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.

Denny E. Marshall- Art

                                                 Robot Man

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)

Monday, July 21, 2014

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Alien Presence: Things Fall Apart

The who-knows-how-old-woman
on the bar stool next to him was
stuck in some self-perpetuating
talking binge that could drive a
man to violence.  She was somewhere
between thirty and ageless,
all of her body functions in cessation
except that center of speech,
rambling on without benefit
of human constraint, a kind of alien
possession making her an automaton
in human skin fueled by alcohol
and stuck in high gear no one could
down shift to neutral.  He considered
suggesting they go to her room, cell,
cloister, on the off-chance she might
have a pair of rolled up gym socks
he could use as gag to maybe muffle
the sound emanating from her like
a death ray or a Star Trek stun gun.
It was probably hopeless but maybe
worth a shot. Even considered trying
her on for size: she wasn’t half-bad
in a certain kind of light. Not here, in
various shades of neon, but in the dark
of a room with black out curtains pulled
tight.  Somehow, he just knew the inevitable
would happen in mid-whatever: one or
both of them would lapse into an alcoholic
coma and eventually she’d come to,
transform herself from whatever into
a migraine with tits.  Much as he was not
inclined to moving: a body at rest and
all that, he knew it was time to sail, said,
“Ship ahoy, mates. Ship ahoy.”
Staggered through the pub door into
a vast unknown as she talked on, oblivious
to his passing on.  In the dark, ripped out
of his gourd, in the confusion of all this
new, nebulous stimulation, nothing looked
familiar, He thought,” I’ve reached
the end of the world and I’m about to
fall off.”  Took one more step

Space Junkies

If it were Halloween, these guys
would have fit right in or even
if it had been New Year’s Eve or
Mardi Gras and they had been on
the way to some end of the world
as we know it party, but it was none
of those, not the kind of place that
dressing like Gary Glitters, Ziggy
Stardust  clones on some kind of
Velvet Goldmine club quest,
ostentatiously pierced all about their
bodies, tacky make up and costume
clothes like stiff out of Harper’s Bizarre,
Warhol’s Pandora Box wardrobe, body
art by some demented freak on speed
with a butcher’s knife instead of a tattooist’s
tools, the only discernible images, death
cultist symbols and the leader of the pack’s
Gothic lettered phrase” PISS FACTORY,
forming a semi-circle around his navel,
all of them stoned to the gills and clearly
hostile, in need of sedatives to slow
the virtual China syndrome chemical mix
threatening to flatline their vital organs,
close their bodies down, the take-me-to-
your-leader gesturing at the barman,
pointing at the back bar high octane rocket fuel
bottles, waving fifty dollar bills as an attention
getting aid, trying to bridge a considerable
language gap with guttural noise making
and even more frantic waving, succeeding
only in creating an image of Euro trash on tour,
way lost on some highway to hell they were
building as they went, oblivious to their
surroundings and determined to stay that way.

Space Cowboy

like some kind of urbane cowpoke
in second hand store bought jeans
and shirts only worn on the range
for cooking dinners on electric
stove tops or for warming instant
coffee to pour in a Trailblazers mug
he mistakes for the emblem of some
Wild West Show. Even after hours,
Perfecting his image and stride in
full length mirror, he’s spotted as a
dude walking into a bar, singled out
for some major attitude adjustment
by unspoken agreement among regulars
he asks about the real Area 51, they’d
send him looking for by shortcuts and
made up state highways that would lead
him all the way up to Wyoming once
he’d recovered from all the mind altering
stuff they’d put in hi shots and beers,
telling him it was the local custom,
and he’d gleefully agreed without pausing
to ask what the special ingredients were,
not that they would have told him; these
recipes were a carefully guarded secret
as these things should be.

Friday, July 18, 2014

Nancy May- Three Poems

alien autopsy
eight fingers, two thumbs
on this strange creature

trophy on the wall
human eyes in awe of
new surroundings

flames chase the clouds
through the treetops
alien crash site below

Nancy May has haiku published in Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Inclement Poetry, Twisted Dreams Magazine, Vox Poetica, Eskimo Pie, Icebox, Dark Pens, Daily Love, Leaves of Ink, The Blue Hour Magazine, Kernels, Mused – The BellaOnline Literary Review, Danse Macabre – An online literary Magazine, High Coupe, A Handful of Stones, Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine, Dead Snakes, 50 Haikus, The Germ, Boston Literary Review, Be happy Zone, Every Day Poets, Cattails, Ppigpenn, Creatrix Journal and Artvilla. Haiku will soon appear in M58.
She is a monthly contributor at The Camel Saloon and Poems and Poetry. She has reached The Heron’s Nest consideration stage twice and the Chrysanthemum consideration stage once. She is working on her first haiku collection.​

David S. Pointer- Three Poems

UFO repair
drop yard mechanics
greasing the unknown

vampire sweat shop
dental extraction room
for low achievers

beached whale
rebuilt with double sonar
sub soon washes ashore

Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- Two Poems


her sewing basket
a collection of
orphan eyeballs

early morning coffee
and the usual 
emailed death curse

ant antennae
feeling for missing
back legs

locked ward
hides my shadow
hides my claws

full moon
blood cousins and I
hunt as a pack

this time,
tired of the same old
she lets me live

Contemplating an Unknown

Our computers have no records of your
shattered starship’s design nor where
it was built.  We have no data about 
your species.  Dying alone on an 
uncharted moon...acidic mists
from surface craters were a
sudden death, even if you 
survived an obviously 
brutal crash landing  
Your remote home...
you may have been
their hero, perhaps
even their savior...
there is sadness.
There is this sorrow.
I’ll never know your name

ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs)/hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+ years/120+ issues), homes include Lilliput Review, Jellyfish Whispers, Eye On Life, Shamrock, UFO Gigoglo, and! bearcreekhaiku.blogspot.com (translates as joie de vivre)