Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Denny E. Marshall- Art

                                                            Telescopic Look

Denny E. Marshall has had art and poetry published, some recently. He does have a website with previously published works. The web address is www.dennymarshall.com. He also has a “Guest Artist Page” on his dot net site if any artist would like to submit. (See Guidelines)

Alan Catlin- A Poem

Alien Resurrection

Three days gone and revived,
made up to look like Scarlett J.
as seen through a broken lens,
made-up like a Sex Pistol on a
bad hair day then slathered in tar,
give E and forced into a large, airless,
confining room, smoke thick and jungle
wet, Techno-Rave music at ear drum
bursting loud, searching for a note
beyond high C.  Surrounded by indoor
electric lady land laser lights,
disembodied hands and arms,
wave lengths in the air dangling
from nowhere like in a death match
of marionettes, closing in walls
pulsing, animal hot, amplified,
seem to suggest: Listen to My Heart
Beat on drugs.  Anything is possible
now, even the birth of a new life form,
an alien invasion.

John Pursch- Three Poems

Periscope Cakes
Catamarans and cigarettes
burn patiently at twilight,
facing blue oblivion’s qualia
with feathered neural undercoats
of sparse exclusion wafer trim,
splashed in extra vagaries
of pomp and circumnavigation.

Floral set piece reliquaries
reflect on harbor noumena
with crisply quantized stunt fanatics,
gazing out to cornerstone asperity
in purely histrionic maze relief,
touting horny dial benders,
bet to traced calligraphy
of nodal craft elusion nibs.

Soil secludes with overwhelming flavor
sighs emerging from savory tortoise poles,
wafting ashore to line-of-sight chronology’s
pineal waveform, relapsed to donkey onus shills
beneath a peculated pod of crumpets.

Shelter passes far below in rancid siren
beckonings of slave mechanic batteries,
sheepishly redacting oxen gamete flipper lore
from bayou’s brittle overwhelm in banded sag
flesh sundry pear appearance set of propwash
hagiography for dining crumb arrest essentials.

Booths touch rusty crippler berries,
leasing juicy seepage every time
a numbered stylish cone falls silently
in actual abscissa abscess overflow
to prayer nook puffer fish excretion quaff,
slimmed to unset periscope cakes.

Impasse City Flutter

Glossy hovercraft imply simple amplification,
waving pie charts at costly station ears,
foundering in open airlock dump truck stings.

Only sonic assonance applies for agricultural acquittal,
ameliorating ambitious actuarial edginess with timid squeals.

Nations pout, entrusting inlet depilation mice
to dapple ivory phyla into lusty chamomile predictors,
spattering an enzymatic sneeze with cabin application crushes.

Laughable carousers mitigate mitosis with wimpy wisps,
washing wallpaper moths in posing blotter candy crepes,
causing sobs in vacant shopping coilers.

Stacked effacement tests you fairly off and on for
cloudy hand-picked mortuary shell regurgitation gist,
flecked with salty scenic gradients of flimsy noontime
derrieres, told to burgeon elsewhere.

Deeply infected luge pennants
gradually defect to fourth-world pumping bars,
prosecuting ethyl geysers under blue striated statues
of arterial clay, barmy injection release, and
uncommonly aspirated spin cycle kinks.

Jealousy rarely airs its threadbare wedding tallow,
calling fallow turbulence by empty shuttlecock
remainder terms in fulminating angst,
but jellied close-ups glom onto requiems
for stooping littered parriers of pallet-bearing salad spiels,
improved upon in substring sequin showers of shouldered
impasse city flutter.

Dream Star Sundaes

Ransacked bumblebee hotels immerse an attic wail in sand, dyspeptic furriers deferred to queue-length bookstand marginalia retreat. Jagged accusations pickle pews in paper handiwork, limping past palimpsest skin canaries bound for mule team coal minorities of subterranean booths.

Beautifully sworn pestilence bemoans infernal highball terrace entry peas, fleeing for hired groins, kicked in quinine sisterhood by bandoliers of brothel coups. Disgraced inguinal statues funnel hissing power off deplaning convict carrion coats, lugging innuendos overhand to tipsy grief collection arias.

Tamed tigresses inter encumbered feudalism before middling sages con milled animals to exit stage cleft, cramping up in time for footholds to disintegrate in cauterized hysteria, billowing fine whines of plaintive aplomb.

A tap dance here, a fraudulent collie tarrying in loyal Quonset tundra lines, a sympathetic sampler fishing nervously off bluefin paraffin aisles, coping with shallow labrum tartuffery by entrance alley overhangs in severed blasting capstone armoires filled with bubbly; even the periodic emblem punctures our posing chillum with chili fog and Cornish ham genes, tasty to culled cetaceans aft of docile drainage tee-top maxima with senior hints of indigence and porous estate plundering, venting accrual semiannually per trepaned fin traction entrails nodding into standing water.

Dream star sundaes filter frowns to grimace gruel’s sedation piles of stillborn fugitives from jaundiced apple plies and viable surrender jets of solvent salutary knots. Choppers saddle manic cholera vacuums with calm tornado ocean liners, shopping for backspin.

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. Check out his experimental lit-rap video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Sunday, August 10, 2014

Alan Catlin- Two Poems


"Just my luck." You're thinking,
"To run out of fuel in East Jesus.
Where the hell am I going to find
gas in a God foresaken place like
this?" You dig out your red and
yellow gas tank from amid the ruin
of the trunk and start walking down
the unlighted back road to nowhere,
pass the sign that says: WELCOME
Start thinking this running out of fuel
business could be worse than you thought
but you don't see how and then you are
in the 42nd Street subway station still
holding that gas can and now you're
sweating bullets thinking they are going
to assume you are a terrorist so naturally
you think, "It's time to hit some bricks."
But you can't.  All the access routes are
blocked by these Homeland Security dudes
like airport luggage inspectors waving
their wands at you like they're going to
attack, then you notice they aren't airport
security at all but the dead aliens from
Area 51 dressed in uniforms and holding
these laser weapon things like a Mars Attack!
movie and you're all set to freak when this
waitress at the Roswell Eat Here Diner is
handing you a menu and you're ordering
the House Special Burger that turns out to
be this green thing on a bun slathered in
lumpy cheese which isn't doing much for your
appetite but the waitress notices and says,
"Don't fret, Son, food coloring makes
that burger green and the lumps in the cheese
are real moon rocks." Which, somehow makes
it all okay and after a few bites and no apparent
seizures a thought occurs and you ask,

"Hey, Honey, do you guys sell gas?"
And the waitress winks and says,
"Depends, what kind do you want?"
That's when you notice all the Helium balloons
being filled and how the room is filled with
Hindenberg replica blimps in all colors,
sizes and functionality reminding you that
this isn't New Mexico anymore but New Jersey
and the radio newsman describing the events
outside is saying, "Oh the humanity!" as the blimp
burns out of control, most on board dead in
seconds and you remember the gas can you
began with and decide, "Now is not the time to
bring up rapid accelerator facilitators.  Hell, I'd
rather walk anyway." Which seemed like such a
logical, such a sensible and prudent course to
take at the time, I mean, really who could have
known otherwise?

Space Cadet

After years of serious drinking,
stints in drunk tanks, begging
quarters from tourists and church
goers, sleeping it off in unlocked
rooms, broken-into rectories, sheds,
dog houses large enough to accommodate
a man not too proud to curl up in dried
shit, after years of abuse, trying so hard
to die, waking up sober, a few fingers
short of a hand, receding gums no teeth
would adhere to, falling out hair a cheap
rug might cover, a dye job mask,
a permanent cast to his eyes, feeling so
strange to be alive and breathing trying
it out for size felt like a novelty act he’d
have to experiment with while working
out all the kinks, a process not without
drawbacks like coming back from the
dead with visions of altered states, foreign
places so strange his tales of woe sounded
like science fiction or fantasy thrillers
rather than a narration of the truth,
felt like the lyric verses he was composing
in a language he’d learned on the other side;
some say it sounded like a revelation,
others like gibberish and they were both right.

Saturday, August 2, 2014

Russell Streur- A Poem


Hermit stone
3rd place finish
Industrial League
Seven pointed star
The mask of comedy
Six beads
Two feathers

Red Line
To Downtown Mars.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Jeffrey Park- Three Poems


You talk about dry.

Can you even begin to imagine
what it’s like
to come from a really dry place,
seriously dry,
parched land, parched air, parched sky,
parched people
who can only dream (dream!) of
having cracked lips
and thick swollen tongues,

who would look upon your Gobi
and Mojave and Kalahari
as some kind of exotic waterpark,
who would gladly die
a thousand painful deaths
just to behold
a single blade of grass coated with
the faintest sheen of dew?

No. You cannot begin to imagine.

Nor, if you could, would you waste
a thought
for your desiccated fellow creatures,
you who have never once
known dry.
But we are here now,
watching you and smelling you
and wondering about
your precise chemical composition:
60% water, or so it’s said.

Let’s find out.


Velvet horizon
to sparking comets,
celestial winks
to assorted philosophers,
and omen readers,
flashes in an overturned
etching retinas,
and disappearing in
a wisp of ash.

Except for a few
cunning imposters,
who come
gliding down into
the complicit
of an undiscovered

You suspect –
only you –
and watch for them
on the street,
in the bus, tram,
post office,
among your neighbors,
in your bed.
They’re easy enough
to spot.
They’re the ones
who look
like they’ve always
been here.


Greasy space invaders,
bug-eyed splay-toed gooblies,
posers from some backwards gassy-giant’s
fourteenth moon
or twisted tunnel across dimensions –

they creep, creep into our neighborhoods
and back out again when they think
we’re not looking,
steal out thoughts, dreams, longings,
songs, plots from our most creative

and groundbreaking TV series,
touch our privates,
taste our sweat, and then have the nerve
to tell themselves they’ve done
the natives no harm at all.

And we should be – what?
Tickled by their filthy alien attentions?
The bastards.

They might at least have the decency
to mindwipe a guy’s nosy, holier-than-thou,
stuck-up, snooty a-hole of a neighbor
or eat a few goddamn stray cats
as long as they’re here.
Bio: Jeffrey Park's poetry has appeared most recently in Century 121, Snow Monkey, One Sentence Poems, and the anthology Tic Toc from Kind of a Hurricane Press. A native of Baltimore, Jeffrey currently lives in Munich, Germany, where he works at a private secondary school. Links to all of his published work can be found at www.scribbles-and-dribbles.com

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Rich Boucher- Three Poems

The McDonald's In Roswell Is Shaped Like A UFO

It was our fourth anniversary and I'd never been to Roswell,
a three-hour drive at night from the dark into the darker dark
while we listened to Pandora until there was no more Pandora,
as the black-and-white miles underneath our tires unspooled 
like a rough-to-the-touch filmstrip of the night
and then we listened to the radio until the only thing left on the radio was talk,
and then we listened to talk radio until everyone on the radio started whispering
as the map of the stars above us rotated and swirled in slow motion
and then we rolled down the windows and listened to whatever lived 
beyond the fences on the sides of the highway
and the mountains on either side of our anniversary loomed
and then slingshot past us, galloping black shadows, 
broad shoulders of the evening slinking away
and then when we got into Roswell; nothing about the town seemed special at all
and the town seemed fake, looked Hollywood, felt hollow
despite the charm of the schwa streetlamps in front of City Hall;
we'd saved up a hundred bucks for all the touristy allure of the town
and so had little to spend on an actual bite to eat,
but we had to eat partly because of our hunger and partly because of our Americaness;
that's when we pulled into the McDonald's off the main drag and we saw the thing;
the place was shaped, incredibly, unbelievably, like a UFO.
It's been a few years now since that sweet anniversary,
but my memories of that trip are still sharp enough to cut through paper,
and I remember it so well, that feeling I had on that strange starry night,
like the body's memory of a drop of summer rain cold on naked skin:
maybe it was because of what we were doing and where we were;
maybe it was because of the fatigue of so long behind a moonlit wheel;
maybe it was the excitement of being underneath whole new constellations with my love
but I could have sworn there was something suspicious about the taste of those McNuggets.


All of the stars in tonight's sky 
fall into an hourglass 
with the top taken off,
which before my eyes turns into
a wine glass with a long stem,
which before my eyes 
feels heavy in my hand;
all of the stars in tonight's sky
in that wine glass in my hand
glow in the dark like a bright wine
which I bring to my lips 
and taste every time we kiss,
and I wonder if you are from this world 
or from someplace else entirely.

How Were You Raised?

I don't mind if you're out there,
chittering in the tall corn at night;
I don't mind if you hide in the shadows
of our development; leaping behind toolsheds
with brainwashed heads in your backpack;
listen, I don't care if you're abducting
wild people and executive dogs in the quiet
of my neighborhood's starlit 2 AM;
I don't care where you're crawling;
I don't need to know what you're clambering under
and you can probe as many specimens
as you can find in my humble little town;
all I care about is my privacy, so please
stop looking into my bathroom window
when I'm taking my shower at night;
were you never taught manners
when you were young?


Rich Boucher resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico. He has published four chapbooks of poetry and once hosted a poetry slam series in Newark, Delaware. Since moving to Albuquerque in 2008, Rich has performed all over the Duke City, served two terms as a member of the Albuquerque Poet Laureate Program’s Selection Committee, and is currently a member of the 2014 Albuquerque City Slam Team. His poems have appeared in The Nervous BreakdownApeiron ReviewThe Broadkill ReviewMenacing Hedge and The Legendary, among others, and he has work forthcoming in the Write Bloody Publishing anthology MultiVerse, due out in the fall of 2014.