Automatic
goes off
in hand.
Singers
don’t clean
up scat.
Poop’s
now the
pudding.
Infection
spread on
word salad.
Spontaneity
combusts
uninsured.
Automatic
goes off
in hand.
Singers
don’t clean
up scat.
Poop’s
now the
pudding.
Infection
spread on
word salad.
Spontaneity
combusts
uninsured.
Do you recall those earlier days when lost in a haze, I would follow you anywhere?
Jumping off the bridge on our bikes onto the small island in the middle of a stream.
Riding headlong into a cornfield, the plants smashing against us.
The 4th of July when we snuck into the park,.no one knew we got in for free.
It was all a storybook adventure.
You were something like a hero to me.
We got high for the first time before band practice and spent the day laughing as only fourteen year-olds can.
I loved that first year of High School.
We sat close together in a private world until the teachers separated us.
When the class had to read aloud from some obscure text, I never could because you would make me laugh.
You were rebellious, full of pranks.
We put discarded Christmas trees on top of people's cars.
You got nabbed shoplifting candy, not content with the free samples the outlet provided.
It was all in good fun.
We slept over at each other's houses always trying to sneak out after curfew.
Your parents would catch us and order us back to bed.
One night we made it to the school building.
How different it seemed in the dark.
You were Tom and I was Huck.
I never suspected those days would end with no more Summer vacations to fill.
We were in the same Cub Scout pack.
You insisted we join marching band and I was stuck trying to learn how to play the trumpet.
Those bus rides were fun with Renata's head in my lap.
You and I and Brenda formed the terrible trio.
Everything changed during our Sophomore year.
You went off each morning to Vo-Tech.
You got a car and your family moved to another part of town.
That was the beginning of the end.
After graduation, you signed up to the Navy and were placed on a ship in San Francisco.
We did write back and forth.
You called me when you went AWOL and were unsure of what to do.
Things got heavier and sadder for awhile.
When you returned home, I was somebody new, myself for the first time.
I am sitting in
my backyard reading
a book of poetry.
Notice my nosy
neighbour watching
me from her
window. She
doesn't read poetry.
Probably thinks I
am looking at
porn. I wave at her.
Blow a playful
kiss. She screams
something vicious
out the window.
I reach for my
crotch. Start rubbing
theatrically. She
violently slams
the window. Face
redder than
ripened beets.
Threatening to call
the police. I
shake my head.
Continue reading.
A poem written
over sixty years
ago by a person
far greater
than she could
ever be. Punching
at the walls
inside her suburban
fortress. Imagining
they were me.
Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in Gargoyle, New York Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Heavy Feather Review, and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press.
Between two worlds
possibly more
I sweat it out
try to get a grip
On the impermeable—
Did I choose
which to
remember / consciously
the day by day
While the other
continues to move
along in motion—
Or was this parceled out
like scatter feeding
crumbs to street birds—
Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres. Her most recent book, a Novel titled Hair Of A Fallen Angel, came out in the fall from Spuyten Duyvil Books, NYC. Tepper has also written 7 stage plays. Her third play titled EVA & ADAMO will present at The Tank, NYC, early fall. www.susantepper.com
I.
Electric lines stretch from Mendocino
to Big Sur where rocks jettison distraction
with their amped wildness.
They clamp fear, culling awe—
I work half-asleep aside these clutches
of vine populated by transformers.
Womb-like cities burst voltaic, fill the country.
II.
Fingering a crisp copy of Joan Didion, you dream
of crossing across slouching California to leave me
come the purple flash of dusk’s bristle-light to crash
like rushing wave crests, who come with thunder.
No quarter to give grace, mercy unable,
mercy dries in my hand. I’ve ceased to cherish you.
You have done the same. Alone, we wait for rescue.
We’ve sold the children’s toys.
III.
I work the line until nightfall.
The empty thermos walks out in hand to meet you.
Coastal rain beads on our rust bottom truck.
Winding around the road the stars
nestle spangled-white maize in black porridge,
light peers through tar.
You and I breathe under all this corruption.
Manny Grimaldi is an editor and writer living in Kentucky. Manny is in his 5th year as manager
of the poetry journal, Yearling. His work has featured live at Insomniacathon 2024 and Sitwell’s in Cincinnati,
As well as in Disturb the Universe Magazine, and Moss Puppy:
Issue 7 The Boneyard, for which he received a Best of the Net nomination for “Houses Pt. 1.”
His books include “Riding Shotgun with the Mothman” and the latest “Finding a Word to Describe You”
through Whiskey City Press, NC. His currency is his word, and the dishes are never done.
As the scab forms you can’t
keep your hands off
and the bleeding starts over
this cycle of destruct
Unable to control
the impulse
to pick yourself clean
A woodsman skinning
animals for eating later—
and throughout the winter
Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres. Her most recent book, a Novel titled Hair Of A Fallen Angel, came out in the fall from Spuyten Duyvil Books, NYC. Tepper has also written 7 stage plays. Her third play titled EVA & ADAMO will present at The Tank, NYC, early fall. www.susantepper.com
John, didn't think it you'd ever die
With that heart shielding everything
About you
How did that fucker misinterpret such a
Waste of a novel anyway
Shel Silverstein write better
Sweet John , how is it no one
Can accept Peace
When it's their work that kills
Us
-----
BROTHER M
Merritt Waldon is Southern Indiana poet who has been published in Road Dawgz, Sun Poetic Times,
The Brooklyn Rail, Be About It Zine, River Dog #1, Sparring with Beatnik Ghosts, Americans & others anthology fourth edition, Crisis Chronicles, Cajun Mutt Press, Thye Rye Whiskey Review, and Fearless!.
At midnight Christmas night 2020, cajun mutt press released Oracles from a Strange Fire by Ron Whitehead & Merritt. He lives in Austin, Indiana.