Thursday, March 12, 2015

fireside chat ~ Joseph Milford


good poets know when to shut-up.
your cloak wraps about your ankles as you warp.
the poem on your fork is a gringo because your country
is conquered. stop standing in a stadium looking for Eden
now, all the places you ever wanted to go to are in you
all the fortune cookies have been read, floating in the miso
thinking that home was something you could own
my knees are ant-bites in weeds from pre-pubia
western mind makes mines not museums
you just hope there are no more explosions
which give children tongues to run with
home for bacon. kite flying above
the universe with humans parts in its strings
watching an entire culture punch itself in the face
and sell black-eyes to blind children
O, hearkeners! what you hearken to?
what say you all, those so hardened?
I see every dog in the street as wayward intentions
I am jealous of and miss. do you also darken?
I feel your tail between your legs. moons don’t hover
moons choke with chalk all day. let’s all choose not to howl
it makes you lovable, your ears hanging down
like pods and nettles, or flags striped with invisible
violence. once, we ran faster than hell’s wolves
we covered such terrain; I remember when we
got scared by something; then we started making
incredibly sharp maps which severed our internal tongues

an old man speaks in the mirror to his 12 year old past self ~ Joseph Milford


once, it’s true, I did use hairspray.
I was a boy in the Carter administration.
things weren’t not awesome.
Luke Skywalker action figure had a saber
you could slide out of his arm.
every time I get bloodwork done I think of this.
the entire medical industry is my William Shatner.
do you think I could take your blood better?
with a piano wire, shuriken, or fishing lure?
a whale bone cut a bamboo shoot and empties
upon a banana leaf and I drink you.
in the mirror, my beard’s shavings clog a plastic fiberglass sink.
imagine fixing your hair before an ultimate bleeding.
whale-oil on your scalp. You are ridiculous.
please be a red-blooded-filled boy again.

after Wallace Stevens ~ Joseph Milford


Stevens says one must have the mind of winter
I have the mind of pollen

the papers pile higher than the heart

I killed myself tonight
next, I was made aware
of all of the selves that should have been killed
and I killed the wrong one

the poem of the act of the mind
is like
the hand on the neck of the wind







Joseph Victor Milford is a Professor of English and a Georgia writer who is currently working on his EdD doctoral studies. His first collection of poems, Cracked Altimeter, was published by BlazeVox Press in 2010, and he is presently composing a collection of poems with Hydeout Press, forthcoming in 2015. He is the host of The Joe Milford Poetry Show, where he has compiled an archive of over 300 interviews and readings with American and Canadian poets.  In addition, he is also the editor of RASPUTIN: A Poetry Thread (a literary journal of poetry).

Friday, February 27, 2015

1.12.13 ~ Andrew Taylor


So you are still
alive
tears float
coffee grows cold
rings appear
on unpolished tables
it is not right
to list grievances
Eilean Shona
spring sun
May 1989
splendid isolation
deer at dusk
cold enough to
light the stove
longer sunset
take the boat
coastal train
revisit the burn
play the soundtrack
compile a playlist
'Please Rain Fall'
'Blue Light'
'If You Need Someone'
plastic wrapped in card
pressing plant messages
enamel coffee pot
hand grinder
coal delivery
thick Sunday paper
polished parquet floor
hire car
'A' roads
launderette smells
warmth
North park
three banks
tabac lunch
steamed up windows
soup
booths
so you are still
alive
laburnum arch
coffee grows cold
the tears
again
all about apologies
the shadow
of death
watches over us
stone circle St Tysilio's
church island
tunnels engineered
through rock
Snowdon Buffet Bar
rushed platforms
moss
so you are still
alive
tears float through
the hanging crystal

4.1.14 ~ Andrew Taylor


glasshouse kitchen
tree surgeons
spotting
cases in the A7
this bus
stop is not
in use
record the essence
hint
of blue hyacinth
fresh
instant coffee
grate is cleaned
let's set up
film night
blue top milk
organic
whisky
chaser
curtain half closed
fireplace
it feels colder
than 6 degrees
sparkling perry
pink ball
familiarity of commentary
train
strides
past
stadium
out of
place

---

damp wood
slowly burns
xipster dressing
dated
31.12.13
sack of off cuts
warmth
within
glass
church candle
extinguish
sunday
routine

---
 

colour coordinates
spines
paging
hotel lobby

---

glow crackle
low light
removal
eve
numbers
pudding
butter
blue star
cases
books

5.1.14 ~ Andrew Taylor


white lion
free house
sign shift
barometer
lights out
lights on
for the final time
packed
steam from the pot
condensation
chopped pine
tradition
trees gathered
saw secure
bagged
stickers
slowly
start
to peel
key hole draught
kitchen roll excluder
mango orange
soap
top floor bathroom
previous visit
a preference for
the purple hand towel
wooden bath mat
blue bath towel
green flannel
remain
the room
feels like
yours

7.1.14 ~ Andrew Taylor


first broadcast
Wednesday 01
January 2014
baking
cakes before
cinema
Frank reminds
me of the back room
12 days
across the crescent
a tree stands
still lit

---

the soap isn't orange
& mango just mango
like the summer baths
it comforts to know
of facility

---

long black
step!
daily specials
be social
daughter
apt reminder
as communication
allows for you
to return through hail
& sun from the island
sound of water
stealing of water
her favourite part
was
the
waves
every time he walks the shore
the sea is different
is that entertainment enough?
remaining Christmas cups
points added
is that
a scouse accent?
Stratford Haven
road not place
though I remember
revisiting and the need for oil
cottage bath in kitchen
home for a few days
Dave & Julia Cocteaus
& 'The Big Express'

8.1.14 ~ Andrew Taylor


blackout blind
doesn't ease
the waking
beyond
a clue
to how to map
respond
a change
is given
within difficulty
is beauty
rap of drip
hum of projection
key tap
there is
never quite
a total

14.1.14 ~ Andrew Taylor


comfort of heating
elements engaged
to toast bread
year's eve
crackle long fork
enabler
seeker safety
countdown
clock watcher
playlist
add at ease
fuse
trip cellar
twenty four hours
cycle
a method
record
in minutes
beds out







Andrew Taylor is a Liverpool born, Nottingham based poet and editor. His collection Radio Mast Horizon is published by Shearsman, a pamphlet is forthcoming from VerySmallKitchen. Poems have recently appeared in Otoliths, Pages, The Merida Review and The Camel Saloon. He co-edits erbacce and the visual blogzine M58.

Thursday, January 8, 2015

Why Me ~ Howie Good



Why Me



Clouds of Zyklon B, guaranteed to kill 99.9 percent of human bacteria in 20 minutes, roll in at dusk. I wish now that I had finished college. It’s a wish without any discernible purpose as events gain momentum. The county poorhouse begins to rock wildly from side to side. What would Jesus do? Kiss his ass goodbye is what. Every day 2,400 Americans – give or take – go missing, hiding out under assumed names, abducted off the street by strangers, or, as in this case, burned up like fuel in a rocket streaking from the tomb.