by Ron Androla

There are always trains
Scratching the bell of Sunday
Morning with iron fingernails
Sliding down the
Grip.
The sway, Q., the sway.
Ropes slip triple-time
As soon as our eyes open
With an initial tide foam mind.
Skull as clapper
Against
The encirclement of
Time.
Dawn light arrives
As a beautiful, gray
Feather, brother,
Which is a weeping
Girl, which is a
Cup of
Tea.
It’s 1965
& you’re
It for kick
The can.
Shadows are
Trees & things of
Now.
Atoms rainbow across
Mars.
Irreversible damage
Says you.
I am certain you do not remember
Sending me 2 colored drawings,
& I don’t remember when,
But they are on the wall in front
Of me so I know demons
Yearn for laughter & the vast
Celebration of peace.
Poetry is courage.

***

Ron Androla at Wikipedia:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ron_Androla

by Rob Plath

once when i was a boy
the old washing machine
broke & my father
refused to fix it or buy
a new one

he also refused to give
my mother money
to go to the laundrymat

so she & i hand washed everything
& hung it out on thin twine tied
to a tree & a fence post

i remember it was summer
& it was hot enough for
the clothes to dry under the sun

the wringing out of the clothes
was tough on my hands which were
already dry & cracked from
being immersed in the tub
full of water & detergent

twisting the water from all
the clothing caused blisters & callouses
& my forearms to tighten & burn

all summer the rough clothes
that baked in the summer sun
rode my body
& turned my skin tougher

& although my skin thickened early
i eventually opened myself up

that summer was training
for my arms & hands to jab the alphabet
day after day & night after night

for my calloused fingertips to
ceaselessly poke the wearing keys

for my knotted forearms to not tire
when hovering over the poetry machine
while i cleanse demons from my veins

by Josh Olsen

I offered to weed – an excuse to look for snakes. Always looking for snakes. The pet I wanted but never got.

The Bassett hound caught heart worm, hamsters and fish died – I wanted something I could feed those other animals to.

Something that could turn on me without warning – bite or strangulate without conscience.

*

At five, I experienced my first recurring nightmare – falling from an examining table, cracking my head on the linoleum, a thin black snake slid out from the open wound.

Ever since, I’ve been trying to put it back in there.

*

I tired of pulling dandelions and thistles and my mind began to wander. I remembered things forgotten …

my step-cousin squeezing toothpaste into his sister’s vagina, my mother screaming as she caught him, about a week later, my first wet dream …

I accidentally grabbed the tail of a bull-snake and squealed – she was so fucking beautiful!

by nila northSun

3 days off

I don’t want to sit at home

I would only end up

picking weeds

& watching old movies

in the heat of the day

I want to fill up the gas tank

damn the cost

And go somewhere

To greenness

And water

Preferably with a tent

But I know most

Campgrounds

Are filled

I don’t care about the

Fireworks

I care that I have time

And health

And choices

my friends all seem to be

staying at home

working on projects

& others are camping in

the desert

I’d rather pick weeds

& watch old movies at home

than camp in 100 degree heat

But having

Somebody to do things with

Would be nice

I have a full tank

A lead foot

& an empty passenger seat

any takers?

***

nila northSun at Wikipedia:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nila_northSun

by George Anderson

His head full of poems

he dared not write

he hated how they gurgled up

from some aberrant tributary of the brain

he hated how they spate venom. After

twenty-two years of teaching

the same questions

the same answers

on King Lear

Kubla Khan

The Doll’s House.

Why the sober, passionless dance of literature?

And what of Montreal?

And Auckland? Sydney? Bangkok?

Each stories within stories.

Now as before

the same recalcitrance

the same procrastination:

You can’t write about that yet

And what will they think

What about the fear?

There will be plenty of time later

Maybe when you’ve retired-

When the sap has congealed

The venom on the wind.

***

In July 2008 Erbacce Press published a chapbook of George Anderson’s poems, ‘Dancing On Thin Ice.’ Available at Erbacce Press.

by David LaBounty

red hair just

about shoulder

length along with

a loose blue

t-shirt and

dull blue

jeans hugging

curves just

starting to

descend and

she walked

on a cloud

of stale booze

and sweat

mingled with

cigarette smoke

and perfume and

the face was

almost pretty

and the wrinkles

around the green

eyes seemed to

twinkle with

warm memories

of broken

dreams and

screaming orgasms

and it all became

so unremarkable

when she told

me her husband

sent her in

to buy some tires.

by John Rocco

Maybe there’s life

in failure

I think

with the envelope in my hand

pushing the bar door open

and seeing them there

packed

drinking

dead

self-inflicted

in a million dumb sad ways.

There’s beefy-faced Hem

boxing a 300-pound tuna

and hard-gut Mishima

fingering the steak knives.

There’s bridge humping Hart

falling past Spalding

jumping off the ferry.

There’s Hunter stealing the elk horns

and Virginia going swimming.

There’s Sylvia cooking.

There’s the Infinite Jest guy

not joking.

There are more lucky unlucky ones

worn down by a crushing

sequence of catastrophes

or nothing

like them all.

I order a gorgeous

martini

giant green hollow olives floating

and rip open the envelope.

It’s another disconnection notice

from Con Edison
my favorite writer

who always is there for me

telling me things like

they regret it but they are

turning the power off again

soon

unless I pay them

which seems unfair

until I leave the bar

without paying.

by Dan Provost

It’s not going to be peace and love this time, because those traits come at a hefty price.

You must be willing to emotionally express yourself…to the millions, to the non-believers…to yourself;

Yourself mostly.

So peace and love are great ideals…idolized in song and words…

But it’s not going to be the solution…

If you don’t believe me; look out the window—anytime, any day…

See neighbors hating neighbors…city walkers never acknowledging each other.

Everybody is so fragmented today, so Peace and Love…no…not any more.

It’s the battle for number one now,

two and three are gone.

Buried in another time

Headstones overwrought with long grass and never visited.

by David Bates

when he grows up

he wants to be a UFO pilot

he tugs my sleeve

and his father reminds him

to be careful

not to spill people’s beer

go inside

his father says

this is grown up time

can I play your

Playstation dad?

No. Leave my shit alone.

I imagine my friend

on his beerstink couch

with a video-game pad

plugged into the base of his boy’s skull

thumbing him around the room

like a remote controlled

vacuum cleaner

the kid looks at me

and I shrug

earlier

he’d asked me

if I was born with

tattoos

and his father said

don’t be stupid

before I could tell him

yes

as a matter of fact

I was

***

Bio:

David Bates currently resides in Austin, TX. He is the co-founder and editor of My Favorite Bullet (www.myfavoritebullet.com) and Interior Noise Press. His work has appeared in FriGG Magazine, Underground Voices, Whiskey Island, Thunder Sandwich, and Zygote In My Coffee. He hosts the Ruta Maya Poetry Open Mic every Tuesday (www.rmpoetryaustin.com) and will buy a beer for any traveling poet who cares to read.