Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

The Yellow Hills

Let’s meet in the yellow hills

near the sea.  Let’s picnic in

the yellow hills.  We could

look up to the sky and make

small talk.  We could tell each

other our hopes and dreams.

Stretched out on a blanket

under the warm sun.   We

could pretend we’re dead

or like some immovable

force.  Under a leafy tree

in the yellow hills we’ll rest.

In these hills black ants eat

the crumbs we leave behind.

Their tiny shadows could only

be observed under a microscope.

In the yellow hills we leave

our troubles behind.  Not far

from shore we feel the breeze

that comes from the sea.   We rest

here where the leafy tree’s shadow

seems to swallow us whole.

The yellow hills protect us from

the dark times of the world.

Akeith Walters

Waiting for Pete


Another iced whiskey wets my hand
as I linger in the bar’s twilight,
listening to a Dolly Parton crossover.


The sweet scented blend of a Marlboro
and reefer drifts by


and I turn to see Pete walk in,
his rose polo
and fat ass
hanging loose and untucked.


No one knows what he does when not sitting on his stool
with his back to the door,


with no more than beer or two to hold the world at bay.


Young drunks,
who sway in clusters,
listen to his stories,
the grainy black and white ones,
of stonewall chances taken in back alleys and secret bars,
in secluded parks and rusty boxcars,


before civil rights became the rights of everyone,


except for the few who wore loose rose polos
with a bangle or two
and cowboy boots
with high polished heels.

William Doreski

The Revolution Will Be Televised


Comrades, the time has come
to seize the means of production,
I wrote in my latest memo,
earning a crooked smile from the dean.
Dusk as drab as old sweat pants
crawls across the quad, dousing
my dream of overthrowing worlds.
You think I’m merely boyish
because like Dostoevsky

I want to face a firing squad
and let revolution enter me
like a swarm of killer bees. Laughing,
you share your iced coffee with me.
Why do you suppose the straws
have become alert as antenna,
quivering while the TV rants
of oil spills and massacres, and suits
explain why their public crimes

deserve praise instead of censure?
What does it mean to want to seize
the means of production when
the workers have long ago retired
and we academics produce
only a dreary and muffling fog?
As we drain the coffee our foreheads
bump like dueling elk, so we duck
shyly away from each other.

How often we’ve sorted headlines
by degrees of horror, sharing
our modest grief. The revolution
next time will surely be televised.
But when we stand like Dostoevsky
and the rifles nod but refuse
to fire we’ll feel belittled
by the books we’ve read and loved,
the iced coffee freezing our veins.

Travis Macdonald

Definite Article Anything

(worthless customs, rules, or regulations that forbid something to set a price of)

1.

Nominative Singular Pronoun keeps

watch or vigil at or to

a farther point or higher

place on or in

the present day or age

free from sound or noise

as a place or persons; silent.

2.

Any liquid that is swallowed

to quench thirst, for nourishment,

etc. beverage (a Boolean operator

that returns a positive result when both

operands are positive) free fruits, vegetables

from moisture for preservation; dry.

Stimulate sexually an added condition

stipulation, detail or particular

to utter suddenly and briefly; exclaim!

3.

Earth or matter in fine, dry particles

toward or in the direction of: going

each; every; per: spreading and imparting dirt

a hard blow (or a successful show)

Nominative Singular Pronoun has; or forms

in the mind as an idea,

conception etc. — to regard as specified

an auxiliary verb which belongs to you

Next in order of time or place to devise

or arrange, as in a plan at that point in an action

speech, etc. the state or condition

4.

Each; every; per: for a short time or period

having considerable linear extent in the space

of head or skull reaching well into the past

(of beverages) mixed against great odds

to be no longer subject, become in-

different.

Paul Handley

Style Conscious


The rain drops on my
Signature fedora that has
Become a kinky quirk
Lately, attests that my
Misfit flair became too popular
From a discernment of a norm
That did not remain on the fringes,
Thus keeping its cache.
Maybe next time.

Have you seen the white
Golf shoes? I hope it is only your
Subconscious that registered
It as a shadow echo, then
Stilled to a casual pulse
That warranted a glance of
Appreciation to an unprompted omit.
This is a goal.



Actual Event


The moon looks
Like a multi media

White egg pasted
In my panorama.

Who knows? Maybe in
My own miniature (to someone)
Crèche. The finishing

Applicant may have been
Overlooked by inspector
#3WL47^*.

I don’t mind being on a
Set, but a whimsical
Mindset for details is

Not welcome. Our
Scientists have observed
Fundamentals that have to adhere.

Contentment requires lunar tides, not
Schlock van guard.
Inconsistency breeds child

Abuse and grassy knolls.
Memo to “god” give me
A sun at 06:17 hours with

Shimmering streaks,
Appropriate warmth and
Precancerous skin.

Fire the inspector if need be
Or I will curse
You to a locked room of

Social scientists
Debating the nature
Of reality for a week (your time).

David McLean

tripping over brackets


we trip over the brackets
around the pure perception,
and, inside me,
all cats are gray

like flags over the castle
where nothing lives
innocent oblivion.
all cats are gray,

and time at night
is painless, where evening
has stroked away
twilight anxiety

and consecrated the cold
to being and absence,
that icy absolution
time brings, like nothing,

here where all cats are gray,
and so are most days

Phil Lane

Nine Ways of Looking at Dawn


I.
Dawn encroaches like doom
written on the sky,
a contract you never signed,
a painting without
a signature.


II
Dawn unfurls like a white flag,
you surrender to
a morning that looms
with idle hands,
itches for something
to complicate.


III
Dawn comes down
like a death sentence,
it’s there, it waits,
the sun rises
even on the gallows.


IV
Dawn is birds singing
in the squalor,
sun shining
through the spit
and scorn of judges.


V
Dawn is another
new sky
of blood
and plumbing
and minutiae.


VI
Dawn arrives
when you are trying
to be a man,
emasculates you
with its flat, white
sun.


VII
Dawn yields
neither marked gain
nor marked loss,
it breaks even,
it’s a wash.


VIII
Dawn forgets like rain:
as rain forgets the drought,
so dawn forgets the night.


IX
After the gloaming,
dawn is all there is