Old Man

Funny how you remember people. “Close the ice box!” Grandad would yell. “Turn the

light off!” He never cursed or swore, or anything like that. But that tone of voice, the look

on his face. Like “you dumb motherfucker” was always at the start or end of a sentence..........

Continued......

Last update: 25-11-2007 18:04

Featured Poet of the Week --- Justin Hyde

//police came to my door with a search warrant//

said i'd spent
over thirty-dollars
on aa batteries
in one month
at the kum and go.

one of the clerks
got suspicious
i was cooking meth.

i took the officers
down the hall

showed them my
ten-dollar cd player
from wal-mart
the landfill of notebooks
spilling out of the closet
and the waste basket
six inches deep
with dead batteries.

you get paid
to write these
poems?
asked the young one
with gnarly cauliflower ear
while wrist-checking
the pepper spray
on his belt.

some guy
in ohio
owes me fifteen bucks
i don't ever expect
to see

beyond that it's self delusion,
i said
as we walked
to the living room.

get some sleep buddy
looks like you need it,
the older one
with a turkey-neck
gobbled
and reached for the door.

oh
that's the butter-knife exit,
i said
and dug one out of the couch cushions
and twisted the tip
in the rectangular hole.

where's your doorknob buddy?

it ran off
with the dish
and the spoon,
i said
and wished them luck
against the inexorable vicissitudes
despair of the shy woodchuck
and what-not.

then i peed
in the kitchen sink
popped a handful of vicodin
and wrote this poem
dedicated to myself
and anyone else out there
with a headful of
loaded dice.

Justin Hyde lives in Iowa where he works with criminals for a living. He grew up feral in a trailer park and of all the things that should have come from the union of his mother and father, well, lets just say no-one else in his family writes poetry. He was on track to become a miserable no-good son-of-a-bitch but then he had a son and the little bastard is shinning some light on his stone heart. Justin can be contacted at This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it

Last update: 22-11-2007 19:44

It’s when glass crashes down
to crinkle the seas of a prismatic floor
in folds soft enough to dance upon—

Speak!

There’s a frame hung on the wall
where corners meet
like rolling sand dunes,
where abrasive textures
claw at a crow’s croaking caw—
her feathers splayed
across murals of the meek.

Her masks are tribal
in their ancient burial of ritual surrender:
Cries of distant rumbles,
tumbles of clouds between crevasses—
Off-white creams flow
as a broken light show
glitters on the ground.

Speak!

Tell a tale once sung by herdsmen
who tied stones to their stomachs
to keep their hunger a wolf to stabbing beaks.

Dance upon the edges of an urn
crafted with falling lace
so graceful
like hair brushing into an upturned face—
welcoming eyes spilling false disguise
as the longing for her song
burns ever on and on . . .

Speak!

     Dear Angel of the Caves,     
     will your dust wave upon the surface     
     of wet skin, punctured     
     by the bark of your harp?     
     Will the shattered stains paint     
     a reflection for all the rainbows     
     to glisten like a dove’s distant gaze?     
     Will the folds flow freely,     
     the walls break easy,     
     and will he come with the moon at night?     

Speak!

Heaven, will you take a harlot?
Heaven, will you, will you take a harlot?
Heaven, heaven, will you take a harlot?

Alia Hussain lives in Chicago

Last update: 10-11-2007 05:42

Abuelita

I thought you were
the lover of Richard Ramirez

covering the walls of your corner house

in the blood of stolen fetuses

while he snuck into open windows

across Los Angeles

I believed you were

La Reina of the Mexican mafia

pointing out targets for drive bys and

selling heroin packed in balloon

animals to neighborhood children

I heard stories of

your Tijuana drug binges and

your skill wielding

the belt and the ash tray and

the vacuum cleaner cord

yet all I remember is

naps under the white down and

hiding from fireworks in your bushes and

a red rose resting

in your jet black hair

Gail D. Kelley lives in Redondo Beach, Ca.

Visit him at www.myspace.com/chirorhino

Last update: 10-11-2007 05:42