Saturday, October 29, 2011

guide line for submissions:

please send no more then 5 poems

your name in headline and your poems in the body of your Emil.

included a short bio. of yourself and publication history isn't as important

And thank you

Michael H. Brownstein (latest poems)

Michael H. Brownstein


Night a line of light going nowhere,
a patio of smoke, somewhere a sprig of water,
charcoal colored maize. Early spring
the sky, the moon, the Milky Way.
Early winter frost bitten, a leak of shadow,
laughter in drifting snow. 

                                           Even fire 
on the nearby hillside through an opening,
a flashlight, the person nearby with a lit helmet--
I cannot see my hand in front of my face--
imagines heat and daylight, a nurturing sun,
the winning of a bet we could stay warm
this midnight without the use of flames.
Later we will fish for fish in sand,
pan for gold in air, build a bridge on hard ground,
eat the fruit of the bird and the meat of the seed.

They will laugh at us and that will be OK.
We will win the first bet--remember always
how the judge ruled against the man selling smells.


--Napoleon at Waterloo and the Russian interior, for example, Hitler trying to take Moscow and General Howe at Manhattan.

Weather our army in time of need,
clouds rolled wire, barbed and content,
until the swamp matches sky, moss and wood.
A wind from the south, December, 
snow melting, snow drifting, and still 
an edge in the cloud field gives way
to something grayer, unsteady and drunk,
and we know how weather changes, how it
will save us, how wind reverts to its nature,
how rain mist freezes, how fog disguises truth,
weather our savior in time of saving.

When they sat down, they took everything out of their life--
rocks, moons, great white swans, whooping cranes,
the name of every flightless bird from Guatemala,
space debris and every tome on evolutionary design. 
Soon they had erased the nobody and the somebody.
Even the hard body with thick shoulders vanished in the rain.
Days later—or was it weeks—seconds into minutes perhaps?—
they moved to the thick grass by the swamp’s edge
and fed the alligators raw hamburger meat. This too
came from inside of them, their skin raw and dappled,
a filibuster of tarnish, turpentine and fragrance.
Did you ever eat a worm? No? Then put the pork chop down.


The old men of the electrical utilities
share the hat, eat the pie, run over the pedestrian
and eat money until there is nothing left of the rest of us.

This poem needs a refrain,
a homeland, a hat, a hand job.
This poem needs a vagina
muscled with teeth, 
venus fly trap lotion,
battery acid lubricant,
someone to set a tongue on fire.
This poem needs a water bed,
perfect teeth and perfect hair.
This poem is not a bottom feeder, 
a handhold, a hand to hold. 
This poem needs to refrain.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

poetry by Ross Vassilev

by Ross Vassilev

we watched the 
Irish girls 
home in pairs 
St. Mary’s. 
they were all 
or redheads 
thin and pretty 
not saying a word 
not even to 
each other. 
pale white legs 
coming out of 
green plaid 
they drove us nuts 
but we didn’t 
have the balls 
to go over 
and talk to them 
so they remained 
a green-clad 
in the grey streets 
of Manhattan.

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Poetry by Lauren Tivey

There is a way to open your body
to the land, like a lover.
There is a way to read the mood
of the soil, like a prophet.
Out here, crows are omens, and clouds
ambassadors of the August sky.
There is a way to synchronize
your pulse, to learn the cadence.
This is the only way
to fill your basket.
Isla Mujeres
Skinny as a stray
she roams the alleys
in a white communion dress
brown legs blooming
out of lace socks
and scuffed shoes
three pesos for gum
from her straw basket—
she likes my earring
jingles it with a sticky finger
and her black satin hair
sways as she skips away
all the girls work here
bringing back fistfuls
of greasy money to Mama
who is washing the clothes
in the yard, among the chickens
and broken glass.
Woman on a Blue Balcony
See her from the street
the chipped blue paint
white stucco wall
you think the sky
should be gray
a storm blowing in
that she needs a shawl
imagine a simmering
in the eyes, a bad lover
entire telenovas in your head
chest-thumping and weeping
because she is standing
on a blue balcony
and her hair is long
and her eyes are black
but an afternoon sun is stretching
its long fingers into this clutter
of alleys near the Plaza de Armas—
you see she is only surveying
her comfortable universe
the warmth of her satisfied
brown face, simple blessing
of her flowers drowsing in their pots.
Now turn, and leave her alone.

Lauren Tivey has been busy traveling for the past two years, and is currently living in China, where she works as an English Literature teacher in the American Program at a Chinese high school.  She received a MFA in poetry from Vermont College of Fine Arts, and her work has appeared in Negative SuckThe Literary Burlesque, Blue Lake Review, The LegendaryGutter Eloquence, andSnakeskin, among many other publications.  Her chapbook, The Breakdown Atlas & Other Poems, was released in July of 2011 from Big Table Publishing Co.  She lives for poetry, photography, travel, and adventure.