I found a poetic vehicle posted 4 sale: 72 santa fe travel trailer. Twenty feet or it could be a 16 footer. small but has all amen-ities. needs foam, curtains, other misc., some waterproofing–easy to do fixits. seems road worthy. also has dual wheels for better stability. great for camping or an extra room. **not real firm on the price** I’m ready to tow it, load turquoise and tube tops, […]
That lying, deceitful floozy batting her washes, massacred lashes. It’s become a familiar ordeal. She thrashes everybody’s coast, flees inland so the weatherman can’t report her whereabouts on the six o’clock news. He has a feeling his Doppler is haywire. Her indecent cleavage breaks our levee and the whole scene washes away, becomes a soup of sighs and arousal mixed with junk mail, diapers, and spatulas at this ill-timed moment. […]
He asks why I can’t love him without my hands cuffed behind my back. How do I tell him? At night, I still listen for the sound of my mother’s breathing. Orooj-e-Zafar fancies herself a spoken word poet while she struggles her way through medical school in her hometown, Islamabad, Pakistan. Most recently, she has been published at Persephone’s Daughters, By&By Lit and Voicemailpoems.org. You can connect with […]
Saturday, minutes before 10am on my way back from moving laundry to the dryer marijuana awakens me to my surroundings before I turn the corner where an older gentleman wearing tinted sunglasses even though it’s overcast is fast finishing the remains of a joint while numerous passengers exit the 65 bus and I double-take wondering what kind of kid he used to be & what kind still dwells within […]
You can’t take it with you, my mother says Who I am was almost lost overseas in atrocity I claim no understanding of Many leave home for the next generation There are heirloom tomatoes for all with no worldly possessions to pass down Mark Danowsky’s poetry has appeared in Right Hand Pointing, Shot Glass Journal, Third Wednesday, and elsewhere. Mark is originally from the Philadelphia area, but currently […]
I wish I had learned more español From this crack-spined text, book-ended on my Desk beside other language guides, color of El infierno de crepúsculo: the burning sky at dusk, so I Could read the great poemas españoles de Dulce María Loynaz, liberator’s daughter, writer of Anthems, hymnos. But really I wish I had learned the most beautiful Palabras from my wife’s tongue so I Could live two lives […]
Astronauts are our young who gazed up, saw Three sons burning Inside the lunar module that never Lifted from the pad, their atmosphere ignited By a stripped silver wire–who saw These nylon suited men imagining what it would be to fly When fire flashed their mission to core Components: breath, and a demand To feel everything, a rising cabin temperature With skyward view–who saw And decided: to lose […]
Daughter. (I heard your first words in your mother’s) downcast Silence, womb-wrapped in shawl on couch pillows, her Face glowing with a muted film’s pale hues: worried Jaw set against the unwatched screen, not looking Me directly in the eye, questions and answers dis- Connected in some essential way between us; even Reaching for the quiet flesh near the womb, reaching for You, we are far away from touch, you […]
We rarely sit with ourselves, and see the struggle within us all Stop letting the concrete jungle tuck you in at night lower one leg at a time and remember that pain is also your connection to the living His shirt blew behind him a flag in the wind, his desired last stand His hands spread inches from the rain and the window washer’s rope that hangs above the 24th […]
The road was a river, or could have been the way the rain danced over pot-holed tar and glittered under indifferent street lamps. I sat beneath naked trees, jack-knifed limbs sighing in the night. I waited for love, lust or drugs. A stranger in a tweed suit, a dog without an owner, a miracle or a spaceship. Charles Dutka is a poet and writer who lives and works in […]
Melancholy Hyperbole 