J.D. Nelson

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

(  ( ( stereo ) )  ) panther

sci. of the new head:

the paper airport

shiversmith randall

bacon tree

before breakfast

briefcase

a cold summer

tomorrow on

tape

love

that diamond suit

the same sunshine

the street of scabs

------------------------------

bio/graf

J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words and sound in his subterranean laboratory. More than 1,000 of his bizarre poems and experimental texts have appeared in many small press and underground publications. He is the author of THE FRANKENDELPHIA EXPERIMENT (Tainted Coffee Press, 2010) and NOISE DIFFICULTY FLOWER (Argotist Ebooks, 2010). Visit http://www.MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. His audio experiments (recorded under the name OWL BRAIN ATLAS) are online at http://www.OwlNoise.com. J. D. lives in Colorado, USA.

Nathan Elias

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

(The following poem was first published by those fine people at Red Fez.)

Glass City Blues

The night begins on the river bottom

slow dragging with the ghost of Lily Mae Jones.

She lights a cigarette and calls for the sax

to play a tune that will bury the dead.

Its happy hour and the bitches brew

is on tap. Two rounds before we’re on stage

singing, But for me there can be no dawn

I thought I was in paradise.

Moonlight guides our feet as we

move to the sound of piano keys on fire,

the black cat trumpet, the ambulance

crescendo of Glass City blues.

We break the surface of air

like hard-boiled eggs then choke it down

with rose water. I am between the teeth

of stray dogs in a street fight and 

if this is another dream

I’ll count bullets and graves before I  

call her Betty in the pouring rain. It ain’t

what her mama named her.                                                 

Paul Handley: Five Poems

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

      Had You Going

I hold out my ineptness as a badge of pride.

Here, hold your hand out and touch it

and don’t get stuck on the snap in the back pin,

held by a protective bar that puts the engineering marvels

of the car airbag to self-reproach,

and by the way (btw) would pop if the sticker was let loose,

held by the badge of courage to be

wielded like a drunken knight errant.

I don’t know what errant meant,

but the Latin nomenclature leads me to believe

is a crusade or any number of them,

that turned out to be errands of error.

Why don’t you know this?

See what I did?  I turned on the reader

to deflect my ignorance of the subject and

my implausible explanation.

Had you going for a second, didn’t I?

      Profit Motive

My fish taco in Colorado went missing.

The one with the big dorsal fin,

reminding me that growing the economy

should be left to the experts

appointed by those who have a handle on the sway,

since the business of government or a slice anyway,

is winning Nobel prizes in areas that are not profitable.

If I’m understanding correctly,

and I haven’t got in that deep to it,

the government wants to help streamline

the science necessary to transport a fish taco (what you were needing),

to an arid future, in a market nearby,

increasing walkability scores.

              Expectations         

For now, my corduroys are in the basement bin.

As the seasons change the bin is unlatched,

spurting a puff of air that smells like dream

I usually have in April,

when what is too warm or thin

is sealed into a Tupperware coffin.

The brown cords lean in whenever I

visit, hoping Fall has come.

Will they smell burning leaves in its optimism?

I cannot take you all with me

and the hired firebug assured me

it would be quickly contained.

     Another Dollar

Early that morning I went for a jog

when I couldn’t sleep and realized

work started in a couple of hours.

To save a commute, I napped outside

the employee’s entrance in back

and woke up looking like a scarecrow jock.

The owner wanted us to feel ownership in a limited way,

so she let us try out a marketing idea each month.

I gave a little push to the revolving door after

customers entered to give them a breather.

An illusion of energy.  Strength

To pass the time I went to every aisle and tried

to look like the statue of liberty doing downward dog.

To anyone who asked, I resolved to respond

“I know” and then walk away

with head bowed and fixed lips,

as if trying to contain a smirk.

To test our desensitization we rolled in dollar bills

behind the counter, until they felt worthless

and wished for tens, etcetera.

The new clerk was cool,

but at what point does his global avowal of “rock and roll”

sound like “let’s watch a musical

featuring Flapper and Gibson girls?”

Shifts up.  I’m out.

     Backbencher

Dumping contents of pocket,

including cell phone,

You are loaded up.

It’s amazing what society demands

of us nowadays.

You’re crazy.

No, you’re crazy.

Why are my sociological observations

fodder for fun.

Did you just say that?

Fodder?  Yes, I said fodder.

That’s just heinous isn’t it?

Listen to yourself.

Peter Magliocco: Five

The Eclipse of Love

 

 

Take back the light

from the face of time

& what do you get?

The same whiners

wondering where all

the action goes to make

the earth revolve around the sun

 

until everything is illuminated

by a natural truth, sans

all the internet experts.

Like photosynthesis every day

 

for all living things --

 

but somehow humanity avoids it,

preferring an unnatural blindness.

That comfort of lies & illusions

so cleverly bundled into

a daily regimen of speakeasy spiel.

 

The whore who is my wife on Thursdays

drinks to all this, knowing the twilight of truth

is the best refuge to hide naked in

 

as her bruises slowly fade

& implanted breasts implode

into that suborbital dysfunction of being,

 

darkening

my unseen

hell.

 

 

 

 

I Don't Need Microwaves Down in New Orleans

 

 

 

Now I have abolished prejudice

from the skin I once wore

over a retinal blemish,

breathing airs of righteousness

with my morning coffee,

espying an aboriginal goodness

even in weeds nourished by sun

still casting thin shadows.

 

Yet darkness lurks still

around the flooded kitchen I strut in,

a chef for cannibal fare.

Preparing my potluck survivor's supper

it reminds my feathery hands too

of untouchable stains.

A hubris we see in lives troubled

by dead neon's encroachment,

 

what brings morning down

from pale solar eyes

cooking us.

 

 

 

 

Droid

 

 

 

All things in due time, she announces.

"When the elements of ague consume us

The last martyr will confront you,"

Pointing to a broken clock face

Behind which mold slowly grows.

The minute hand hangs as God's teardrop.

Will you sing at my liberation? she asks.

I swore I saw her years ago, perhaps

in a dream spoiled by sleeplessness.

When we were both texting at mid-terms?

But now recognizing my female double

threatens my manhood's last vestige.

She tells me that I'm her "sex robot,"

expensively made by digital engineering,

& she's been waiting a long time for me.

"Hi Jesus," she purrs, kissing my cheek.

 

 

 

on Buk's birthday, 1994

 

 

 

oyster pearls toll on tongues of deceivers

aging through the long night

of Hollywood malaise

no one dances yet to the funeral march

of Rock stars, there is no truth

but the holy lie told (again

& again) by the chiefs of state

searching for sex tapes

implicating all in media treason,

someone must light a candle

before dawn unfolds now

over the striated corpus

perfunctory literature becomes

in the wake of his passing

with self-portrait of wino & jug

betting on the vulgar muse

before throwing up

in the face of

 

art-

less

death

 

 

 

 

Asymtomatic Bloodlines

 

 

Where are incendiary ruins of our city

Grooming the stones of yesteryear

What stinks in miasma's splendor

of everyday commerce now

Still roils in more felonious details

Of existence tethering us, like victims

To those unsavory facts of being

Persons with fraudulent hearts

& minds educated by game shows

They watch gamely in hospital

Hellish waiting rooms

Tepid with innumerable diseases

Waiting like emissaries on bad days

There you are the insane fanatic

Drinking blood from medical pouches

Stolen like Mother's morgue remains

I recycled into an edible commodity

For all the hungry geeks not

Tired of last food dining

 

 

 

 

BIO:

 

 

-- Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he's edited the lit-zine ART:MAG for over 20 years. He's had recent poetry in SCYTHE, GOLD DUST, HEELTAP, SCARS, A HUDSON VIEW POETRY DIGEST and more. He was Pushcart Prize nominated for poetry in 2010. His latest chapbooks are Nude Poetry Garage Sale (Virgogray Press) and The Heaven of Words (Propaganda Press).

Anthony Ward

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

Time and Time Again

Here’s to you My Brubeck!

Don’t ever stop!

Just Take Five

And keep on going.

Keep those keys unlocking

The doors

That welcome us in

With your hospitality

Persuading us

To come back

Time and time again

In order to enjoy

Your burning spirit

On ICE!

Here’s to you Mr Brubeck-

To Take Five!

The Jazz Player

The Jazz player

Is most ALIVE

When working,

Being all the more insipid

When at leisure.

Drinking to become lowly,

Not because he’s fed up,

But because he’s content,

Feeling all the more impassive

When at odds with himself,

Drawing inspiration from the distance

He’s close to.

That’s the Jazz man!

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 STUMBLED INTO MY DREAM

I recognized her face

when she stumbled

into my dream.  Just

another day, flowers

in her curly hair.

“Don’t stare.  It’s not

polite,” she said.

I tried to stroke her hair

with my sleepy hand.

“Don’t stare at me,”

she said again.

The blue spring sky

turned black.  The

flower in her hair wilted.

We were both in tears.

“You must not stare,”

she said.  “I really must

go in a little while.”

I waved goodbye to her.

My heart was in my throat.

LOVE SONG

The best thing I learned in school

was not the birds, the bees, or the trees.

I could care less of rain, the sun, or snow.

The best thing I learned was your name.

I read thousands of pages.

I took all kinds of tests and quizzes.

But the only thing that made my blood

rush was when I heard your name.

Images of landscapes did

not move me.  Tales of warriors

and kings did not mean much to me.

What mattered most was saying your name.

BRIEF DAYDREAM

His head is spinning

over memories and

chances now lost to him.

He feels miserable

and thinks how his life

lacks joy and eloquence.

He daydreams here

and he is young once

again.  The brief daydream

makes him smile.  It saves

him from madness and

the cruelty of time.

He remembers love

lost.  The chance that is

gone now.   He closes his

eyes.  He allows himself

to fall asleep to

give his dizzy head rest.

DON’T TAKE AWAY YOUR LOVE

I could take a day off

eating, take my plate away. 

But don’t take away your love.

I’ll bring you a rose

or any flower of your choosing.

I’ll place it in water.

Nothing brings me more joy

than the joy you bring me.

I was born to love you.

I would struggle without you.

My eyes would go blind.

Having you gone,

would make the earth end.

Your laughter fills up my heart.

It makes me long for you.

It opens up my heart.

It makes my life worth living.

In the darkest hour

your presence is all I need.

If you were gone,

my reasons for living

would be none.  In the street

I would laugh like a madman

with my hands in the air

like a lost soul.

I would walk to the sea

fresh out of laughter.

Into the foamy waters

I would go.  The sea would

take me in, without laughter,

without a flower,

without a rose.

It would be my graveyard.

Late at night

the moon would shine down

at my twisted fate.

Tyson Bley

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

A SPIRITUAL JOURNEY

‘If my eminence is ever exhibited in a wax museum,
they will not exclude my iron stomach, I can
bet you that. I am not OK with this.’
The cooking show host voices many personal
gripes on national television, blaming God for everything,
not just for the iron stomach. ‘I’d be a freak, and kids
would stick their hands through the wax feeling
for the hard round heavy organ. Tittering. I am not
FINE with this…’ Backstage later he looks around
and realizes, with a massive relieved sigh, that
it’s a sign of personal satisfaction to have
your dressing room plastered with dachshund almanacs. 

Shadowy bottled lightning sits on the prophet’s
knee as he glibly traces the future of the new Levi’s
clothing line – he is peeing himself in his black jeans
but whispers, ‘After a life of incontinence, I am now
fully rested. Such boyhood fantasies about body modifications
leaving me striding past the pool with Robocop shoulders
are taxing and absurd. Good luck with your new label,
Leslie Nielsen – mastermind of planetary nostalgia!’

How do these luminaries afford all their prostitutes? With
dinosaur extinction. But the winter following is as
pointless as trying to gather as much collective data
as possible on Cheech and Chong. They’re left with plenty
of time to run the Ben Hur script by a group of immortal,
comet-resistant hippos. Who will manage beautifully.
While the rest of us flap and jump around on the tailgates
of our own spiritual gulags, like trying to flick the gangrene
out of our bottom lips.

‘Seeing spots is the occupational hazard of competitive eating.
Cousins in the same endeavor – a fable about autism
and a life-imitating-art incident at once. You butchered
your tonsils with excellent sandwiches. Their ghosts:
GPS voice recordings lost in insect time & space.
Your amazing travels: jet lag fibers stretched over
your iron gut. Ceramic Jerusalem in which your soul
sports its badass monocle among street artists.
Suddenly it’s possible to sleep with a pinhole.
To kick the electron discovered by Christopher Columbus.
To compute

A.J. Huffman

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

 Cheap Frills

life is the proper binge

face and throat

what you might call an avid runner

happy talk

the path to power visibly lifts

tuxedo dressing

give him the slip

instant success

the tough and tender look of cowboy smoothies

may complicate pregnancy

Heaven Knows

who says men are from mars

it’s a cliché

                  now a cult favorite

and makes any situation comfortable

but the real deal is between us girls

“midnight magic”

the possibilities are endless in a balanced mood

there’s something so right about private parts

where’s the pressure

from python to pinstripes

it shows in your body language

five minutes a week

Ratched Chic

The look of the show

won’t fade away

it was a face to remember

1 million signatures in touch with the world

a new american classic

                                    anywhere technical

just flawless hot air

a new concept in beauty

“all or nothing”

the secret is in how you say it

*********A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida.  She has previously published her work in literary journals, in the U.K. as well as America, such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Eastern Rainbow, Medicinal Purposes Literary Review, The Intercultural Writer's Review, Icon, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review.************

Joseph Carfagno

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

Babe in a compact

In traffic on the parkway

Dead space between us.

* * *

Café

Across the way

The men stroke beards, they pose,

Discussing noble bonobos.

We go.

* * *

The little man wears an ugly hat.

The ugly man wears a funny hat.

The funny man – he is not funny.

Beatnik News

Temporary Submissions Closure

Hello all. Due to the vast number of submissions I've had recently and the drawing out of response time to the poets submitting I've decided to close Beatnik for submissions until April 9th to give me a chance to catch up. It's not fair on the poets to make the poor little tykes wait as long as they're having to at the moment, and realistically if I carry on trying to manage submissions in the present way, response time will soon be six months. So no more submissions for two months please. And tell your friends, if you're lucky enough to have any. I will put a notification out just before the grand reopening to remind you all.