booksonblog13.blogspot.com
SOUTH AFRICA TODAY: FROM PROTEST TO PROTEST Joseph Masetle
Freedom Where is Freedom. Freedom where is freedom. Women rowed in hues. Turning and twisting backs. To barren derelict veld. Humming their pain away. To get food for tomorrow. Ploughing beans and maize. 8220;wake up and do it for yourself programme”. Baba Dladla demands to know. He sits on the bank stool. In the seething sun. From ice tine house. Dirty attire and muddy slippers. His head has not seen the comb. Nor his beard shaved. And ballooned belly kids. Skipping old panty house. Our Votes Our Rights.
booksonblog15.blogspot.com
The Docks Sing In Strange TonguesPanos Panagiotopoulos
I don't wish to have my name printed. On paper that ages and withers at a rhythm and pace. Slower than my own. Not known or whispered from mouth to mouth in fame. Not even slightly recognized by a photo, a companion to. Words that have a grasp on truth. Firmer than my own. I want to be the phrase, the anecdotal quote. He reads on the door of a toilet booth,. In the back restroom of a highway bar,. Somewhere, on the way to somewhere else. And as he walks out, relieved, and speaks,. By a name of my own.
booksonblog18.blogspot.com
The Muffled Sounds Subhankar Das
I do not remember it anymore. I do not remember the date anymore. But still April is the cruelest month. And on someday in April. My friend Subhash died of a heart attack. Without treatment suffering at a free hospital. For eight long hours. The twelfth man who has no rights or claims. Who comes and vanishes. Falls on the way to be replaced immediately. Some-fucking-day I will drop dead here and nobody. Will know, Subhash paused, his right hand up in mid air. And his fingers playing on an invisible piano.
booksonblog25.blogspot.com
Manga girls need love!Kyle Hemmings
Haruna, a Girl with the Face of a Forgetful Gem. When she's all sweet talk and ginger hands, the world turns soft and blind. In the night, her demons stand above your bed, swallowing swords, boasting of perfect night vision. Before the rain, your last words were.Do we have a future? Who would be the boss? Should we really turn real? Why or why not? Chichako: Metal dog scorn/Lethargic Juniper/Those walleye moons/Sunday's hysterical blasphemies/Your mother in a pepper shaker/Texas is not a proper egg/ pape...
booksonblog26.blogspot.com
In the year of everything dying john grochalski
In the year of everything dying. The cat is mad. Because i won’t let her lay on me. She paces back and forth. Wailing and wailing, waiting for her comeuppance. The wife is mad. Because i yell about poetry. Threaten booze soaked suicide. And ruin the few hours that we get together. On these hurried weekends. The mailman is still mad. About not getting a christmas tip last year. So the bills and magazines arrive wrinkled. The cockroaches are mad. Because the floor is mopped. Of food and old wine. The child...
booksonblog28.blogspot.com
Years as Gold Philosophy A.J. KAUFMANN
Years as Gold Philosophy. YEARS AS GOLD PHILOSOPHY. Years as gold philosophy. Sky sailing, restricted much. In sweet wallflowers known to be birds,. Bonfires, charmingly cold. Hesitation, wishing garden bells were seasons, works. Which handed you the sunset. A flake, sky sea-iris. Some of it lying pianos, joyful lights,. Spout lips dirt-grimed lady-shining. As most multiform scripts. Seeds rise, there’s sunlight. Familiar rocks, somber love and God. Cathedral on press sheets. Red at office flanks. She is...
booksonblog29.blogspot.com
Supernal Factors KJ Hannah Greenberg
The Boss’ Orchestrated Metamorphoses. The Boss’s orchestrated metamorphoses,. Zapped everything into place,. Set into motion,. Resulting in His Desires,. Effecting broad to specific. And, concurrently, nonimmediately,. Aboriginal scars traveled internationally,. Under-recognized in regions remanded for romance. Or, for unmanageable fear. Sages know water vanquishes fire,. Flame blasts earth,. Dirt distorts windy columns,. Gusts displace oceans of truth-birthed passages. Paper Scissors. Stone. Plus MaR...
booksonblog30.blogspot.com
Last Call James Babbs
I scream into the lamp. Pretend it’s my. The empty room’s. Another night of drinking but. This time I’m thinking of you. Haven’t heard from you in years. But I’m convinced. You’ve been wondering about me. And the last time I saw you. Your hair was long and. Kept falling down over one eye. And when I get home. I search for your number. Finding it buried among. A pile of old Christmas cards. Dialing past three in the morning. Hearing it ring before. A man’s voice drenched with sleep. When I ask for you.
booksonblog31.blogspot.com
The Day the Looking Glass Shattered Ben Rasnic
The Day the Looking Glass Shattered. The Day the Looking Glass Shattered. I discover I can no longer live. With the woman who shares my bed. Lost in an oxycontin fog,. In a rented paddleboat. A line of ducks glides by. Submerged in a slick olive coat of Vaseline oil. I close my eyes and attune. To the billowing swell of dark water. The men drinking beer. In the picnic area. Pretend to shoot rifles. With their long arms extended. And their skinny trigger fingers. The lead duck flips. Like a pinged target.
booksonblog32.blogspot.com
In Stereo: Thirteen Sonnets and Some Fire MusicThomas Zimmerman
Thirteen Sonnets and Some Fire Music. If all else fails, I list some things I love:. My life, my wife, and Highway 61. Baudelaire’s faux infamy. When iron-maidened into sonnet form;. The bravest Shostakovich symphony:. The battered heart of Donne;. To watch in safety any kind of storm;. To feel my brain-buoyed spirit rise above. My childhood’s God; John Coltrane playing live;. Heaney’s Station Island. Walt Whitman, Paz, Neruda, Frost—. Most often when I plumb their darkness, dear. The saint in Washington...
