Poetry

Sympathy for the Devil: A Duet in Two Solos

by on Dec 2, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

573 WORDS When the Devil’s in Nashville he stops by Third and Union, late, after the bars close, where someone always offers half a beer at the feet of Chet Atkins. The Devil tends to leave them for the dudes who didn’t make it to the Mission tonight, but sometimes he clambers up on the stool the sculptor knew belonged there, drinks the remains of a not–quite–cold one, smokes a discarded butt, plays what anybody passing by would swear is a duet, the Ave Maria audible from up near St. Mary of the Seven Sorrows, echoing against the stations of a mother’s grief until the bell in the tower lets out a hesitant toll in reply, one you gotta be listening for to hear. The few...

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Night-time Visitor

by on Dec 2, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

28 WORDS In the dark she sings, She holds my hand tight in hers: Limbs tender, voice soft. Clouds part, the moon shines upon Green skin, one too many arms. Melanie Rees is an environmental consultant whose work involves playing with soil and plants. When she isn’t gallivanting in the mud or stuck up a tree, she writes speculative fiction and poetry. Her stories and poems have appeared in magazines such as Apex, Cosmos, Penumbra, Daily Science Fiction, and Aurealis. In the real world, she lives in a straw house with a menagerie of animals in regional South Australia. Online she lives at flexirees.wordpress.com and on Twitter...

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The Grey Cathedral

by on Dec 2, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

218 WORDS I suppose there must be extraterrestrials who, among the plethora of UFO specialists, are cattle mutilators, aliens for whom it is always harvest season, each bovine an overflowing cornucopia. They spend their hours slicing tongues with surgical precision, cleaving udders and ears free, coring anuses and carving out hearts. They are most neat in their work; there is never any blood. So perhaps today, as I sit at my kitchen table, sipping coffee and thinking about my departed Petunia, an alien aboard a flying saucer moves his scalpel and slender fingers through the grey cathedral of her tongue. Here are the great doors of her calfhood, the sweet taste of warm...

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Sonnet 29

by on Nov 4, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

107 WORDS Ghost or angel, you never leave me. You cinch my waist like the skirt of scales I slipped out of. Breathing becomes labored, like gulps of air a swimmer takes head–turned. Tonight, I decide to stay in the husk of a woman; to peel over bruises. What’s left of me, the inside part, the round eye of seed and fruit, sees only you.   Although I cannot touch you, though I tire of calling your name, what sad fury, what waiting, what want sharks around me in a circle. If I survive: row my way again to shore. The vultures, mad with fever, will smell a new life crowning. Ama Codjoe is an educator, dance artist, and emerging poet with roots in Memphis and Accra.  She...

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Brains, Brains, Brains

by on Nov 4, 2014 in Poetry | 4 comments

300 WORDS most times we wait for bone harvest to flesh for first sigh of blood for grunt work’s spin   we guard our knees drag our limbs tilt scarred hands towards amber dusk and rise from the trenches   our unmoored unalivenees moans somewhere inside of us where dark things scratch blood heat’s caw awakens our belly clocks as sharp as book spines   our meals are co–authored shameless gang — braining fantasies anthropophagical cravings   newborn thighs silk fine lust stacked husband plucked from football monday’s with beer dripping breasts divorcee tongues marinated in rocket sauce   first bite fractures the undeadness      an inoperable...

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On the Excarnations of the Gods

by on Oct 7, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

The rush of water pushes time, eating the shore and exposing it, tugging the bodies of stones back and forth across unmarked lines of life and death, time and tide. Sometimes they gasp in the air and sometimes lie under clear and peaceful blankets measured in fathoms measured in beats of hearts, of long arms akimbo finger pads and heels of hands striking the skin of the drum. This is why, when our bodies become flesh alone we open them to the sky, an offering to the ravening of birds. Let them strip us to our bones, baring to the sight of the gods of the air all our secrets, decades of mysteries both splendid and small, cancerous and threaded through our flesh just like...

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