A Warm Winter

I pine for the

soft robots

and fast sloths

of spring.

it’s been months of

hot blood:

hot blood

at lunch,

hot blood

in the shower.

I want to kiss you

like a kitten licks

things

but we kiss

like we’re chatting,

not like cats

at all, and

anyway, ever since

I found that cat

and brought him back,

my life is

re-interpreted

through a haze of fur.

I saved his life

instead of watching

werewolves.

now it’s all stupid

meows instead of

transformations.

even my nosebleeds are

mundane.

there’s no snow.

we hike in the mud.

my only pleasure is

the feel of your arm.

please don’t

tell me that anecdote
again.

  -----Tessa Barber

Bunny's Hasty Tasty Pancake House, Dayton, OH

- for Lee Morgan

We don't like the pancakes we like the eggs over easy

we like the formica tables our names etched

in the deep old scratches we like the bottomless

coffee and the fine bottoms of waitresses

we like Elgar and Toscanini the way they

slide into the booth with us and get us all

to quietly hum along we like the view of the

parking lot and the passing traffic and

how there's nowhere else we need to be

we like Bunny and how he says he's

lefthanded in both hands we like

how he still likes Eisenhower and keeps

his photo up over the grill a shining

layer of bacon grease glossing the eyes

of the great general we like the shelters

Bunny built during the war for the orphans

and nuns out of big mahogany boxes

and how he dug the tunnels under the floors

to help warm their dirty bare feet

we like that we don't have to talk about the war very

much at all we like that we're here and not at Bill's Donuts

we don't like Bill and neither does Bunny.

-- Kris Collins

Perry the Worm Had a Habit of Handies

And he would come into the bookstore every day 

to sell off books he got from who knows where.

The books were very unremarkable. So I always 

low-balled the fuck out of him. He was so wormy.

I didn’t want to deal with him. I thought maybe if

I continually low-balled him, he’d stop coming in.

I was wrong. He continued to come in every day.

-- Scott Silsbe

Five Short Ones

Under this whiskey hat

all my stories

waiting for grandchildren

*

porcupine moon

& one 

unlucky dog

*

we called her Suzie zit-tit

but no one thought of pimples

when she sucked

*

ten beers

& still no

better angels

*

bags of sorrow

every woman

every man

    --- Bart Solarczyk

My Drunk Places

Poetry is the ghost

Of a noble horse

One grown numb

To the stick

Foaming against the

Falling snow

Ice forming

On his lips

When they found this horse

Eating flowers

From the lighthouse garden

Everyone knew

It was time

To drag the lake

-- Mark Borczon

The Way I Know my Own Daughters

For Lily, Aurora and Sophia

There are birds in my heart

With wings that thrum

Like Spanish guitars

Their appetites lead me

To seek out flowers

And rivers and, at night

Any surface that reflects

The moon

One bird sings to me

About love and tells me

Her boy is as graceful 

As a dancing horse

Tells me that music

Comes from the air

All around him

Like a harmonica

Caught in

A hurricane

The other bird sings only

Of sadness and shame

She makes her song from

Safety pins and the blade

From a pencil sharpener

Her voice draws her own blood

As she sings a death song

To her father over

The telephone

Without my birds I

Wouldn’t know rivers or

Flowers or where to

Find the moon when it

Lays upon the ground

And I would not know

The music of love and pain

The way I know

My own daughters

-- Mark Borczon

Tony

had been

in Vets

court for

over a

year was

still in

phase one

and had

been taken 

back into

custody three

different times

but he

dealt with

setbacks

and relapse

with humility

and maintained

his dignity

even when

the judge

talked to

him like 

a child

so we

were all 

surprised

when he

hung himself

the same

day the

bank took

his motorcycle

away.

-- Matt Borczon

Poem on Van Gogh's Birthday

I didn't mind
when she said
she wasn't going
to sleep with me
or anyone until
she was married

I didn't mind
when her grandma
called me a sissy
at dinner when
I said the plane
ride made me nervous

I didn't mind
her redheaded cousin's
hand on my leg
as she tried to
convince me to
leave her behind

I didn't even mind
her fathers constant
preaching at me
about the need
to put God at
the center of my life

but when we were
at the Metropolitan museum
and she  was  trying
to rush me through
the Van Gogh exhibit
finally stopping in front
of one of my favorite
paintings to ask me
what is so fucking good about this

I knew our relationship
was over.

-- Matt Borczon

Some days the war

some days

the war

is an

ex girlfriend

I don’t

want around

but can’t

stop talking

about

some days

the war

is a

sandwich

I’ve eaten

whole but

refuse to

pay for

some days

the war

is an

open doorway

I can’t 

make myself

walk through

some days

the war

is a

5 finger

death punch

song on

my car

radio and

the only 

end I

can see

is us

going through

the windshield

entangled

like lovers

some days

the war

is my

mother

reminding me

that no one

will watch

sick children

some days

the war 

is a

drinking buddy

my wife

worries about

when ever

we leave

the house

some days

the war

is my

lord and

savior

writing poems

and watching

over me

like a 

machine made

of shame

some days

the war

is my

5^th prom

in 4 years

I own

the tuxedo

but can’t

remember who

I agreed

to go

with

and some

days the

war is

a broken

promise

a frozen

nightmare

a parade

of ghost

a dead

child

and an

empty space

station

searching

the universe

for the

live I

had 6 

years ago.

-- Matt Borczon

The Great American Apple Pie Fight

I found snow white

seven dwarfs

spiderman

laurel and hardy

and the blues brothers

dancing

holding still

outside the petersburg chamber of commerce

all the while

lee greenwood sang the chorus

of

“proud to be an American”

an endless loop

…

I was moved

…

I was moved

…

it was like

I had an apple pie fight

with god

-- Jason Baldinger

Drive in Theaters

The Lincoln Highway

was home to many,

as it should’ve been,

cars being its commerce.

But now they are gone.

No more Blue Dell, Greater Pittsburgh,

and Ardmore.

Instead it’s strip malls,

Walmarts, and Sunday flea markets.

What’s left is us,

those conceived in tailfinned

Chevys and DeSota’s.

The fogged windows of desire

and forgotten protection,

caught up in the rapture

of Bogart and Bacall,

the tin speaker

jangling on the glass,

the family behind,

flashing high beams,

having just released

their own hostaged children

from the deceitful trunk ploy,

Dad wishing he could’ve left them there.

And they all met

at the concession stand

because who could resist

talking popcorn boxes?

And they’d buy overpriced

and shriveled hot dogs

that spun on silver rollers.

And teenage girls would shiver

into their boyfriends letter jackets

and re-button first base.

The second feature held no more hold

than the first, as sodas spilled

and popcorn flew,

all in the backseat of

making me and you.

-- Declan Synott

Collected Night

The harvest moon
is actually a pink balloon, 
but you didn’t believe me,

out in a collected night,
a snakebite
and prohibition’s opposite 
goes hand in hand,
ale and ailment.

I recall the handcuffed moment, 
the red grape bliss,
carnal tangents,
an October blur so vivid-- 
police flashes in the mirror, 
your head resting on my arm
on our way out,

we drove off for poetry 
and the law put an end 
to our reckless romance,

but even inside jailed walls
I loved you,
outside of everything
I loved you, our broken hearts, 
temptation leading us
to foolishness,


unregrettable irresponsibility,

our half harvested moon 
and inevitable eclipse. 

-- Brain Harman

Robert Frost Riding on Our Tires

The road not taken is brought to you by 
Goodyear,

when two roads diverge in the woods, 
Goodyear makes all the difference. 

-- Brian Harman

Never Open With the Weather (Writing Rule #1)

The promiscuous dusk was female moist,
(consequently, the most hated word in the English language, 
moist , --oddly, yet even though it’s how to describe
the perfect texture for a cupcake,
“this is really moist!” one would kindly articulate
at someone’s birthday party)--
The promiscuous dusk was cupcake-ish? 

-- Brian Harman