Four Poems by petro c.k.

Heuristic Purge

An orchestra of

redrawn bigotry is 

indifferent to 

unbiblical others

their unguided objections

decry with hybrid knuckles

venting injured 

prurient voices 

their reason for being 

so loud 

Beryl of the Belted Poses

Seas psychologically dressed 

impartial to a presence 

in the darkness between 

long distances of life every written day 

The central lilt

to this modest world 

A nearby garden moved 

in a calmed hurry

Staying at either end of the

parentheses hotel 

the sheep with no beginning

hung in countryside hubbubbery  

Maybe they'll sit in characteristic jests

A living forest senses

who was just the theater horrific 

in the breadth of both kitchens 

Flamed for the Sound Within This Place

A symphony that birds the theatrics 

of all previous broken hearts 

that have run dry long ago 

Another day up in the sheet 

became written by then

in a sunken magazine 

Still the only static pileated image

of shallow silver waves 

to a whippoorwill passing by 

drifting deeper in the same sky 

The ancient star did not know 

that the bees knock on his door  

every time he was alone

From his eyes to his face 

leaving the house with his tombstone

in his own words 

crickets 

Quagga Muscle

Whether

here nor there

Not by half or by 

the other half 

The lines run until they don't 

folding of the first day 

turns into the ocean

ancient families washed away 

in a tidal draught 

halfway through the cemetery

Buckle up the earth 

always too much 

or not enough 

invasion or

extinction 

our regimen is not done 

until the tendon snaps 

petro c.k.

Two Poems by Stacy Black

Puppet Master

 

The cloud shears itself in two

but that's nothing new.

The bobcat in my guts wishes it was a wolf

who wishes it was a piano, 

silent and prestigious and heavy in the corner

of an anonymous LA home. 

Who knows why anyone wishes what they do. 

One movie features a puppet

who wishes it were alive but I prefer the one

where the puppets wish their enemies dead

and so go about dispatching them

one by one through the night

in the spooky mansion on the bluffs

overlooking the crashing sea. 

They all had it coming, in some way.

I wish a glacier would come crush us in our sleep. 

Serves us right, bawls the bobcat/wolf/piano.

The cloud shears itself into a million pieces 

but it's just getting started.

At Last No Future for Real

So all the ironies can finally fuck off.

Forever can all the gnarly bugs glory in eternal humidity.

Social media can die 1000 fiery deaths

amid a slight reduction 

in righteous anger.

Uninformed opinions stay steady

in the spreading sulfuric lakes.

Every love goes unrequited,

every lover spurned and kicking dixie cups

down dark alleyways up to no good.

No booze 

or alternately nothing but,

either way a nasty hangover makes bleary all creation

for everybody, forever.

Misty mornings that never end.

I put a colander on my head and smoke all the cigarettes I please

and feel finally, sincerely, at peace.

Three Poems by Damon Hubbs

From the Misadventures of Sir Thomas Browne’s Skull

(Note: In 1840, Sir Thomas Browne’s skull was removed from the St. Peter Mancroft Church in Norwich when his coffin was “accidentally” disturbed by workmen. The skull wasn’t returned to lie with the rest of Browne’s earthly remains until 1922. In addition to writing “Religio Medici,” “Urne-Buriall” and “Pseudodoxia Epidemica,” the 17th century physician and essayist is credited with coining dozens of words including medical, hallucination, electricity, exhaustion coma, ulterior and therapeutic.)

#6: Ulterior

collating bones 

& books 

in a quincunx 

of exhibition halls featuring 

such Audio Tour favorites as

Batrachomyomachia,

or the Homerican Battel between Frogs and Mice

& Pytheas Beyond Ultima Thule—

where’s your ticket Mr. Bones

says the guard 

but then it’s gone 

all gone, the art & artifacts

the impossible objects, forgotten 

footnoted

the map of Musaeum Clausum 

drawn in phantom vistas 

      unsealed 

from my back-

pocket 

& windswept 

across phosphate floors

#7: Therapeutic

Whenever I feel blue

I think of your body 

hanging from morning 

till 4 in the afternoon 

& the 20-foot pike 

on the roof of Westminster Hall

your head, Cromwell, lollypopping

in the English breeze

Noir Set Piece

bean shooter

four-flusher 

last drag of a smoldering gasper

elephant ears heeled, rodded 

goons

in a blind alley

     only the moon 

winks

lead 

          squirt, dut 

dut

  dut  

          brrrrrt

zzzzz, dut dut

zotzed………

night locked 

in a cage 

of rain

watching 

from a diner

across the street 

a waitress 

with amnesia

wakes 

up 

recoiling 

at the greedy touch 

of hot plates  

Jack 

falls

from 

an 

open 

valise

All-Inclusive

but 

the room 

key is lost 

same 

can’t be said 

for our baggage

the lobby’s 

caged birds bicker

& shriek 

the sea 

is just beyond 

the balcony

we can’t see it 

despite the king 

with partial view

you buy a new 

bathing suit,

killing time

I look 

at the terrible 

golden emptiness 

irradiating 

from the hotel’s 

paintings

 

Damon Hubbs