Kate Stone

Rummaging

rummaging ocean the lad with

the fish tail his oily hair overflowing with foam

around the waist deep cobalt eyes

and Crinaeae captures him with her skilful hands

cloven wooden ship in depressed water

albatross naiads under her bulk

plum into her mesh the universe

belongs to seaweed his beard live with

starfish dense saline mist shingles

his body tastes of bitter brew

Kate Stone is an art teacher, living with her husband and cat in Cork, Ireland. She loves working with her hands and has been featured in a few literary magazines, for instance The Mole and the Monkey.   

Raymond Farr

Sympathetic Superstitious Avatar

            I.

He understood the obvious

A way of swearing, without swearing

Instead of saying “Jesus Christ—market place X-Box!”

He’d say “Jiminy Cricket—events around the

Klaxons’ song.”

He’d say “Organized comic apocalyptic picaresque anti-hero schlemiel!

Take it or leave it!”

                  II.

In some teeming cycle of departure & return

Breaking silence is the purpose

The function of—

The only man still surviving

Hailed by some

Described by others—

An attraction between atoms

A lung condition linked

To a tidal wave of dust—

He deserts you every day!

                    III.

“Hell, I was in Greece!” sd thinking blonde avatar

“Entrapping empathy

Under dark & lonely abstract theory

I would get bogged down

Standing before truth

Foretelling the events of 9-11 in spooky quatrains

Sidestepping theory

In Mass Market breaches of security

I dreamt the whole world

Was condemned

I cheated at a game of cards

Anticipating the modern & postmodern world.”

Stealing the Thawed Brain Back to Normal*

I.

He is finished

Who’d watched all the while

You hold him

He swims his paws

It’s kinda like

Pause. Look.—

The storm burst over the resinous pines

II.

A chunk of body of

A little wedding dance

& I’m tired of pretending like

Normal brain

Photograph

Disorder

Said no one in particular

I enjoy lying

But

To sight see is to

Bartender in hell

In the past I’ve labeled it

The day before—

A veritable scatological apocalypse

III.

Pigeons are spinning again—

A soundless wake

Of whiteout

Into enormous space

The maps are made

Everything speaks to him

A loud voice saying—

Myself crazy with

A garland of dandelions

Cannot drive him

Drip drip. Drip drip.

& to the pod most mellifluous—

Do you know how to break a radio?

Model it in real time?

I had thought the other night

Allure can perturb

An object

* Source text: In the House of the Hangman

#381, 382, 383, 384, 385

 www.johnbr.com

By John Bloomberg-Rissman

Raymond Farr lives in Ocala, FL. His work is widely published in many poetry journals and blogs, both on line and in print. He is author of 6 print books, the latest of which is Ecstatic/.of facts (Otoliths 2011), and two on line ebooks, chainge (Chalk Editions 2011) and Two Texts (Chalk Editions 2010). He is editor of Blue & Yellow Dog.

Jürgen Bürgin

San Francisco #3     

Jürgen Bürgin

San Francisco #2

Jürgen Bürgin

San Francisco #1

Jürgen Bürgin was born in Lörrach in Germany in 1971. He was studying German literature, linguistics and economy in Freiburg and received a degree at the Albert-Ludwigs Universität in Freiburg in 1998. He began to work for movie business in Berlin in 1999 as public relations manager for a film PR agency and has since participated in the PR for numerous movie releases in Germany. In 2009 he started to develop his passion as an urban street photographer, since then shooting in Berlin, Barcelona, Paris, London and New York. He is publishing his work on his webpage and on his vivid facebook fanpage with more than 3.100 fans. On twitter he is being followed by more than 6.500 followers. In 2011 he was shortlisted for a Sony World Photography Awards in the category After Dark. 


Hompage: Jürgen Bürgin Photography

Jukka Kaukinen

Oh no, not him, again 

Jukka Kaukinen is 37 years old and lives in Stockholm, Sweden. He writes and dabbles in art in his spare time. He works with maritime education and sales.

A.g. Synclair

West Redux

a raven

the mighty Susquehanna

curling inward

caw caw caw.

a breach

the road was never there

was never mine. it was conceived as a ghost.

the earth is turning colder. invisible.

there is a bluster of blinding snow.

she'll insist that I smell like the west

like sun washed trees. like apples.

like a million little aftershocks.

later, she'll brush her teeth in the shower.

A.g. Synclair is the editor and publisher of The Montucky Review, a journal of poetry & prose. He doesn't have an MFA in anything but still manages to publish regularly. He lives, writes, and collaborates in southwestern Montana with his significant other, the artist and poet Heather Brager.

Felino A. Soriano

Verified Renditions 57

we’ve connected

                               insomnia’s vocal sporadic presentation

dot1
       2
3
                       &c.             dream, no, not that rendition

of an eye’s persuasive stammer, collecting
behind curtained control
                               various tableaus of marginal realism;
persona

relinquish whole the body’s role
releasing extracted mentions of a meandering hankering:

thrust, trust, reevaluate darkened emblem of misleading wholeness,

myopic dispositional frequency          pardoning extracts of an hour’s
reconstructed meaning



Verified Renditions 58

Profile of the perched
                               the
                                               sedentary example,
wing-deliberate
                                               stilled-emphatic
multilingual mutation
gradated empirical arc
       with

bridge of ascent discovered             esoteric                silk in
dusk’s corporeal shading

reversal of burn this
trust of skeletal grams

oscillating against a charcoal soundness’               comprehensible
absence.

Felino A. Soriano is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities. He has received the Gertrude Stein “rose” prize for creativity in poetry from Wilderness House Literary Review. Over 3,100 of his poems have appeared in places such as BlazeVOX, Otoliths, infinite space, Poetry, Yes, and Fact Simile. He has had 48 print and electronic collections of poetry accepted for publication, including Compatible Aspects of the Disparate Endeavor (NeoPoiesisPress, 2011), Differences of the Parallel Devotion (Desperanto, 2011), and Identities —Upon Variations (Moria, 2011). For information regarding his published works, editorships, and interviews, please visit: www.felinoasoriano.info.

William Lewis

breeze

fiends

superstitious twaddle

the conurbation sprawls in malicious neon

lightens up the untraceable atmosphere

breeze whizzes my fears

up the hillside the b side of

the onyx vinyl gives me

lovers

lice

they say death is real

I didn’t believe it before I got fifty

my cars and my company

donations to medical research gave me

smiling scientists

pyrotechnical yoga instructors tell me I will age

gracefully

the bum of my church overgrown

William Lewis is 60 years old and lives close to the beautiful Santa Monica Mountains, CA.

Jukka Kaukinen

Drowsy Street 

Jukka Kaukinen is 37 years old and lives in Stockholm, Sweden. He writes and dabbles in art in his spare time. He works with maritime education and sales. He is an ex Anglophile turning into a Francophile.

Lise Larsen

Frog Species

I liked my studies in ecology and was writing a thesis about a frog species, but at the time I felt that university hindered my growth so I dropped out. I was thirty years old. My long lasting partner had just left me. This was when a strange sort of jubilant feeling started visiting me at occasions, deep down in my stomach. I had felt dejected for as long as I could remember so this was something new to me. I got a job at a snack bar before leaving my studies and leased a room in the Carlsberg district.

The new job turned out to be atrocious. I ran around like a haunted chicken while waiting on angry customers until I got fired for some wrongdoing with a canister of water. I think they looked for an excuse to fire me.

My first impulse was to call the university, but they refused to take me back at the time. I had never been able to save money so I would soon be broke. I got down to my favourite bar and ordered a beer while trying to think about something to do. I did not have time to make formal job applications before my money would run out. And I did not know anybody who would employ me. So I decided to do the only reasonable thing a woman could do in this situation. I took to the streets.

I walked about two hours from my part of Copenhagen to Bispebjerg. It was autumn and dark. Bispebjerg was terrifying. This was where the authorities put immigrants and people on welfare in the vain hope that they would leave the city and look for something better. I knew this was my opportunity to get dough; the emergency social services were located here.

There was a huge queue in front of me, mostly immigrants who did not have a choice but to be here and also lots of men, young and old, with or without beards. None of them seemed to fit into the modern employer’s wish list. As I came eye to eye with the unemployment agent I could not help looking fixedly at her robust jawbone. I felt sorry for her.

“Yes?”

“I have been sacked and do not have union qualifications. My name is Lise...”

“ID please,” she rudely interrupted me. 

“Yes.” I opened my red purse and dug into it until I found my passport. She eyed it for a long time and looked at me again. “Do you have proof that you were fired?”

“Yes.” I found some gritty papers that I gave to her.

She looked at them but did not give them back. Instead she handed me a small card with a number and told me to sit down by the tables and wait for the interview.

“What interview?” I asked. She did not answer me and I stopped feeling sorry for her as I went to the tables.

I sat down and had a plastic cup of tea. Two academic looking men in their thirties sat next to me; they were eating sausages. I glanced at them; they were laughing constantly. There was a strange smell about them. At one point one of the men dropped his sausage on the floor and took it up and then continued eating. I drank six cups of tea before I was called up to room number twelve and went upstairs to a small office curtained by papier-mâché. The new staff person was considerably better looking than the previous one.

“Lise?”

How old was this person? Forty seven?

“Hi,” I began. Suddenly I remembered. “I will show you my identification card.”

“No, no, you have already showed everything to Alberta. We are just here to talk. My name is Kris.” Kris smiled and we shook hands. I relaxed, sat down in the opposite chair and waited for him to continue talking. “Tell me why you are here.” I talked and talked. After half an hour Kris asked if I wanted tea. I was afraid that he would find me dull, but I only heard encouraging sounds. “So, you studied drama and ecology?”

“Yes. I was thinking that maybe I could request some sort of degree and do something. Is there anything I would be qualified to do?”

“Well.” Kris looked unconvinced. “The thing is… It is an unusual combination.“ He seemed unhappy.   

I took another sip of tea. “I know. You know, I do not want a regular job. I have an allotment where I grow fresh vegetables. I would like to have my own eco-café.” I got excited. “It would not be expensive. I could grow vegetables instead of buying stuff.”

“But what would you do in winter?”

“Oh. Is there any grants?”

Kris smiled gloomily. His eyes were clear blue. “Lise, everyone wants the start-up allowances.”

“Oh.” My hopes sank.

Kris leaned over. “You would need more money than that. Can someone give you money?”

“No.”

He grinned. “My organization gives loans to a few unemployed people with good prospects to succeed.”

“I would succeed. I promise.” The feeling in my stomach increased.

Kris smiled sadly. “Everybody says that. I meant that you have to apply. I have hundreds of applicants.”

I suddenly hated him. “Well, forget it.” I stared at the cup and felt miserable when I suddenly imagined how it would be to own that café. I wanted it badly. I looked him in the eyes. “Let us meet at a pub somewhere. You will not regret it. Promise.”

Kris looked back at me in a surprised manner. His translucent eyes were round and his face red-looking. “I do not drink. Sorry.”

I smiled in a bitter sweet way and prepared to leave. “Can I leave?”

“Do you want one more cup?”

“No thanks. By the way, where is the toilet?

“I will show you, Lise.”

Lise Larsen lives in Copenhagen, Denmark. She is opportunistic and loves writing and growing spuds. 

Pamela Sayers

White Elephant Sale

On crumbled walls your paintings hang,

chips in plaster, cool and grey,

nestled in my vintage shop

where I have come to pray

Life became a travelogue

upon your hindered path,

enmeshed in tufts of lace,

now torn apart

On nether grounds you treaded,

sacred daylight in your hair,

flowing wild in lush sporadic gold

Textured in your purple gown

as tremors cursed seditious hands

and crowds swelled pledging loyalty

in stigma overcome …

by memory of your ruffled tear-stained blouse

Pamela Sayers is an artist by profession, ten years ago she moved out of her country to Mexico. She is now teaching English to foreign language students. She lives with her husband and six pets; 4 dogs, a cat and a bird. Pamela just started writing poetry about 2 years ago and she loves it.

Curtis Ackie

Augury

Determined to capture

the cunning crook's continued climb

along the crippled canvas

we withdraw our hands,

no longer clasping

spinning keys

held over peeling scripture,

and ship a raging shawl.

Sui generis

Beyond the stone doorway,

buried beneath black apparatus,

white hooks

and squared circles,

I spied a feathery flurry

There it stood

lanky and lofty,

contemptible

in its looming emptiness;

a sloppy doll concealed behind

its overgrown twin stilts

And now I cannot hide my pride

at the show of forthright fortitude

which followed.

Curtis Ackie is a novelist, short-story writer, and poet, born in London, UK. He is currently based in Zagreb, Croatia.

Ray Succre

Little Ghost


Be the sentencer, you small ghost, come out and be the limiter.

You’re the soul, yes?

Tell me what comes, and in what cold dale I may brutalize,

or in which narrow court I may be nice enough.

Do you exist?  I’m asking you.

Sentence me as I have, in lines, sentenced else.

You might exist, ghost:  I have heard your first words. 

Please continue.

(Granted, I have dimmed the remainder to night,

and as a cretin with far sight, or else tonight blind,

I will still deny you)

I know the day has marketed us and admits it does not know how,

so ghost, mine, come out and make words.  Market.

Make my sentence curt and cold.

There we are.  Concision.  Good. 

The nausea settles.  Hallelujah. 

I have limits and sentences,

and a righteous, cocksure faculty,

but while the face dims,

while the remainders spin into servitude,

and as the days devour the Sun,

and as the soul begins to snow.

Out There


The unique artist is in direct contact with her madness

and has accomplished that rare, uncharted thing

of domesticating it.

It runs away with her,

but she comes back with it.

Out again and home again.

The leash is a strange and precious commodity,

a thick bleed.  She constantly recaptures this madness

from its escape, or else they merely go for walks.

Others sometimes uncover these maneuvers or walks

from a distance.  They squint and see

the artist or the madness but seldom both,

only that something would seem to be out there.

Perhaps she is lost?

Or else some minds arrive before they embark.

Ray Succre is an undergraduate currently living on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has had poems published in Aesthetica, Ditch, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. His novels Tatterdemalion (2008) and Amphisbaena (2009), both through Cauliay, are widely available in print. Other Cruel Things (2009), an online collection of poetry, is available through Differentia Press. Homepage: Ray Succre