Tuesday, 30 November 2010

Ivan Jenson

Product Placement

if I were you
I would just do
and wait for
the light to change
the tide to crash
the morning to come
the recession to end
the mood to pass
the martini and the medication to kick
the psychic’s palm prediction to poof
the mighty cosmos to cosmetically lift the Joan Rivers like face of time
and crack your Da Vinci Code smile and send you
reeling back in time to some soft powdery Johnson & Johnson
moment when Gerber and Big Bird could bring you
unadulterated bliss

Once in a blue moon

pigeons are coming home
runaways call Mom and Dad
roads are leading to rainbows
and windows open to Santa Ana breezes
blowing clean and colorful laundry on a line
as the boy who lost the gal
gets her back
so sunshine washes out the shadows
giving someone a bright idea
which will after many years grow
like cash on branches
and you shrug
reach into a pocket of smiles
and giggle
having just been
by what is
commonly called
a “Good day”

Trivia Time

I feel like
it’s the last night
of Sylvia Plath’s life
and yet I seek
the strength
it took to write
The Old Man and the Sea
but I am buried
as low as the
Chilean miners
and yes I hurt
like a Brazilian
and understand
that it's not
worth sprinting
in a New York City
and so I ask
for the
of the Tea Party
and the
balls of the
but the truth is
I am as
as two fingers
the peace sign
at an Ozzy concert
and seeking
to be legal
like Willie Nelson's
I guess I will
always have
one foot
in the
and the
other in the
and it is
causing me
to split my pants
like Jackie Chan

Middle Man

Like the stork
you can’t face
stark reality
and like a butter
you don’t cut deep
and like a dad
nobody much
listens to you
but unlike
Michelangelo’s David
you don’t stand
naked for just anyone
and like
a frozen dinner
you are initially
quite stiff
but warm up

Monday, 29 November 2010

Felino A. Soriano

Approbations 807
—after Lee Morgan’s The Procrastinator

predicts atmospheric lacking
the body
                        built once an architecture of holding remedies
becomes broken symptoms of the mind’s unwilling
                                                               acts of social
contamination.  Of
restraints: hand|hand
                                                waiting breathes its slow function
into reverberating anger of now’s counter
upon exaggerated motives. 

Approbations 808
—after Ornette Coleman’s Broad Way Blues

Vagabond trepidation, curled
renaissance affirmation
                                    debating directional fathoms of
executing ambulatory faith
                                                regarding methodology of
reinventing prose of a thought’s
reconfigured skeletal concerns. 

Approbations 809
—after Paul Bley’s Seven

Tones of musical
by warmth of intentional innate
                                                            methods for
ascertaining symbols
friction of finding variants of promise
                                                                        needn’t find
fiction of the listening fools
finding reflectional premises important
                        importunate declarations for
intersecting roles and
                                    categorical explications of tonal

Approbations 810
—after Tina Brooks’ Theme for Doris

Recall your rose
            from palm of opened garden, preparing scent of reddened resonation
                                    eyed whole an
optical rendition
your bodily waist hand-wrapped embrace by
warping wind of a moment’s elongated admiration. 

Now, as the angled devotion
of air’s singing fathoms
donating trust and humbled appearance
revolves ‘round delicate wrists of your hands’
holding flourish,
the mimic of memory
becomes extraordinary grasps of
language’s comprehensive, devotional

Saturday, 27 November 2010

Ivan Jenson

Picky, Picky

You don’t
belong with
your belongings
and you don’t need
your necessities
what you need is
something as impractical
as love at first sight
and as improbable
as a soul-mate
rather than a roommate
and then you can
engage in some
impulsive acts
of kindness
and book
a flight to Venice,
or a Hyatt
in Honolulu
and though
even Cupid
takes baby steps
you are ready
to make one
giant leap
for woman-kind
to the honeymoon
and back
you want to wake
up to a continental
breakfast of
pancakes and
pursed lips
and you
want to be
treated like china
that just might break
you are
precious and porcelain
so welcome lady,
to the tall skim club
of “chick-lit” longing

Friday, 26 November 2010

Arkava Das


resuming composition
a sub-Angstrom lever
tripped inside
an inventive wall

with a sturdy bracket

steeled atmosphere

reaching towards
safety considerations

“we made a lump of
wood into that form

&were abashed”

heartless &soundless
drugged &entered

cascading distractions
“we have this vivid picture”

Italics: Philosophical Investigations (Wittgenstein)

Wednesday, 24 November 2010

Pamela Sayers

Dragons fly

Hiding in unlit alleys, behind seedy bars
Red Stilettos, fishnet hose
A bowie tucked between her breasts
Concealed … she waits

In a subway tunnel: as the clock strikes
midnight, she is watching you
Stalking and plotting
As her stare draws you in,
Is your fear palpable as the sweat,
on your brow

Her hostage now,
clutched in her webbed arms
Carrying you to the highest ledge of a building
Placing a slender foot over the edge
She tells you she can fly …
The girl with the dragon tattoo

Tuesday, 23 November 2010

Felino A. Soriano

Approbations 806
—after Eric Dolphy’s Tenderly

of a reciprocated touch
of wind on
hand of air’s angled dexterity
into various compassions of possible
indirection, splayed
but together
between versions
of an hour’s shifting premise.

Monday, 22 November 2010

William Michaelian

Before me, the past

Before me, the past speeds ahead.
It arrives, I know not when.

Behind me, the future is silent.
It knows that I am dead.

Pity, there is no grief in starlight.
Mercy, cries for the unborn.

Duty, is a failed science.
Love, walks alone.

You show me a sign.
A bright, fathomless smile.

As if there were, anything.
As if we were, real.

As if, rainbows give birth to children.
And they do: rainbows, and strawberries.

Fallen angels, white as any snowflake.
Black as an eye in a song.

Blue, as when light returns.
Green, because everything is so damn silly.

Honeyed as any flower.
Or as the scent and color of skin.

Intimate, as graveyard stone.
Whispers, with cold gray fingertips.

Wet shoes: where have I been?
And how did you find me?

A siren in a cityscape.
Moonlight, on a table.

Perhaps, or, simply, fate.
A wet sponge by the sink.

A leaf, a candle.
An unexpected need.

Sunday, 21 November 2010

SJ Fowler

{Benedict IX, elected Pope at the age of ten shocked
the sensibilities of a barbarous age}

to traipse about the Museum
without even the faint possibility of seeing her
her torch light is doused
she stayed but a month
she let me sleep at her feet but once
Oh Evgeniya Akhmadulina!

but back they sent her
to meditate on the indistinct
to cultivate the wastes
then they told me she was a spy
no lambblood to her name,
but she was one of the ones I loved.

just the thought of the London Aquarium
and the degenerate art Museum
it hurts my webbed redchest
my nocturnal appendix surgery
I miss her more than that organ!
Everything seems older and less colourful.

no Saint Fisher, no benefactor will read my lists
& pay off my debts, hand me on to the upper echelons
she left me amongst the brownfilm slashed;
her burning hair is shed & black about her green eyes.
life has become less promising,
and the people seem much older.