Hugh Fox

WHAT DO I?

What do I give a crap about all your
fancy French romantic country mansions
and your goddamned DMP's, you know,
Doctor of Musical Performance, I can't
even believe how many Russians,
Armenians, Chinese, Brazilian, Englishers
there are around here, and old Chicago street
me going to the Chopin and Schumann festivals,
married to a Brazilian M.D., retired after teaching
English literature for fifty years, when all I ever
really felt/feel comfortable with were/are the
Chicago, Brooklyn, whore-area bars in Paris,
dying from cancer now, "You've got maybe
a year, a year and a half...," prostate into
bladder, going everywhere else, I'm supposed
to believe in heaven and all that, but just believe
in graves, eighty-five years of women, liquor,
lots of criticism published, travel-grants, you
name it, Bukowski's best pal, my best autobiography
named WAY, WAY OFF THE ROAD to echo
Kerouac's OFF THE ROAD, wishing there was an
after-death L.A. - San Francisco out there waiting
for me, to just keep doing our thing forever, and
that's what I mean for....ever.....

Joseph Farley

Holy Vermin

brother rat, sister vole

gather your congregation

of vermin souls

lead them in

their songs of greed

teach  them to steal

and sniff and feel

and claw

their way to

the top or as far

as their short furred

bodies and feet

wriggle and scurry

to gain a seat

in  board rooms

and legislative halls

where thy can create

rat-friendly laws

and live their ratty

vector lives

and court their furry

rodent wives

and breed and feed

and shit all over

so the people are covered

in feces up to

their shoulders.

with eyes closed

in daydreams I exist

the rest is clearly false

and if forever is a myth

I have still tasted heaven

if only in small sips

still in the queue

if my eyes roll up into my head

do not fear the worst

i'm only checking in at home

to see if they've called my name

Go

the light was green so you kept going

driving through city streets

farmer's fields, forests,

over mountains

from sea to gulf to lake to ocean

you have been on the road

so long now

if someone were to holler “stop”

would you?

Could you?

Pennsylvania

My home is a state of the middle way

slow to change, but not far behind.

We are rich in demagogues and always have been,

manipulators of words and finances.

A spine of mountains divides us in two

but the real divide is Philadelphia and what is beyond.

No one loves the city, even the people who live there.

What we have of value is taken for granted,

rivers and forests, lakes and hidden valleys.

There history and politics are forgotten

and we catch a glimpse of what was before

Penn's woods were cut down for farms

and pre-fabricated housing developments.

 Joseph Farley edited Axe Factory for 24 years. His books include Suckers, For the Birds, and Longing For The Mother Tongue.

Hal O'Leary

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TURN BACK THE CLOCK

Be it known, I do not jest
I need to get this off my chest.
A female would say "off my breast"
that is if she were like Mar West
who spoke of her's  as her 'hope chest'.
The female will, of course, invest
in plunging gowns and all the rest,
in hopes that she can then attest,
from bulging eyes, we've passed the test.
But be it known, I can suggest,
that I'm a male with some unrest.
So, if you will, at my behest,
please lend an ear while I divest
myself of that which I protest.

While females get to proudly show
the beauties that they have in tow,
with cleavage plunging Oh so low,
and there-by they begin to sow
the seeds that cause we men to grow,
the male though must never...NO
display the gems he has below.
The one-time cod piece had to go.l
No longer can a good man crow.
This is not true with fauna though.
The stag has antlers, not the doe.
And so, it's well that you should know
it's time for men to holler "WHOA,
REVIVE THE COD PIECE", and bestow
the joy we savored long ago.
What's good for Jane is good for Joe.

                     ADVICE

Should you be on a sexual quest,
Take this advice at my behest.
The starting point I find the best
Is always with a woman's breast,
For here we find she will invest
Her utmost effort to arrest
Your glancing eye. It's just a test
To see if you have interest
In getting something off your chest.
In hopes perhaps you might divest
Yourself of all undue unrest
In thinking you'd become a pest
And hie yourself unto her nest.
This could amount to a request.

So look for cleavage, that's a sign
That could mean heaven down the line.
And ogle all you want, that's fine,
With shivers up and down your spine.
It's what she wants. It's by design.
A welcome to her holy shrine

But know that you cannot foretell
If her response will ring the bell.
And should your efforts not go well
Your heaven could become a hell

                 

Hal O'Leary has spent a lifetime in the theatre as actor, director and designer.He was recently inducted into the Wheeling Hall of Fame, and is the recipient of an Honorary Doctor of Humanities Degree from West Liberty University. Since his retirement at age eighty-four, he has taken to writing poetry.

Craig Firsdon: Five Poems

 

Tats, Happy Meals and Bullets

Years ago a friend of mine got a tattoo.
It was a dragon with an M-16
and a banner that read "Marines".
I thought it was pretty cool,
what could be better
than an automatic weapon,
a dragon
and the Marines?

His best friend was also in the Marines.
They grew up
and enlisted together.
Everything they did
was for each other
and their friends.
I always thought of them
as a comic book dynamic duo
but with two Batmen
not a Batman and a Robin.
Now everytime I watch a Batman movie,
I think of him
so I don't watch
them that often.

The war has been
one big Superbowl commercial
advertising to get people to buy
their patriotic vision of
a thousand painful ways to die
and I refuse to buy any of it.
"Take this medicine and you will feel better"
Cyanide takes away pain as well.

They say the war is winding down
time to start the parades
throw the confetti
kiss every baby.
Instead they ride into town,
medicine taken, new and improved,
on the backs of unicorns.
Everyone wants a unicorn
who doesn't want one?
We see the soldiers galloping into town
a top their unicorns
and we lay down our own weapons,
our words,
our will,
look at ours,
now look a theirs,
we have better weapons,
we know better,
we fight with body and words,
we believe in our faiths,
we believe in ourselves,
This is war,
this is revolution,
this is ours
and this is better.

Don't even look at the unicorns
and think about
eating that piece of peace pie.
The hunger of war is only satisfied
by the full meal deal,
give me a number 2,
of unequaled insanity.
Buy one death,
get one free.
I don't buy it now
and never will.
War is a fast food happy meal
with friends and family fried
between two buns
with lettuce, pickle, tomato, cheese, onion,
a bio-chemical special sauce
and the prize
is just another life lost.

 

 

An American Truth Chronicles Tribute To The Fallen

 

Awake To The Nightmare

 

I woke early.
dreaming, my head still foggy
I turned on the news
not to be confused with reality
instead a multimillion dollar hollywood
sci-fi blockbuster or copycat horror flick
Just before the hero puts it all right
two screaming beasts fly into two towering uprights
pillars of babylon,
alters for the dead sacrificed upon.
If only the monster had been slain
providing the hero with a storybook ending.
If only..
too bad reality is sometimes too real
and endings are never completely happy.
I grabbed the remote to change the channel
and all I learned was that
nothing is ever what it seems.

That night I listened to the radio.
Art Bell spoke of beliefs
that are nonsense to the masses.
Conspiracies were my hobby,
never truely my thing,
but so much made sense after that night.
Life is stranger than any conspiracy
and while we poke fun at those waiting
for their beliefs to become truths
and those truths to come to light
we forget to realize that all of life's truths
now and have always been in front of our eyes
waiting for our focus
never to be seen
because truth is often more painful
than any lie.

When the body count increased
I was told around two thousand innocents were gone.
It will never compare to the millions slain by,
disease, uncaring hunger,
needless war, fear of the man,
black gold and the almighty dollar.
Pillars from unsalvaged tombs
are now monuments of God forgotten rubble
patchy graves in the middle of desolation.

There is still hope and always will be
inside each child, healthy and fed,
inside each and every person saved
from social slavery.
For too long greed has come at a heavy price
in the form of millions of anonymous graves
We know nothing of the real end
to their dreams,
We continue being ungrateful
for knowing that all of our dreams
have a beginning
while those who live in permanent grey
only see the world as one monotonous scene
forever ignoring the colors at their fingertips.

Those with power,
sitting in their thrones of bone,
washing away blood from their hands
with countless tears of the damned,
they tell us they did all they could
they tried to stop this insanity
but the inevitable will always be inevitable.
How hard did they try?
Did they try?
Try to feel compassion
or cut by the words of families suffering
only to build more monuments
from the sweat and blood of those they loved.

Words spoken from those now without voices
reveal the fakes and frauds
presidents and preachers,
the famous and infamous.
They congregate feeding on the pain
of the little people
an all you can eat buffet
and go up for seconds and thirds.
At their tables you can hear the chatter
discussing the problems of the meek
while the meek knock at death's door.
This is the one true flaw,
that no one actually cares
until these words escape our lips
and we admit, no demand,
to see where once we were blind.

Yes, these lives and millions more have been taken,
but they will never, ever, be forgotten
as long as our words are kept alive.

 

 

American Truth Chronicles #1

 

Change is constant
yet we demand it
from politics and politicians
like a corner crack dealer
a dimebag costing our freedom
                              our hopes
                              our dreams.

We are told "Vote or Die!"
We vote and thousands die.
Promised a better tomorrow
with just a pull on the leaver
a single solitary action
a message goes out
texting the executioner
                       "bring the noose"
                    it's ok, it's American made.
An American made noose
        around American made necks
        killing American made thoughts and dreams
        becoming the American made way.

They say the right to vote is a gift
and the outcome is our reciept.
The last time I checked
the signs on voting day
all read "Nonrefundable".

American Truth Chronicles #3 - Countdown To The Working Class Apocalypse

"American made" betrayed
by the American Judas'
hung by their blue collars
crucified on Hollywood billboards
making ants of millionaires
baptism by kosher candle light
in rivers of industrial runoff.
The burning bushes replaced
by a flourosant light bulb
lit only between
dusk and dawn.
We must not
be so wasteful
afterall.

Tick, tock.
Tick, tock.

We are told life goes on
but where will you be
when time has run out
and every step we have taken
every carbon footprint
left in toxic gardens
has filled in
with blood and tears
and the fat lady has finally sung,
a silent musing,
her words trapped in a vacuum
of broken lives,
stained egos
and shattered dreams.

Tick, tock.
Tick, tock.

Where will you be?

A Letter To The American Conservative

I remember the days
when logic superceded
greed and power.

Now, instead of needy children
we adopt the highways
we've littered with inattention,
Bury them in freshly printed greens
and watch our printing presses smoke
themselves to an emphazema death
as we all abstain
only as long as the moment lasts.

With the focus of a five year old
high on prescription speed
we soon forget abstinence
and chase the first fox we see.
Its the chase, they say,
that makes the foreplay sweeter.

Chemically induced erections
and silicone inflated breasts
sliding on skin covered in
trans-hydrogenated fat
slowly heating our oceans
and sea-to-shining-seas.

Today the news said maybe
we will or will not
prosecute the murderers
lounging on our blackened beaches
in Versace and Valentino
writing memoirs to their greatness.

I know you understand me,
I can hear you scream "Socialist!"
just fine.

The next time we are out
and your logic asks me to pick up the tab
just remember I voted for
the black guy with a big smile.
This "socialist" is not giving you
a dime

 

Bio:

 

Craig Firsdon is a 30 year old poet, songwriter, watercolor painter and sketch artist from just outside of Toledo in Holland, Ohio. He has been referred to as the "Toledo Renaissance Man" by Lorraine Cipriano in an article she wrote for the Toledo Poetry Examiner and often reads with other local poets including John Dorsey and Michael Grover. He was just published in RedFez and released his chapbook, "Opiate Dreams".

Kenneth Pobo Showing How Its Done

TANG POETS COMING OVER

We’ve got too few lawn chairs,

but maybe our guests will prefer

to sit on grass.  Are we stocked

with wine?  Li Po will want a glass

as soon as death’s gate opens—

he’ll pop in, followed by

the other two.  Wang Wei will

ask to stroll in the garden. 

I should’ve weeded.

For Tu Fu, we’ll need to borrow

a mountain.  Or invent one.  Fast. 

I know you don’t like poetry much--

neither do honeybees.   We don’t

have to dress up.  Death’s gate

will open again and they’ll go,

probably early, and pooped,

we can flop on the couch and leave

the dishes ‘til morning. 

TU FU AT THE SOMERSET DINER

He tells Tiffany: I’d like

to order a mountain,

topped with a rainbow,

and served on a bed

of warm earth.  I don’t

see it on the menu.

She’s had tougher

customers before—

damned if she doesn’t

serve it to him and

damned if he doesn’t

dig right in.

IN A TOY STORE

I’m buying my niece some

modern game I don’t understand

or want to play

but she wants it so bad,

and I remember how I wanted

a hockey game

for Christmas, almost

wept when I got it—

in line some snarling white man

screams THE REPUBLICANS

WILL FIX EVERYTHING,

YOU’LL SEE.  He has that

rancid look, like spoiled meat

I forgot to throw out.  Oh,

to tell him to pipe down,

but he could easily be violent

and shoot us all

without remorse.

SECRET LOVE

Perhaps I’d like to

make love to you,

birch tree.

What remarkable bark,

leaves that hide

just enough mystery.  I admit

we aren’t made for each other. 

We’ll have to love

without touching

like someone who says

“I can only be friends with you”—

that’s fine, I already know

what a fine friend you are.

You hold my secrets,

release them in fall

when wind carries them away.

Michael Frissore: Two Poems

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


 This Train is for Cockfosters

This is what it said on the train

from Heathrow to the hotel.

Whether this was the last stop

on the train or I was being insulted,

I’m still repeating the phrase

and calling everyone a cockfoster.

A Night in Amsterdam

Three English soccer hooligans

accost us whilst we’re trying

to pick up two American girls

at a live sex show.

They asked for volunteers,

but I had stage fright

(the people running the

sex show, not the hooligans

or the American girls).

The Englishmen follow

us around, shouting,

“Hey, Americans!”

whilst my comrade

tells them to beat it

and I alternate between the

scary, silent type and

the jokester, trying to

keep things lighthearted

so we don’t get trounced

amid this handicapped

tag team match in the waiting,

because you know the

girls don’t have our backs.

Three A.M.,

we stop for French fries,

with ketchup or catsup,

I discuss my comrade’s

shagging chances with

the other American girl,

and a hooligan calls to us,

“Hey, Americans,

your chips are all bloody!”

But that’s how we like ‘em.

In the end we part ways,

three separate factions,

no one gets the girl,

no one takes a punch,

just another night in

the Venice of the North.

Back to our quarters

for what I think will be sleep,

but our friends are waiting,

ready to go out again

to yet another techno club.

It’s Five A.M.,

I resist, but they hand me some

Ecstasy and I take it.

“Now, you have to

go out,” they say.

I don’t think so, but we do,

four more hours in the city.

I try to dance, try to have fun,

the Ecstasy not fully kicked in,

but everything’s blurry,

which could be fatigue,

or claustrophobia,

or social phobia.

All I want is out,

fight or flight,

and I fight for some reason,

standing, pretending to dance,

and thinking I might die here.

When it all ends,

happy, tired, confused,

we get back to our quarters,

it’s Nine A.M.,

I want some breakfast,

I want to sleep,

but what I truly want is you,

somewhere in Columbus, Ohio

or Worcester, Mass.

you are missing me

like I’m missing you

and I wonder

how your evening was.

Colin James

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

              Marriage to an Irregular Heartbeat


              Travel in this age of time killing times two.
              Scratching, it doesn't take long
              to get under skin.
              The many corners you avoid
              adore you.
              Horizontal, vertical
              what does it matter?
              All those indulgences
              have come to a head.
              A polemic arse
              in a camouflage of hues,
              as heartbeats do.

Peter D. Marra

Love Island

A portrait of 2 women

Beasts and

the wild things

Roll in the sand

Waiting for the cloud

explosion to slowly drift

and take them home

Slow sounds

once growls

now whimpering

Face down in the sand

she can’t hear the noise

Wincing forms

And the claws.

The pinup girl lives forever

Drinking sweat and gasoline

Convulsions and climax

Mass

Throwing

The pierced eyes

At the faces of the

laughing

Walking out

Of the clock

Moss and dust

Behind her eyes

She stops

Causing the congregation to moan

Halloween altars

Waiting for you

She pounces

They’re

happy