Sunday, October 29, 2017

Fiction: Expectant (The "Hard Labour" of Social Change)

You stand shoulder to jostling shoulder within the crowd, a throng of humanity which grows ever more aroused with each riff on the guitar, not to mention the effect of a relentless percussive thrum. The tide could turn at any moment. The collective unconscious vibrates with a propensity for an orgiastic expression of primal love or a violent manifestation of its, well, darker aspect. There’s no denying its potential, nor its power. The moon glows against the depth of an unseasonably warm and clear October sky, illuminating a lone heart-shaped swath of cloud cover. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear the wisps were growing wings—or perhaps horns.

Snapped out of your trance by the intrusion of your ruminations, which bring you to the cusp of an uninvited realization, you pocket your vape and nudge your way through bodies pressed mercilessly against one another, the result of a quest for expansion within the very constraints of each seeker's physical space. Though the crowd writhes around you, your movements prove sharp and purposeful. Your belly gently spasms around that which has coaxed your center of gravity ever lower by the day. And, you desperately need air.

Emerging from the throng, the moonlight intensifies. Your feet fall heavily upon the earth, leaving boldly stamped footprints within the silvered darkness, until you reach the venue’s gate, where the ground beneath you abruptly transforms to pavement. Easily pushing past security and a smattering of latecomers, you cross the street where the barricades stand and enter the corner market in search of ease.

Within half a minute, you make your way to the register with a bottle of Old Crow. The man behind the counter asks for $22.38. Your change is exact. As he counts it down to the cent within his calloused palm, his gaze meets your own and holds steady for a brief moment. He then tucks the bills and change into the register with eyes downcast, uttering not a word.

Back on the street, the thrum stalks you—reverberating against your sternum, throbbing upon your pelvic floor—until you turn toward the reprieve you seek amid the stench of a narrow alleyway, where the crumbling brick of aging structures absorbs the vibration, leaving you, at last, with some semblance of peace.

Honored as you are to carry this child, you find your task to be a lonely one as you make your way past the dumpsters and unconscious derelicts, stumble over the rats and recessed sewer drains. Just beyond someone’s back door, you set down the bottle and lower yourself onto the pitted asphalt.

Night falls. And, with it, a subtle yet relentless chill. You wrap your trembling arms around your core, wherein the forces of creation and destruction have merged to form nothing less than your own primordial chaos, an oh-so-solitary return to the void, on behalf of each of the unchosen. Tonight, there is no soothing you, and you know well that no one will care—nor dare—to try. So, you settle within your sanctuary, finding comfort in the padding of a couple broken down cardboard boxes, and remind yourself that, the next time your eyes flicker open, you’re all but assured of awakening to the golden glow of yet another fucking promise-laden dawn.


---Kelly Sauvage Angel

Sunday, October 22, 2017


I am the meeting of countless threads
carrying blood and light and darkness
through the holey bones of reality
the cries of every encounter
the network of complex alignment
the living record of what happens when

I am what I never wanted
what I don't want to claim as part of me
I am what they did, who came before
what I do, and what comes after me
the good and the bad, the violent, the loving
the culmination of everything collected in my bundle
from the spirit world and from this
the poison and the antidote

I am the harmed and the harmer
one who perpetuates
and is harmed by the selfsame

I am a shoreline
I catch relics of wrecked ships and garbage
and cry as I hold the beached whales
and there is a hard to see part of me holding space
for the dumping, the hunting, the violence above and below the waves
I am built by the sea of tears
contribute to its making
and witness to its outcomes

I am what I don't want to see
and what I do
and what I can show
and what I can't

--Dylan Lightbourn 

Saturday, September 30, 2017

a place in my mind

there's a place in my mind
where the flowers grow wild
I'd dance there for hours when I was a child
I go to that place when I feel all alone
that place with the flowers is where I feel home

I'd lie in the grass and stare at the sky
pictures in my mind of the clouds that pass by
the vines all around would grow over my body
and cover my eyes like the dark that surrounds me

when I breathe in the air the sweet sounds of harmony
the ground that rumbles so softly beneath me
nobody can come to this place in my mind
this place is too precious for those of your kind

--Riesa McCumsey 

Sunday, September 24, 2017

Found In-Box Poem

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--John Grey

Sunday, September 17, 2017


but better days have come

            i wipe the sweat

            smell piss on my knuckles

            abortion residue

            drips down my leg

            dogs will piss on my grave

i’m coming into a moon

            full of pock marks

            jealous old lantern

            lights my night

            lights my route

            down rockaway blvd

            into blue-black alleys

            where i give 20 dollar blowjobs

and in the morning i see Rico at the newsstand

            he gives me free smokes

            tells me to get some money to my kids

            who live with my mother

            or my sister

            maybe even a foster fondler

            who will rip little wombs open


            i need my smack

            i need this pipe

            my lover

            my healer

            i smoke to God

            smoke to the moon

            and forget every crab corroding my body

            every pimp

            that yanked fist fulls of hair from my head

            forget the Siph

            the Gonorrhea

            the HIV

 lead me not into temptation

            i have done only evil

            it fires my peacepipe

            i inhale over and over

            over and over

            i wake up on the street corner

            in the back seat of a car

            in my lice infested bed

            want more

            can’t not want
--Donna Dallas

Sunday, September 10, 2017

The News at Six A.M.

It's six A.M. 
I boil the kettle 
and prepare my
coffee, strong 
no sugar, a dark
brooding concoction, 
stirring, entwined in 
a mad ballet dance 
with a spoon, destine
never to be silver.


On the television the 
news anchors speak of
unimaginable suffering,
they seem to have a blood 
lust in their eyes. 

Blood lust


Modern day gladiators

Gladiators tucked safely 
behind shiny new laptop

And seated like Roman 
emperors upon a leather
covered throne, their courtroom,
the pomp of brightly lit news 

The lower ranks, take to the 
battlefield of urban blood 

Reporters crowing at the 
blood shed rising, in the 
hissing sun, a new day comes
kicking and screaming into 

The Paranas prepare to feast,
sharping fangs, a feast of blood
and meat, of meat and blood.

"Let's go! Let's go!" the reporters

"Andddd weee are  

"Live on location,
at the scene of the crime!"

The reporters

seem to be describing the 
latest action / thriller movie
as they speak through their
smugness and slimy smirks.

The reporters

seem to be chanting into my 
living room, staring straight into
my own lust for blood and death.

"Death is interesting, death fuels
our ratings! Give us death! Give us
blood!" "Give us pain, suffering, war,
street riots and misery!" 

Cameras cut from the steely eyed 
reporter and ensuing carnage upon
the battlefields behind him 

"Now back to you."

The reporters in the studio all seem 
to agree in between quick glances 
struck between them, 


"Death by violence is so exciting!"
"Our ratings must be skyrocketing!"

and so it goes on and on,
a vicious cycle, where will
it end?

The reporters on the morning news  
make pathetic attempts at cloaking 
the grisly scenes, with their hollow 
words of 



"So very sad" 


I can see the twinkling of their eyes
blood lust and glistening sparks dancing, 
married, ambitions set high. 

I can just read their thoughts now

"Local news now, world news here I come!"
As they speak of the people 
that have been burned alive 
in mobile homes, drowned in 
floods, and shot and killed in 
convenience store robberies.

I can just read their thoughts now

"Yes it's a dirty job, but someone has too
report it." 

"Sigh, just another day at the office, mmmm 
donuts and coffee sound so good right now."

I sigh, drink my dark coffee for the same 
cup that I do everyday, and click off the 
blood bath on the morning news at 6 A.M. 

Yes it's a dirty life, but someone has to
report it.
--Wayne Russell