(drawing by Bree 2014)
People, An Ode
People forget their place like spokes in a wheel.
People spin around themselves as if leaves discarded.
People bend their branches but do not break.
People drop their jaws & lose it.
People never think to pick up after their smiles.
People laugh &, in the process, double over.
People doublecross; then, no one is happy.
People hold out for happiness till they’re blue in the face.
People hold love like they hold their breath.
People want to unwind & breathe easy.
People fold in with moments like twisted braids.
People shave their heads & sit like statues.
People find themselves with stiff upper lips.
People take a stand without hair on their chest.
People give their consciousness a Brazilian.
People give their Brazilian a Buddha.
People think their Buddha is peaceful.
People want each piece of ass to be holy.
People make assholes of themselves.
People make masters out of the assholes.
People become brazen & camera-up when the law is wailing.
People take selfies to be their own poster children.
People ask, “Can I have a minute?”
People live lives like they had a moment to spare.
People make a good case for the morning after pill.
People come here after life & die to make it heaven.
People hit their knees & feel like hell.
People send history to the living postmarked from the dead.
People trademark graven images for advertising purposes.
People put their face on Facebook & their nose in the air.
People save face & bare their souls.
People have a soul book & a hymn book.
People sing from the blackness of the Bible which gives us the blues.
People seek a soul mate to face the music with.
People dance like it’s the “Song of Myself” that the radio’s playing.
People don’t play; they fight tooth & nail.
Adam Brodsky is a teacher, musician, poet and the editor of Ptrint and other presses. He is one of the finest designers of the very small press. He photographs performers, and plays with images to create abstracts. He lives in Cleveland Heights, OH.
i will not live forever.
i will go in the morning
after i have stayed up the whole night
after i watched the sky conclude its rites
and the moth, the cricket
and all the peeping, creeping things
have covered themselves over with leaves and dirt.
i will wait for a bit of time,
for the city to collapse
so i can take one last picture
before closing up into eternity with you,
my precious ones, who i have lived to die with.
i do not want eternity with my saddened, disillusioned mind
and i do not want eternity with enlightenment.
i will wait the second or two for you to join me
in this place
where the blackness is a rainbow
–Hilary Krzywkowski Flexer
My thumbprint is rather uneventful–
shape of arousal.
hers is an actual whorl
a circle spiraling delicate and tiny
an iris of touch
the golden ratio.
—- Hilary Krzywkowski Flexer
Hilary Krzywkowski Flexer is a Cleveland Heights poet, artist, mother and wife. She draws vibrant, self-empowering and healing images, and has been published throughout the very small press.
The snow used to glitter at the beginning.
Now it’s just a cold, dirty mess.
Dulled down brain, discolored flesh,
novocaine needled into my toes.
Black and blue nails, less sensation.
Not as pretty as I used to be.
Not as high energy, what’s the point
of opening my mouth
for another snowflake that might appear
to offer a slightly unique size and shape,
but will soon melt into nothing.
(photo by Bree)
Juliet Cook lives in Medina, OH. She is the Reader, Editor & Designer at Blood Pudding and Thirteen Myna Birds presses.
Along the Saltern
wet lips wet eyes,
this mud earth
this white horse
in lavender fields
in flowers of salt
raked from the pools
on the grey flats
of ancient life
blue seas scattered
to make this island.
I gathered my arms
god of the sickle,
goddess a chasm,
born in the flood,
grape and roses,
the sluice she breaks.
John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Least Bittern Books published his second collection, Under the Mountain Born.
it is the sixth of July and i am still
feeling patriotic. and i wonder if this
big old oak has as many leaves as
how many soldiers died so someone
could grow in its privacy.
For it is Vague
i wonder that i left the sink running,
but it is cicadas come to make
wraiths of rain gas that woke me rise
like shades, gray-violet plumes exiting
a childs perfect soul, really cools
it is your usual morning and all, but there
is a new moon, and it is a force you
i blur my eyes on the wall before my bed
and feel nothing clearly. it only lasts a
beat of wings.
Bree is a poet and artist in Pleasureville, KY. She has a forthcoming manuscript from Birds & Bones Press, called I Am Also Invasive (Fall 2016). She is the recipient of an artist enrichment grant from the Kentucky Foundation for Women for 2016.
to you and i,
but when the
& that was
a success we
because at gunpoint
she always had
& I constantly
take your finger off of
the trigger & do damage
to me with only the cold
steel of your lips”
& she would
& this convinced me
that romance novels
were written about us.
Victor Clevenger is a poet in rural MO. His book (Least Bittern books) Come Here is a visual collection of short poems which really hit. With sugar. He has a chapbook Inside A Fishbowl, Looking Out (Shadow Ink Publications), a brain, a heart and a book forthcoming with Least Bittern Books.
Under the eaves which drip
starlight makes it across
my breast you thumbstroke;
you look off at tired mufflers.
Katy Curtz is a Mass author with essays published in small mags like Brick Wall, Gorget, Dress Shirt and others like them. She appears in Least Bittern Books anthology Poets in the Pond. She began writing poetry in 2013.