and is slowly tending to a manuscript of his poems.

Friday, April 18, 2014

STRIKE

This year is the year we drive around
and look for things burning in the distance.
Weigh a starfish. Make a wish. Write down
the number you get to before the phone rings. 

When you get to the ocean, remember that
at one point in time, we knew how to
properly take our pulse. It’s all one big 
fountain. I’ve thrown more pennies into the

street than I’ve spent. Last year, I answered
the phone, and it was you. I couldn’t
tell you what I’d eaten for lunch. I learned how 
to swim too late in life. I stand in the shower

with a match in my teeth and I can’t hear
the sound it makes. Isn’t that the best damn
thing, though? I wish to find a calendar I won’t
forget about this year. I wish to find

something worth cleaning the ash off of.


About Dalton Day:
Dalton Day is a poet from Asheville, North Carolina. He received his B.A. in Literature and Language from UNC Asheville, where he was also awarded the 2012 Topp/Grillot Poetry Prize. His work has appeared in Foxing Quarterly, decomP, Radius, and the forthcoming Heavy Feather Review, among others. He is a poetry editor for FreezeRay Poetry. His first chapbook, Supernova Factory, was released in May 2013 by On the Cusp Press. He can be found at myshoesuntied.tumblr.com.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

WHORE

starving kid
gives you the finger
which is pretty funny

buzz of flies and the
smell of living flesh
                   gone bad

bones of small dogs
laid out in
geometric patterns

keep walking past the
third world
and what comes next?

what obscenities will
the people here
perform for you when
you promise them
                       food?

feels good finally
having all this
              power

About John Sweet:
John sweet, b. 1968; opposed to all organized religion and the idea of plutocracy masquerading as democracy. A believer in the grey area between Dada and surrealism. Work has appeared in Red Fez, Vagabondage Press, Pig Iron Malt, et al. Google "John Sweet Poetry" and there he is, in your face and spinning in circles. Collections include Human Cathedrals and In The Kingdom of Oblivion.

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

4 CAR WRECKS

i

She swats away the airbag, coughs, 
and stares at the windshield, 
both shattered and intact.

ii

On the way to the hospital,
he wonders why, then,
upside down in the Camry,
he had decided to learn the trombone.

iii

"All I can tell you, Judge, 
is you know you're drunk
and you know you're driving,
but somehow you don't think
you're drunk driving."

iv

Pinned under wreckage
and staring wide-eyed
at the stars.
A man of no faith,
he is now sure 
his dead mother
resides in the sky.


About Dale Wisely:
Dale Wisely is the founder and general editor of Right Hand Pointing, entering its 10th  year online. He is a clinical psychologist and lives and works in Alabama.