Monday, April 26, 2010

Classified by Ed Makowski


1 pair Ducati cam belts

for '98 900 ST,
brand new in packaging. My husband
left this world
from a bike accident and
a couple careless drivers
left me

The remnants I need to sell.

$32.07 each new, $50.00
the pair.

Call Janine

( ) -

Bio: Ed Makowski is a poet, artist, and writer living in Milwaukee, WI. He's looking for a job so he can buy one of those boarded up houses. More of his work can be found at

Bungalow Couple Redux and A Day in the Life of Paddy Murphy, Broker by Donal Mahoney

Bungalow Couple Redux

They weren’t talking at all, back then.
Deep in that house, conceiving their dwarfs,
they weren't talking at all, back then.

And they’re not talking at all, right now.
Still in that house, rearing their dwarfs,
they're not talking at all, right now.

And they won’t be talking again.
When the dwarfs break out they’ll stay in that house,
not moving, not talking again.

A Day in the Life of Paddy Murphy, Broker

Riding home on the train he’s aware
that after supper, cigarettes, TV and beer,
a romp on the wife will cloak
the question for another day.
He’ll fear nothing, then, till noon
the next day when it starts all over again.
If his luck holds, he’ll survive
the ride home on the train, aware
that after supper, cigarettes, TV and beer,
a romp on the wife will cloak
the question for another day.

Bio: Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, MO. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. A Pushcart nominee, he has had poems published in The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, Revival (Ireland), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), Public Republic (Bulgaria), The Panulaan Review, Calliope Nerve and other publications.

Fuck National Poetry Month and Caffeinated Lies by Paul Hellweg

Fuck National Poetry Month

I’ve never understood
National Poetry Writing Month.
Seems to me
if you need a prompt
to be in touch with
what you’re feeling,
you’re not a poet.

A poet is someone who
has things inside
that have to come out, and all
a real poet needs
is a mutilated heart,
screaming soul, and
bottle of whiskey,
prompts be damned.

Caffeinated Lies

Caffeine lies to me,
alcohol lies to me,
hope and love lie to me,
my paycheck lies too.
All offer a glimpse of salvation,
then renege, chuckling,
the joke’s on me.
Despair doesn’t lie.
Despair speaks its own truths
to any and all
willing to pay attention.
Despair never welshes,
never changes its mind,
nor takes anything back.
But to hold such glory in your hands,
you have to be
willing to listen, and
willing to forgo
everything else.

Paul Hellweg has had over 60 poems published since his debut in 2009. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and he won the 2009 Famas Poetry Prize. He thinks all this is pretty cool.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Everything Different and Aluminum Christmas Tree by James Babbs

Everything Different

the trees shrouded in mist
obscuring my vision
as it slowly gathers
on the windshield before
I turn the wipers on
70s-era Miles filling
the inside of the car
churning out
his electro-funk fusion
and it’s morning
and I’m driving back
from your place where
we made love the night before
something we hadn’t
planned to happen
and I’m, still, trying
to sort it out
recalling how
I barely said a word as
I got dressed and
told you goodbye
on my way home but
thinking about stopping
somewhere for breakfast
wondering whether I should
call you later today
or should I wait
afraid of
what I should say
everything different
between us now

Aluminum Christmas Tree

did anybody else have an
aluminum christmas tree
growing up in the seventies
with the light that had
this plastic wheel that turned
it had three different colors and
I wonder if they were all the same
I think ours had
orange and blue and green
what the hell were we thinking
I mean
whose bright idea was it
and then people actually went out
and bought them
set them up in their living rooms
you put the light on
so when the wheel turned
the colors reflected off the tree
you didn’t have to bother with
stringing up any lights and
I don’t think we hung
any ornaments on it
I remember seeing pictures
me as a boy sitting there
cross-legged on the floor
wearing my green toughskins and
the funny looking glasses
the floor cluttered with presents
this big grin on my face

Bio: I’m not a real writer but I play one on TV. I work for the government but don’t like to talk about it. I like getting drunk and writing. I don‘t like people who are rude. I like dogs better than cats. I like Fall better than I like Spring. I like it when the tomatoes start ripening. I don’t like okra and never did but I could eat lima beans every day of the week.

Some recent poems have appeared in my dreams and in-Barbaric Yawp, Gutter Eloquence, Opium Poetry, Zygote In My Coffee and ZYX. Thank you for your time.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

simply drift away and in this void by J.J. Campbell

simply drift away

the wind is howling

squeezing through
these paper thin

it sounds like a
cat crying out in

i don't move
a muscle

apathy and
cynicism has
darkened this
heart past the
point of caring

especially when i
can close my eyes
and simply drift away
to some other tragedy
waiting to happen

in this void

i always wonder if
killing myself would
mean anything to
anyone other than
my family

and as i swim here
in this void of life,
despair, delusion
and mediocrity

i'm not even a
blip on the radar
of anyone

and i sense the
in my soul

it wants to give
up as much as i
want to

but my brain is
selfish enough
that it needs it to
hurt more for them

the proverbial them

than it would me

time has
never moved
so slow

J.J. Campbell lives, writes and will hopefully die on a farm in Brookville, Ohio. He's been widely published in the small press, most recently in The Joint (Australia), FUCK!, ZYX, Zygote in My Coffee and Opium Poetry 2.0. You can contact J.J. via email at

Friday, April 9, 2010

10:53pm by Steve Calamars

thick thighs
walk across
my apartment

brown hair
and a
pretty smile

she ends
up in
my arms

i just
want to
drop pin-balls

into the
machinery of
the universe

and simply
stop time . . .

Bio: Steve Calamars lives in San Antonio, TX. His first poetry chapbook, american violence, will be available April 2010 from New Polish Beat. He blogs @

all those mohawks killed punk by Ross Vassilev

riot grrrl is the only good punk left.

the rest is all crap.

the bands all sound alike:
same speed, same riffs
same singer, pretty much

no Exene Cervenka among them
no Lux Interior

they don't seem to know that
slow is BETTER than fast
like, say, Bikini Kill
or Alice Bag Band

they don't seem to get it
that the whole point of punk is
(or was, anyway)
to stand out
to be different
not to play the same music

not one of those bands out there
has any fire, wild creativity
like someone just escaped
from the asylum
or doped up on LSD

the last great punk band was
The Distillers

damn, I miss them.