Saturday, December 20, 2014

A Poem by Scott Thomas Outlar

Pumping Organ Vibrations
Hearing your voice again is vile and poisonous,
like weathered, withered red vines of soured wine left to rot
out in the rain from January until March
as the tides crash to and fro in heavy doses of intoxication.
Lost my stomach for the illuminated halo crown
while aimlessly wandering the city streets and listening to cascades
of mumbled silent decadent half dreams
brought forth from the inspiration of reclusive hermits
living in the wilderness as a sacramental ritual unto the old gods.
The baker of a dozen pathological liars
leads the thieves along a broken trail with a million to one odds
of ever finding the karmic scales that tip left and right before crashing.
They will surely never find the center where the shape holds
her angles in perpetuity like perfect angel wing delight
aloft in the skyline symmetry of an occulted geometric spectrum of light
built by an architectural denizen of a coming new day and age.
Science could never figure out the radicalized epiphany of enlightenment.
Triad, quadrupled, triangulated,
circled in the cosmic synchronistic spin,
rhyming to the rhythm of daylight sunshine found within
before bursting out to thank the Heavens with a hearty laugh of madness.
Hell was not a fire, thank you very much,
yet somehow my flesh was roasted by tired demon beasts.
The jagged rock hard belligerence of ten infinite eternal feasts
celebrates the rage and wrath of decadent disease
while carrying off atoms from a stellar nebular eclipse
as stars weakly whine with whispered hollow blips,
blinking bleakly at a hollow point sky
as the horizontal plane of contact loses all grip,
slipping from the wet tongue on tongue taste
that gets missed the most when saying Grace.
He lies slowly, methodically, into his grave
as the funeral songs of Mecca are played.
Scott Thomas Outlar burst forth from the womb of primordial ooze with thoughts of Renaissance, Revolution and Revelation dancing and careening across the neuron synapses of his consciousness. He came to Earth with both a sword and a rose; with love for all that which is good, and hatred for all that which is evil. He spends most of his time trying to discern the difference between the two polar extremes. When not caught up in such spiritual fervor and rapture, he likes to chill out and write. Poetry, essays, rants, ravings, screeds - basically whatever happens to flow at any given time. Examples of his work can be seen in journals such as Dissident Voice, Ascent Aspirations, Loose Change Magazine, The Fanzine, and Oracular Tree. Scott can be reached at

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

A Poem by Ag Synclair

when the writer decided to share relationship advice

when all of it shits the bed
the tumble is long,

you’ll find yourself
spewing page after page

of blunt force trauma
bandaging wounds

with whiskey, and women
you’ll forget by morning.

you’ll never quite get it
all back

the bones
will never heal

and the smell
will never leave.
From the safety of his boring suburban New Hampshire condo, Ag Synclair publishes The Montucky Review and edits poetry forThe Bookends Review. Widely published in the small presses, he manages to fly under the radar. Deftly.

Monday, December 15, 2014

Two Poems by Ken L. Jones

Beyond Summer

The unmade lavender storm won’t last forever on this vintage October day
When something as old as dry flowers and as blue as the ocean breezes
Yet half broken still in its precious delight
Brings up things unbidden like the memory of her skin which will glow forever
And like marijuana fields will never be totally stopped
These unsubtle manifestations are indicative of either wisdom or its ghost
But all of this was just a caterpillar in those now evaporated days
When the harvesting of Ms Perfect’s red grapes that were spread out like Egyptian hieroglyphics
Always started with a six-pack of something old-fashioned and quite winged
And that I can still taste in the lost and found of my unwanted dreams
Where I also remember how foolish she was when she thought that in a Chinatown
That spoke in iambic pentameter that she had said goodbye forever
Not realizing that she will always be a prisoner in the high, high tower of my poetry


The Erosion Of

The pale skin of her breath had all the rhythm of Toulouse Lautrec
Her eyes were pastels in a five and dime store
Accentuated by a harbor of petticoats I only rarely ventured into
Below the moonlit lake that was her swirling hair
And the way she looked at me
While she ate French fries like a ballerina
Haunts me still like some only once savored wine
Until like a churchyard seagull I lost sight of long ago
The blurring dark of my memories swallows her up again whole
And I am left shipwrecked in the midst of winter
Where I once again get whittled down by a sleep that can no longer be denied

For the past thirty-five years Ken L. Jones has been a professionally published author who has done everything from writing Donald Duck Comic books to creating things for Freddy Krueger to say in some of his movies.  In the last six years he has concentrated on his lifelong ambition of becoming a published poet and he has published widely in all genres of that discipline in books, online, in chapbooks and in several solo collections of poetry.  

Friday, November 21, 2014

A Poem by James A. Wilkinson


I can't escape the echoes.
The lingering trace of a stolen kiss
That once melted me away to nothing.
Memories of bodies pressed together tightly till fully melded.
I see her black beetle eyes, deeper than forever,
Hypnotically drawing me back into her orbit.
Things are surely destined to crash and burn once more.
But the choice isn't mine to make,
For my mind is no longer my own.
The emerald wasp has pricked me deep.
And I surrender gladly.

James A. Wilkinson hails from the North East of England.  His focus is on acting as a kind of librarian to his past.  Trying to rationalize the chaos.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

A Poem by henry 7. reneau, jr.


the quantum physics of
attraction solely dependent
upon a singular view

still life two enigmatic
now lickety-split

his &
her (lipstick smeared)
cigarettes flattened on the pavement

two impossible
(smashed & torn)
to read the remnants

cleaved two heartbeats
torn asunder
two break apart

or two holding on
across some distance
as cleaving athwart
the distance grown fonder

henry 7. reneau, jr. writes words in fire to wake the world ablaze:  free verse illuminated by courage that empathizes with all the awful moments, launching a freight train warning that blazes from the heart, like a chambered bullet exploding inadvertently.   

Thursday, November 13, 2014

Two Poems by John Grey

Bye Bye Johnny

his touch
has less hands
than a clock

his kisses
fall off her face
like swatted house flies

all those things
the moon tricked her
into believing--
laughs, if she's honest
lies, if she's sincere

hearts retreat from beating
to Morse code

nerves calm,
got their stories right at last

on a sheet's clammy
wet spot
is sweat alone

I Have My Own Importance to Attend to

I break the plane of your surface,
as my lips on your lips,
holy upon holy,
moon, light, couch, zipper--
this will have ramifications
like world war three starting.

Look at that guy in the photograph.
Your father is it?
He most certainly would not . . .
He would not try to . . .
He would not say or do anything.

But I'm tired of living like
I'm the only one that matters,
the only one loving
at any given time.

Responsibility . . . how about a rain check?

I should drown myself,
leave it to a morgue attendant
to identify this man--
not your fingers,
not your yearning.
Lots of water in the lungs
and let's let see if I take
all feelings down with me.

Yes, sex is what the stars
would be doing if they weren't stars.
And I do twinkle and shine a lot.

Outside, there's traffic,
people watering their gardens--
bad choices on their part.

They leave it all up to me.

Well, of course, you have a say,
a role, in this.
What I mean is,
who's writing this poem?
me or you?

John Grey is an Australian born poet.  Recently published in Paterson Literary Review, Southern California Review and Natural Bridge with work upcoming in New Plains Review, Leading Edge and Louisiana Literature.

Sunday, November 9, 2014

Three Poems by April Salzano

He Loved Me Like a Whore

like he was running out
of time.  His hands were
everywhere his tongue
would not go.  He loved me
like an ocean that threatened
to drown us both, carry our wasted
bodies to shore, enough salt
to cleanse any wound.  He loved me
like I was no longer
breathing.  The air he exhaled
was a breeze from that moment
he was just passing through.

Five Years Later

His ghost is still driving
every silver truck, is still
crouching with a flashlight
in front of every breaker box
in every basement.  His skin
still finds its way under my hands
at the worst moments,
thick with what I have learned
to call regret, a practice
in the dark art of denial.

Forget Me Not

Here is the image I have burned
into your head, leftover
from brief visits to my bed,
one of what would be three times
you fucked me,
both senseless and over,
both literally and metaphorically.  I am on top
of you, sweat soaking skin and sheets.
The taste on my lips is your flavor combined with mine.
You do not resist as my tongue invades territory
of your mouth, landscape of your chest, hard,
beyond male-model perfect, sufficiently supplemented.
Almost flawless, scarless, supine, yours is a body that begs
to be mounted, but never dominated.  More for effect
than pleasure, you reverse our positions without separation.
Animals locked in rhythm without regret, we crash
and climb in unison, my nails in your back,
intentionally tearing the skin with marks you cannot hide.

April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two sons.  She is currently working on a memoir on raising a child with autism and several collections of poetry.  Her work has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in journals such as Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Camel Saloon, Centrifugal Eye, Deadsnakes, Visceral Uterus, Salome, Poetry Quarterly, Writing Tomorrow and Rattle.  Her first chapbook, The Girl of My Dreams, is forthcoming in spring, 2015, from Dancing Girl Press.  The author serves as co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press (