Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Denny E. Marshall- Art

                                                                  In The Mist

Thursday, February 19, 2015

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

The CHUD's
(Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dwellers)

They only appear at night
wearing dark clothes, exposed
pale-as-death skin covered by
face paints, resins living things
stuck to as they made their way
down deserted platforms, under
turnstiles, past token seller/change
maker booths fire bombed for
spray painted on the white tile
walls in bloodred coloring, graffiti
artist murals scene after scene from
an urban Inferno/Hell depicting alien
creatures much like those making
their way slowly, deliberately as
mollusks in trench coats, human slugs
trained in a silent ninja art of sudden
death inflicted by common household
items: church key bottle and can openers,
meat thermometers and rolling pins,
wires from antique egg slicers honed
to points as artery cutters, blood vessels
punctured so fast, death is almost instant,
almost painless, the aftermath grim
and disgusting, their cook fires sweet
and subdued confined to oil barrels
and trash cans well underground,
so far removed from human habitation,
no one dares track them.

Radio Kaos

Everyone on the island
she ended up on knew
her as the radio woman
dressed in multi-layers
all summer long as a
walking clothes tree all
the fabrics turned inside
out to preserve what
remained of original
prints, designs, logos,
perhaps as part of a
hidden agenda or a search
for sponsors of her personal
walking, talking one woman
news show she broadcast
in perfectly enunciated
disc jockey speak all of
the special events as they
were happening Live for
everyone's enjoyment,
ready or not.  Cynics
suggested: what would
happen if her transmission
frequencies changed and
she became a receiver
of conversations from
another wavelength or
if the format changed from
all news, all the time to
hard rock, CxW, classical

Wireless Transmissions

Somehow mother had confused
her father's position as an
early executive with AT&T
with Marconi's intent to
make wireless transmissions
across the Atlantic extend to
the dead so that whenever
she picked up a telephone,
the expectation was that,
somehow, the person to whom
she was connected, their existence
was in another life beyond
this one, that is, officially
listed among the white pages
of the no longer living
and that by calling someone
in the book, automatically
reversed the charges and sent
valuable negative existence
ions into her world; the longer
you talked, the closer to death
you came, resulting in some
strange, one-sided conversations,
though, in retrospect, not brief

John Pursch- Three Poems

Faustian Fleas

Lipids zip along a panned diversion,
cashing humpback heels for coronary carpet torque,
stringing shoeless buckles skyward.

Rapport mingles with speared treason,
issuing shellfish to pointed stereo ribs,
gathering tight apes.

Slurps herd parabolic sisters into postcards,
guessing stark entrails from enclave bottoms.

Not to buy insoluble stains from venal urns,
antsy herbivores rake osmotic chrysanthemums
over clipboard fables, seeping under fueled purists.

Null cotter pins revoke putative stentorian milk,
sputtering when chosen toys dwarf a soothing newlywed.

Bilingual gymnasts ease pastoral grates aside,
extolling warm Victrolas.

Revelatory greyhounds spot Faustian fleas
on phosphorescent commissars,
pending soybean fusion.


Sand crawls beneath
a soldered cookie’s
scribbled thong,
dueling gravy to a
statutory standstill
in moonshine facial
trickle stump’s

Her slacks
hang pouting
in diametrically
twine agreement’s
peninsular trimester,
foisted foibles leading
strange luminaries from
watershed synecdoche
partitions of Velcro vermin
to voluminous v-neck petters.

Wedged wayward
Jell-O boats flutter,
staffed with equestrian
daredevils piercing
soothing scythes
for chandelier
with menthol sword
profusion’s coyly
prefigured grind.

Sixteen Doubts

Sixteen doubts caress a cerebellar sampling shunt
with bailing coven wristwatch twinge serration myths,
locating the duly muffled sire of sworn dimples
in the pure pubescent smile of android stoolie crows
on necrophilic daytime creamery diffusion spokes
near hub town pardon scurrying nests of blown knee
Punic territory ale.

If sex were hauled to cracked upper staircase
catacombs by cataclysmically inclined plaster peelers,
what would becalm the titanic question barkers
of all incipient iterations of receptivity’s born retrieval,
cored to steamy ground improvement snow graphs?

Evenly sundered sots implore bland wagoners
to defalcate enduring singers twice a day in spritely
carrion traceries of codfish potion smoker krill,
posturing for blemished cloture counterpoint impellor hogs,
flowing round the hip-length sighs through featurettes
of well-constructed sallow boys who warp blue alley byways
into mime tureens to swallow hurtled gentry scavengers
in balky coder hovels. 

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.

Saturday, February 7, 2015

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

              The End
I should have been receiving food stamps
from Mars that's what she had written
on her:"Let's fly to the moon" itinerary
that included places in the Bronx no white
woman would dare to go:"The Bronx Zoo
holds animals that don't exist.  Seeing them
makes you  go blind.  You are allowing
your children to become agents of an
infernal being. This conversation is being
monitored by an unfriendly God."
She said things like that with a straight face
as we looked at African Beasts she claimed
came from two thousand years ago:
"They were reptiles when I took you
to the Natural History Museum. We could
go back there and learn about the past.
They flew beings that had no wings then,
they still do but no one will admit it."
They sure as hell flew things through her mind.
I woke up in a strange dream of New York City
in which there were street things neither man
nor beast would  admit to  knowing crawling
on my skin,  she would say, "I had acquired
a disease in the Bronx."
"What kind of a disease?" I would ask,
" A New York disease, New York is a
special place.   The God we recognize as divine,
died here.  I have proof. The Bible tells us
there is another  finer world.  Our skin diseases
no longer  exist there." She was singing another
life story  through my lips and all I could  
feel was the end,  a strange place that would
look like a Subway  Station in Upper Manhattan
but would be somewhere else that felt
like Manhattan in another life.


The Woman Who Came from Nowhere

They only poems she believed in
came from a white giant’s thigh,
trailed sea weeds like the green
hair of drowned women, mirror
images of the self anyone could
witness as she did, though glass
bottomed boats scratched and marred
by coral wreathes that held the scriptures
she read the holy words from, reciting
them in cadence the way nuns did
in cloisters at the end of a diseased
mind.  All the stories she wrote down
bore that taints of dried blood, self-
inflicted wounds sealed by an open flame
from hearth fires in a strange, afflicted
place she referred to as “where she was born.”
Annotated maps showed portals, called
stops, describing  the way from one place
of an evolving plain of existence she
traveled on, the links of which were
a colored lined grid for easy reading
underground where the artificial light
she read with was muted like the trumpets
of the fallen-from-grace-angels she
claimed were her consorts though no one
could see who she meant.
Where she was now could be described
as, lost in transition, or so she would say
when asked to explain what she scribbled
in between lines of the large print books
in a dead language of her own invention;
said it was a place like nowhere,
only closer to home.

Alien Thoughts

They say the body I came with
doesn't fit me anymore.
How can that be?
Nothing has changed since the hour
of my birth-19-it says on
the calendar of my life.
The big hand and the little hand
are pointing toward the place
of no return just over the sunset
where the darkest places are.
When I arrive, someone will
teach me how to smoke and
all ten of my fingers will be
blessed with fire.
The voice inside my throat
will be happy then and will
stop eating both the house and
the home we have been living in.
Maybe then my body will remember
who I am and come back to me
so we can get together and be
who we really are together,
not this person wearing these
clothes, pretending to be me
in the mirror,
behind the safety glass
where all the real secrets
are stored.

Friday, January 30, 2015

Scott Thomas Outlar- A Poem

An Ode to McKenna
Under the brilliant stars
in the middle of an open field
all alone
pondering existence
like some existential psych class
never bothered to attend
or some philosophy exam
never cared to be graded on.
Neither, though, could prepare
for what happens next –
these types of close encounters
aren’t graded on a curve.
Red and green track lights
open wide to flood the area,
spraying their rays, searching, seeking…something.
Sweet Holy Jesus!
Was the Revelation real after all?
Is the chariot coming
to take us all to Heaven?
Fat chance, sucker –
no such luck on this Winter’s eve.
Slack jawed, mouth agape, staring
at the beast of a machine
that is taking its precious time
to descend upon the scene.
Hovering above the grass,
a gate of incandescent energy particles
drips down like a waterfall,
somehow becoming corporeal in the process.
Who in the hell will ever believe
that the boy who always cried wolf
has finally seen a genuine miracle?
Or is it a death sentence
being issued by some strange denizens
from a far flung planet?
Answers will come soon enough it seems
as little brain-like beings
with chicken wings flapping
come hopping down the bridge,
in some twisted tongue
not understood at all.
Where’s the damned space age device
they pop on the ear
so all languages are instantly translated?
Where’s the Type-1 greeting
that such an important meeting
between two civilizations is befitting of?
Not here, Bubba.
Not on this strange night.
The chicken brain something-or-others
circle around and start dancing
in some type of weird voodoo ritual.
A hallucinatory rhythm
pops open the pineal gland,
expanding consciousness
down to a fine point microcosm of reality.
One tiny dot from which all creation explodes.
Geometric patterns pulsate in the crisp air.
Shapes and sounds forming out of the nothingness.
Little elves and goblin creatures
jibber-jabber in bizarre musical tones,
beyond the realm of simple consonants and vowels,
which are intuitively felt and understood
on some instinctive primal channel.
Wavelength frequency vibrations of chaos
coalesce cohesively into an ordered symmetry
of crystallized mandala Zen reverberations.
Body shock and mind fuck.
So this is how creation began?
This is what the Big Bang felt like?
Life’s path, purpose and meaning all bubble up
to the surface level in an A-ha moment.
Musical notes streamlining from out the
jellylike brains of the far-out creatures of
wherever, whatever, however…
Questions are meaningless in the shakedown
as everything synthesizes to make perfect sense
for a split-second flash of raw awesome perfection,
then, poof, gone, nowhere, nothing…
Eyes pop open, rain is drizzling from the clouds above.
No new friends anywhere to be seen.
Fuck, was it all just a dream?
Nah, it couldn’t be,
so it must have been
that second puff of DMT.

Sunday, January 25, 2015

John Pursch- Three Poems


I cry
from coma’s deep
departure lounge,
warbling through
swollen turnstiles
of youth beam carousels
and tattered newsreels,
seated with a lonely
boxcar tart.

I come to
in waves of trembling,
subside to junked recital
phase of burnt munitions
ligament installment plan
for neural referential care,
taken hourly to support
imploding worm habit.

Car Lung Burbles

Coned luck fuels
delightful leeward lassitude’s
cremated lexicon of bobbled
sifted token ease, munching
steady crosstop praxis with
bingeing quick notation gel
on paltry ancillary drip-dry
factories of angular pelicans.

Stellar periodic jets immerse
amino placard gusts in punky
tawny pavement windows
turned to hourly benefactor
issues by eventful colocation
stance portrayal fowl.

Hefty laudanum conflates
inspired effulgent tributaries
with selfish sentry fallacies of 
“How comestible concoctions
mystify corrosive grape-tune
table spruce in stable dockyard
hooligans of sentience and
meatball praise.”

Etched orangutans mean
ladled soporific locket
quest confection mules,
currying in scurvy car lung
burbles of washboard
seashore dandelions.

Gurgling Bots

Time gives way
to nadir’s intro,
sanding jackets into
yellowed pagination,
plumbing stately gout
for footfall iridescence,
gaveled into silence.

The crowd rises, grousing slowly
at sequestered pitchman rodeos,
intoned by actualities of blindly
dotted highway soup in peaceful
signage minestrone bellows,
weaving turpentine collusion
mastiff flits from seashore tweed
to ever-ceasing mortal umbrage,
humbly heaven so extravagant
in skylight swing set diner
maws of basement twirling
foveal clock shadows cast by
newsprint time recorder.

At almost smacks ye wander husk
ant whore inguinal quest of ions,
iconic irony, stumped waveforms,
guideline gargoyles, gremlins,
and gurgling petty boxcar bots,
but noses spell the outer mullets
into teased disuse, used disease,
and dunderheaded dandelion
encyclopedic palimony coulisse,
molded into ornery pavement
numerology, chesty thyme
four grisly moths to skulk
and glow in bothered mall

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.

Jason D. DeHart- A Poem

The Piano

She used to be a piano,
til they re-tuned her, then tore
out the strings.
Made something new.
Now, she has been given wheels
and rolls.
Occasionally, she has been taught
to make a joke.
Now and then, a crude gesture.
She is learning slowly how to be
human and how the keys work,
a melody here,
a dissonance there.
Jason D. DeHart is the creator of the blog jasondehartjustliving.blogspot.com.  His writings have appeared in a variety of publications.