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Poems 2004

Stuck In A Hole
I am stuck in this hole 6 feet deep, 
I have no shovel to dig myself out,
I scream for help, 
But no one hears me,
I pray for help, 
But no one answers me.
I am just stuck in this hole 6 feet deep, 
That I know I will never escape.
The Scream
I heard her from my balcony,
That I sat directly across from her,
A sound of terror,
A shriek that made me quiver,
Was the sound a lie, was the sound real,
Something came over me,
To get up and walk across the street,
To enter her building,
To go and knock on her door,
Though it was only one scream,
With one scream I felt…
Pain, terror, all with helpless loneliness,
Did my ears deceive me?
Was I hearing what my mind only wanted to hear?
Was there a scream?
Stepping off the elevator,
Still hearing the scream being replayed over and over again,
My mind will not stop this wicked sound,
One door at the end of the hall,
I glided slowly towards almost floating towards,
Placed my knuckles to the wood,
I tapped gently … 
I whispered hello can you hear me,
Placed my ear to the door,
And rested awaiting a sound,
Nothing still replaying the one scream over in my mind,
Whispering hello while turning the knob,
With a little creek the door opened,
I slithered in with soft steps,
Still hearing the one scream in my mind,
Softly I stepped peering aimlessly around,
The one scream has stopped in my head,
The sound of stillness surrounded me,
I became in gulfed in the color red,
Hot thick blood streamed towards me,
My heart raced then stopped,
I screamed …
This was all me.
The great defiance of the future,
Was the one, who spoke out and decided to only spew the truth,
With knowledge comes a riot,
The great defiance became the war to end the eyes spies,
The watchtowers will crumble and the people will be set free,
Questions finding the truth,
We are not alone to roam,
40 years in the desert was a tall tale,
The defiant ones need no self-imposed Gods,
The defiant ones need no great storyteller 
to invoke fearing lies into one another,
The defiant ones will not be ruled 
under fallacies bearing threatening names,
The defiant ones will be the great ones standing up to your Gods,
That you all choose to hide behind,
The defiant ones have and will continually pick from the apple tree,
The great defiance marked civil disobedience,
Releasing the revolution of valiant freedom,
I am a defiant one!
I am coming at you,
Full force I take a hold,
I cannot take any more of you,
You have expressively massacred me,
Your fixation,
Your obsession of me,
Your sick phobic of never releasing me,
Every night you kill pieces of me.
Little Girl
Pale reflection,
Fading old mirror.
I smeared mommy’s lipstick,
I blushed like a clown,
Eye shadows deep plum going brown,
Moving on to Smokey gray turning old black,
I played all those little games.
Hours pass to days,
While they turn to weeks,
Moving faster to months,
Speeding years.
Little girl keeps pushing away reality,
I still play all those little games.
My heart aches for my sanity,
I am awake with a feeding frenzy,
Passion, lust, drugs, sex,
Indulgences I cannot stop.
Indulgences I cannot take a hold,
Where did my little girl go?
Conscious whore,
I pass myself as a saint,
Breathing lies through my teeth.
Missing hours, missing days, missing weeks,
Deeper in darkness I swallow,
I begin to count how I can go,
Quick blast using the gun,
Fast slides across my wrist, using a ice-cold razor blade,
Cars, buses, trains, slamming hard into my body,
Taking my faith, a simple easy leap,
I can almost see the light.
I smeared my cheap old lipstick,
I blushed looking used all bruised,
Eye shadows hazy blurred,
Little girl keep safe and just let go,
Don't be seen anymore for you a sure to be forgotten.
Same time passes,
Screaming for my pain,
Crying for reality.
Little girl stopped!
Passed on, faded away,
Little girl is lost gone no more.

------ Marla


Tomorrow Is Yesterday Is Today

Maybe the under garment was a diluted
Invite to sit in the rain. I’ll take the gift
And be on my way to the anti-suppressant
Seminar. Tomorrow and the recent past are only
Of great consequence in the meaning of truth. Tall tales
Collide when my hair is below my eyes, requesting
Permission to be blown in the wind. Reduce chest pains
By taking the anemic side.
Replace the rubber love boat by sneaking up on the great white.
I’ll sit on your porch and linger until a visitor comes to take
The silence away. Bring on the melodies under the surface,
And conduct an action of superior social livelihood. Bring down
The buildings, who ask the heavens for a little breathing space.
Walk past the racial differences in this October summer cold.
Bypass on feelings that concentrate on a friendless man in
Desolate bindings.
Forget punctuation and write a masterpiece.
Building blocks to a new failing future rip up the pages
That carries a childhood scent. Make public the little boy
On the sidewalk that opens his arms to any windshield wiper.
I’m too small to see when the resident explains. 
Walks right through me and The daily paper notes. I’ll fast 
until I have to leave this Criminal state of bliss. 
Walk to the empty room and leave the badge
Behind. Scribble your thoughts and keep a divine presence. 
Maybe the clouds Will clear for my journey home.

Affronted, Northeast Portland

Even, the basement was empty, the
Sounds of trickling would inject into the
Gutters. The sounds unpleasant to the leafless eye, apart
From the needs of yours truly, Mr. Destruction Enthusiast. What are these
Trying to say? Frankly, the elucidation does not ratify your sermon.
But who is to blame in the first place? Your Soul Provider? The crooning
Homeless just blocks away from your temporary residence?!
…I cower
…I crouch
…I crawl

Alone in the grass hills, the wall returning the ball. You
Call out to imaginary players, wishing, “vamoose, vamoose!” as
They randomly drop anchor.

Making headway, pushing on from unwashed carpets. If you feel
So obliged to understand, remember this: You are burning away
In a land of guilt, your feet are a Roman spring in the sand, all but to
Petrified to swim away. My friend, do not feel accompanied by gentle hands.
Exhale with half a breath and let the tide weep in your wake.

Toxin-Laced Letter

Step into the light once
More for the benefit of your own speculation.
Down under the lights on the street fabricate
Your dawn-to-dark, destined to be taken in the mask
Of a growing dependency. Observe much? Shed the
Twilight in the making of times. Memories
To play for, when there are no more clouds to bombard.
I take an Image and make the weight gain more to wake up the
Connecting temptation.
This slope of a process.
A spiral buried in the sand.
Troublemakers sight
The gesture and awaken to the fountain of youth,
Fixing their tries. Are you ever inquisitive about what you channel?
The escape of a lost cause, defining the moments in unison, hanging up.
I encountered the same situation tonight under a black dome. Little holes,
Spectacles of light.
I came home a simple man.

Democratic Rash

I’m marinating naked, in the early mourning,
Preparing the frost to bite into the future
Of my brides trauma.

Yes, a word must describe the synthesis
Of my possessed polarity, scratching notes from a Polaroid era.

Since history has set their feet into
The Throne,
It hibernates. We can make
The stature racist and ill tempered
A sad willow in the wind.

Democratic Rash- I’ll scratch if you spread.

Earthbound Ghost Need

Incognito, with long hair in a green caravan.
She sits steady and speaks fast.
Building her future in front of a paused moment,
In the past.
The pale moist contains the key to a short life.
No more food to hide.
Witnesses perform a circus beyond the grave.

Glazing defeat.
Discovering the next country that will embrace the beast.

Chocolates tarnish the path to where I write.
I hold it to no God to inject fathom and insight.
“Live, and let live,” deemed the uptown character.
“A whistle will clear the hills of killers you’ll try to beat.”

Rise above the subsided constraint, believe
You will keep the bar straight.
Cast aside the flame of doubt, and keep
The ashes to dream about.

Eating Raw Bread With A Mammoth

The kitchen floors are covered with my memories.
Like possessions I left behind for friends to endure.
Their reasons unsure to me,
Though perfect legacies for their tough
Two bedrooms.
Oh, those thoughts could burn out
The lamp on those latent, patient fiends.
Springing a concern only to compose a lie.
Animal instinct almost hid the gun.
A models figure saved facts,
To sprout violence on low income.
Vanilla candles wont cure those tattoos.
Only if saving time leads inclination
To thirst for truth.
A seed, symmetrical of walls, dividing planted emotion.
Time lasts the time of losing weight.
Rib cages are puppets for my stomachs stress intake.
Transition needed on my peeling skin.
Wasting another take as I wade my mates in.

Attracting Worms On July Something…

There’s always an agenda in the Willow
Springs, there in Sin Territory.

Its not another drug bust,
My darling,
Been reading on the top,
Now scarring.

Taste the beatings of random visits;
I hear their delight with tragic, positive wits.

They watched from an angle,
To put us in the clear.
“Her bus stopped in L.A.,”
Some said, around here.

History is repeating itself, monotonous.
Trust there will be gay men adoring the both of us.
Trust itself…
Learn from the need of drugs.
Who is willing to walk to the corner of
Sixth and Pseudo Thugs?

The environment smells of new breeds in the back.
She would pull that knife out before she had more
Worms attract.

Sure thing to be the rose.
To castrate paranoia wont appetize, I suppose

------ Brian Anthony Hardie


*Perfumed Envelopes in the Alley*

Tin mailboxes line the gravel path,
their wood posts aged a silver gray.
The stones tickle my bare soles
as I look through my box
for the letter youd said you sent.
But it's not there, and it's as if
I'm no longer there either,
just a shell standing in front
of an empty metal box.

Chipped teeth litter his face,
bruised lips smear his cheeks,
salty blood trickles from his nostrils.
But he still stands, hands clenched
as fists at his sides, knuckles cut,
as he looks down at his opponent
stretched out moaning in the sluice
running in the alleys gutter. His boss,
his wife, his father, his life.

*On the Corner of Vista and Minton*

Let the skinny ones
stay skinny
the fat man
in the middle
of the bus shelter bench,
not wanting
to share
as he watches
the two dogs
on the corner
across the street.
The big dog sniffs
the little dogs butt.
The little dog
spins around
and snarls,
then presents
her butt again
for smelling.


He sucks on a smokeless cigarette in space
while looking back at the past, at Earth.
Unable to age or die, he wants to quit.
He yearns for his adolescence
before the cynicism of his maturity
smothered his life,
when his tears tasted
of salt.

-------  Raud Kennedy


A Kid

Went In Dumb, Came Out

        The Same

Not so much linked up

to a single icon, or 

as to a moo mood of 

mayhem.  This asshole

school teacher said

a lot with his lot

of words.  He taught

elementary kids. His

girl friend of twelve

years never did chores

assigned to her.  She

ate a lot of peaches,

even out of season. I

hate cues she prattled.

I like grading papers

while running around

the house for no-whys.

Kids dont need whys.

The teach ate a lot

while he talked and 

owned his deep throat.

today    as of yesterday         what is youth

the gray     smoke    lucid           lucid

and dulling the nostrils     of the girl

waiting for             the burning yellow bus

to bus her to knowledge        or what is

defined as such        she looks up     she

sees clouds on top of clouds       and no sun

and even though    she is gorgeous     she

is ugly this moment      this moment she

has been waiting for     for thirteen years

the yellow cheap, plastic gold   on her third

finger     shows she shows love       boy at

the next stop waiting to look into her clitoris

ranging hills  banks  dying trees  no spring as

of yet          and yelling bus driver    ache

as she aches    knowing in a day   a month or

ten years he will leave her for one prettier

she eats her dwelling in her memory       she

does not do hw       she only knows at this time

in her life the line that is on the horizon

then     losing hope     she returns to her dumb

mind and sits there             does not speak

Two Subjects Comprehend The Involution 

        Of A Complete Turn

In an elementary form of inversion

She, at first, hesitated, then

Asked her date to come in and have

A cup of tea.  He thought that any-

Thing seemed possible.  He was in

Err.  His lack of comprehension,

His total mechanisms out of kilter,

He looked at his dates spatiality

And knew relationships never lasted

For one who did not know how to 

Make easy decisions.  The geometry

Of the objects of love.  Adequacies

Alone and meaning nothing in todays

Society, both saw their reciprocal

Facilitations and did not kiss at

All during the night that had too

Much going on.  Much too much words.

Education galore.  Makeup.  Perfume.

Aftershave.  A.I.D.S. and wealths

Of other bad, bad news on the TV.

------ Daniel Gallik


Tittle: Rose
Tenders it seems
Delicate to one
Gracious sent 
Flowing through the air
Pedals Fall gracefully to the floor
Placed apon
dampened are they
A single rose left apon the desk
Tittle:  Alone
From a childhood I wish not to remember
From the depths of my mind
Comes no other
This mystery which binds me still
Torment playing with my mind
From the moon which sits watching over me
From the stars leading my way
So peacefully they lay
Watching over me as
I sit alone; once in the darkness
Till the moons and stars fade out 
I shall never be alone in this world.
Tittle: Silence of the night.
In my dreams I see
An angel falling graciously
Is it here to help me or is it here to take me
Never will I know
I see a light gleaming oh so bright
Are they coming for me
My thoughts wonder away
Left alone I see 
Awaken am I
In the silence of the night

------ Christy Fleming


Lessons from death
I wait for you
like the lonely warrior
who is tired of bloodshed
Under the blooming voice of peace
Let the trancedence of war
occupy other people
We will walk among the broken skulls 
and learn our lessons through dead beings.
What does
When he collapses in my arms 
and i see the shadow of darkness in his eyes
i am tempted to think 
that he can do me any good
but he whiles away the time
and drags me along into the flesh of light
and blinded by its innards
i am shocked to find 
it is nothing but empty space.
Soft rain
When he is silent
IT Rains
slow soft drops.
Thatched roofs and forgiven outrage.
and the slient rain drips
distiguishing the misery from the turn around pretensions
swirling round and round
torturing itself on the border strands of broken dreams
childhood tears and grown up illusions
form one flesh.
I in the mean while
smuggle myself out
growing small
drilling myself
into lost innocence

------ Priyanka Sharma




 I digest an August city,
 through top - deck Perspex.

 Its scratches interrupt,

my vehicular dinner. 

Pedestrians march spent, 
my optic currency charges 

their isolated manners,

picks their pockets of locomotion.

Red light ahead  I grumble for Green.
Amber gives temporal release.

Alphabetically we meander, 
litter and letters wrap minds eyes, 
monoxide clogs lanes veins, 
horns pierce stills of air.



Esteem raped,

dishonour dishevels
 from your mouth, 
positively swaggers, 
mocking with pride.

It sits nonchalantly,

Beneath the stairs,

As do a Dictionary,
 Encyclopaedia and Bible.


You aimlessly read life;


Strange sensations did enter you, 
unlocked with Dirty language, 

Graphics erect at their heart,

Seminally Fluid. 


Maturity with eyes, 

Clothes those stripped indiscretions, 
dresses you with credit, cope, 
honours you with the top of your stairs.





All circularly joint,

 beneath florescence - 
on Dark walnut, 

We chew aspiration as a learning curd

Slim - line Indian, 
stores delusional phobias.

Santas  switches are his fat turn  ons,
 lean dishes festively spoken,

 in sputum and gibberish.

A - leggy board looks on squarely,


Mute Stereo ignores.

Its tone contrary, 
to an electric trio of sockets.
Plastic plants splay at their leer, 
oval hands that greenly nourish,

fertilize ones thoughts.



mainly diced and cubed grey, 
boxes our confidential ring,

recreationally entertains,

lets us empty our anxieties,

into its helpful mouth.





around a corner

 of placed thought


 a straight question -


on its knees


questions theory leanly.


Is to swallow submissively,

 an answer?

------ Mark Shirley


Gooseneck-Girl Lives Here

Beyond the road to lovers lane, past

bullets and bones long since forgotten

we played the game of growing up

with heaps of silt our platform.

The apple trees upon our stage

held fruit we laughed was rotten

But night reduced the green to black

and their simple sugars kept us warm.

Flanking trails to the first pond festered

ruins of a 19th Century brick factory;

its eroding turrets at forty feet providing 

cheap habitat to swifts and brown myotis.

We dared the angular rubble to search

Whippanongs wealth and mystery;

but rats and rattlers bore the blame

for the rawness that it granted us.

Amidst anthracite piles and spread-eagled

Lackawanna rails, zumac and ivy grew.

Their real and imagined poisons encroached

non-union warrens where coal-fed fires

once built Broad and Market but in the age of

Camelot provided the joy of hobo stew.

A buzz that Birch Hill boys would never know

because this wasteland snubbed all criers.

In these tombs of missing laborers 

Stanleys daughter set up shop.

She baked four-grain bread in the ovens

and skinned mammals for the lard.

She raised sons who went to college

and a daughter who married a cop; 

and while others may have lived here longer

she remains the Queen of my Brickyard.

------- Terry Boykie 



i am the priest to the alcoholic. the eye candy
for the fucks who want dick tempura. the envy
to the bed, bath and beyond man. the brunch with
the girlfriend while the game's on kind of man.
the charmer with blue eyes who goofy wants to
fuck. the punk charging money to the druggie.
the rock star to the nerd. the bad boy to the good
girl. the good boy to the bad girl. the free drink to
the hussy with those big beautiful juicy tits. the ear
for the lonely man coming off a twelve hour shift.
the one step closer to the bums who enter and fuck
up the john. the meet your match to that pretty kind of
weakling. the i told you so to my ex old ladies. the
cocksucker who use to fuck her and fuck her well i
might add. the he could and should be doing better
to the parents of the world. the working stiff who writes
novels on the side for the god damn cunt. the monster
to the woman who makes a face. i am the quiet one
looking at the bottles. the one looking you up and down
and thinking about having a smoke. i'm the one you
always wonder about but never go there. the one you
leave your shitty tips to. the one not saving anything
for another day. i am the great henry miller's second
chance at life. the writer who backs his ass this way.
i am the bite after the chew. the one.
don't fucking forget it.


the regulars rent me for seven hours
a day. suzanne finally fucked me. she
was terrible in bed. she said she loved
me and wanted to eat chicken with rice
all during the sex. when i stuck it in her
mouth it was the worst thing i could have
ever done. she even wiped it off with her
pants. she made a scene leaving but she still
comes into the restaurant talking on the
phone and drinking vodka tonics saying hi
and pretending not to be looking at me.


new lips
new eyes looking at me

more complaining about me being selfish
more pages passed over
more weird fuck faces

different tits
different hair styles
lot's of different
mani's and pedi's

i'm lying in one of my two beds
watching her get dressed
i can see it in the way she finds her clothes in my clothes
she's frustrated with me already
like the other one used to be.

this morning i can't even walk her to the door
suppose i'll hear from you when i hear from you she says
i'll call after looking at the knife,
the romano cheese, the shiraz,
the glasses, the phone, the salt a couple thousand times-

i'll sleep for days and work and write
and when that gets overly over i'll call
or leave a message just because she's not home.

i know solitude.
i know i'll never see her unhappiness again.
i know i gave her the best three weeks of her life.

------ Michael Internicola



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