Guest Poet: Gary Beck

Songs of a Clerk

Decay

While I am eroding at my job
the aging secretary glares at me
from her perch behind forever desk,
where she faithfully guards the time
of her oppressive employer.
She is another conspirator
to the assault on my senses
in this office degradation.

Toil

Unsweet change of jobs,
the same dull shuffle
of senseless papers.
Sixty stories high
I watch the birds
circling Central Park,
a stolen moment
staring hungrily, yearning.
Then the droning voice,
the overseer of dreary clerks
sends me back
to endless piles of paper.

On the Wheel

Another office day,
somehow more human.
Is it from a woman
passioning me happy?
Is it from contentment,
a good night of writing?
I do not know.
But it is Friday
and the day does not go fast enough.
If I can only last.
Soon a weekend’s freedom,
time to renew my strength
and hope to endure
another week at work.

Regret

I sing of a woman
a stranger no longer,
known to my flesh,
touched by my feelings.
Our time so short
I fear she will not come again
and I weave a dark strand
from the tangle of her hair.
I awakened in the morning,
but she was not there.
Her yesterday smell, faint on the pillow
hungered my remembrance.
When last we parted,
I intent on office prison,
held her, not close enough.
Now I punish my neglect.

Harnessed

Beasts of burden
for exploiting bosses,
impatient of our arrival,
filled with urgency
more imminent than hate,
until our work is done,
coincidental with other workers,
whose only thought is home.

© Gary Beck 2011

Gary Beck has been a tennis pro, ditch digger, salvage diver, and art dealer, but has spent most of his adult life as a theater director. His chapbook 'Remembrance' was published by Origami Condom Press, 'The Conquest of Somalia' by Cervena Barva Press, 'The Dance of Hate' by Calliope Nerve Media, 'Material Questions' by Silkworms Ink, 'Dispossessed' by Medulla Press and 'Mutilated Girls is being published by Heavy Hands Ink. A collection of poetry 'Days of Destruction' was published by Skive Press, and 'Expectations' by Rogue Scholars Press. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway and toured colleges and outdoor performance venues. He currently lives in New York City.
Poems from 'Songs of a Clerk' have appeared in: Istanbul Literary Review, Agency Magazine, Fiction Press, Kyoto Journal, Poetry Life and Times, Rattlesnake Review, Written Word Literary Magazine, Pegasus Magazine, MadSwirl, YaSou!, Words Words Words, Juice Magazine, Struggle Magazine, Flutter Poetry Journal, Iddie, Strange Road, Halfway Down the Stairs, Poetry Monthly, Calliope Nerve and many more.

Guest Poet: Kenneth P. Gurney

Surrender

I feel quite incapable of declaring war on a small country
let alone a large country governed by a dictator.

In fact, all I seem to be able to accomplish is to rip the pages out
of a prize winning poetry book that I think is academic nonsense.

In their hunger, the pigeons mistake the torn bits of paper
as daily bread from a sad person on a park bench.

Though my description is close enough for that confusion
I take exception to my one coat pocket that is turned inside out.

Through a defect in my heart, malice leaks and the stray cat that laps it up
soon kills three birds and leaves them on the bench as bribes

to someone, anyone, who might remove the word stray
from its description and discard the cat’s sense of abandonment.

Upon reflection, declaring war would be an easy enough task.
It is winning the war that boggles my mind so much so

it becomes an end I cannot quite envision
through all the dense pages of self-help books I’ve read.

Now that I possess a book cover that covers nothing
except little bits of glue that once made the word binding relevant

I think a walk to the picture frame shop is in order,
but, mostly, because it is adjacent to the chocolatier

who creates such beautifully tempting window displays
that my fight to keep my waistline in check is for nought.

Half-Past Middle Age

I was up from midnight to three
reading a friend’s poetry manuscript—
which I love to do,
as I love puppies figuring out the world.

You know; the fall-on-their-face
kind of adorable that inhabits the overwhelmed
as they keep processing
the kaleidoscopic pentad of sensory input.

Since I am not young anymore,
I will miss that three hours of sleep—
especially as one p.m. nudges toward one-thirty
and the afternoon crashes into a nap.

My next-morning-lack-of-sleep grumpiness
is nothing to be afraid of
as long as you great me with a cup of Earl Grey
and some sympathy.

Which reminds me of a Janis Ian song
we listened to back in our college days
when music was served on vinyl platters
and the needle of our addiction grooved a turn table.

Grief

It was the crows blotting out the sun
that finally got the tears
roiling the floor of my breath
and I tried to measure the effluent
damage I’d done to my history
by holding on tight,
but calipers do not measure liquids
or the light they bend
or the depth of shadows.
I should have held
black irises to my nose sooner
and let sleep foreshadow
what is to come, but there is
no way I know to tame anxiety
or domesticate pain
into a beast of burden
that would help me
carry you to the moon
and, there, say goodbye,
as you left to take your place
under Valhalla’s wooden beams.

© Kenneth P. Gurney 2011

Kenneth P. Gurney lives in Albuquerque, NM, USA. He edits the NM poetry anthology Adobe Walls. To view his full biography, publishing credits and available books visit http://www.kpgurney.me/Poet/Welcome.html

Guest Poet: Paul de Denus

This Old House

in need of attention
these aged timbers lean
worn and stressed
a weathered exterior stained
standing on unstable ground,
long exposed to unkind elements and words
until your touch,
as smooth as simple silk
bares the framework and exposes an interior
broken but salvageable
and lovingly rebuilt
restored with such surety
leaving no trace of ever being condemned.

On Blue Paper

wrens
drawn to bare branches,
dark and inky silhouettes
against the new morning sky.

the branches fork and fissure
in a thousand directions
like a sketchy rural roadmap
on blue paper.

and between circumstance, truth
and the great divide,
we wait to fly
to a different drift of senses,
bare feet at an easy pace,
warm sand and the glass ocean.

© Paul de Denus 2011

Paul de Denus is a graphic artist by day, writer by night. He has been published at Six Sentences (The Love Book, Word of Mouth, and 6S Vol 3), Smith Magazine, Fictionaut, and Espresso Stories.
Other writings and self published books appear at his blogspot: metheothertwin.blogspot.com

Guest Poet: Donal Mahoney

Crackling Again

   Rogers Park, Chicago

This brilliant winter morning finds
waves of snow on every lawn
and red graffiti dripping
from the walls
of Temple Mizpah
once again
as down the street
stroll ancient men
who every morning
shuffle here for prayer.

As usual, they're lost
inside old overcoats,
their collars up,
their scarves too long,
their yarmulkes,
as always,
in diffidence
askew.

This morning, though,
they don't go in.
They shuffle near the curb
like quail.
They can't believe
the goose-step scrawl
on every wall.
They know their world's
awry again, an encore
of the chaos left behind
when they were young.

The good thing is,
Chicago's better now
than was Berlin back then
even though the temple walls
make clear this morning that
someone's struck another match
and the ovens of Auschwitz
are crackling again.

In Memphis On Business

this belle like a feather
floats table to table
bearing menus and water,

stunning this Yankee
in Memphis on business
whose host swears the South

has many more like her.
Up North, the Yank says,
young ladies like her bump tables,

slop coffee in saucers.
No wonder this Yankee
in Memphis on business

smiles when again
this belle like a feather
floats table to table

bearing menus and water
as if she were certain
the earth isn’t there

and the sky and the air
are highway enough for a belle
bearing menus and water.

© Donal Mahoney 2011

Donal Mahoney has had poems appear in variety of print and online publications, including The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, Public Republic (Bulgaria), The Beatnik (U.K.), Revival (Ireland), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), Calliope Nerve and other publications.

Guest Poet: A.J. Huffman

A Different Kind of Angel

She rests
her wings of red satin
against the wall
in the dark
that matches
the links of her gown
and the stars in her hair.

They say her beauty
holds
its own dominion.
A perfect salvation.
Immune
to every kind of touch.

But the glare
around her ankle
is fake.
Smaller than it looks.
And flawed

by the blue
flaking from her fingers.

Learning to Choose Exile

The road to hell
is paved.
In good.
In gold.
And every stone I touch
runs wild.
A molten river
between my toes.
Moving me closer
to the edge.
As I slowly sink
through the floor.

Into the Locked Box of Unbeing

He opens the cage.
And finds her
waiting.
Wearing only what is left
of her skin.
Like diamonds
burning for his touch.
Knowing
that if he looks up
she is smiling.
Behind the shadow
of those eyes
he has trained.
To watch
as the hinges snap them,
once again,
into place.

© Amy J. Huffman 2011

A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published her work in literary journals, in the U.K. as well as America, such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Eastern Rainbow, Medicinal Purposes Literary Review, The Intercultural Writer's Review, Icon, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review.

Guest Poet: Joseph Farley

Chinatown to Chinatown

The Ghost Dragons went to war
with rival gangs
to control the lucrative traffic
in people between cities
on the knock off buses
that rivaled the big names
like Greyhound and Trailways.

Stories of knifings in bathrooms
at rest stops
along the New Jersey Turnpike
scared the locals into using
yet another knock off
as they journeyed
from Philadelphia to NYC.

Somehow differences were settled.
The FBI stopped following the buses,
and restaurant workers and shoppers
returned to crammed seats
and unsafe vehicles
spewing blue smoke
as they made the two hour ride
from Chinatown to Chinatown
unconcerned about anything
and thankful for
the cut rate fare.

Working in the Crematorium

It is a simple life.
Check the flame,
Check the fuel,
Put the body in
And let it cook
To ash,
Then turn off
The fire,
Sweep out
The white powder
And maybe a tooth,
Empty the dustpan
Into an urn.
It's a day's pay,
And makes you conscience
Rest easier,
Robbed of
Any fear of hell.
Good, bad, indifferent
All ending in flames.
The beer after work
Is cold
And goes down fine
While eyes study
The dancers
Before opening
Your wallet
For a five.

In the Dark Hours

The sun is plunging
But I’m not there.
People are walking
without a care,
but I’m where you are,
in sunlight or shade,
I’m there beside you
Chasing clouds away.
When it rains
I’m your umbrella.
When it snows
I keep you warm,
And when the sun glows
Hot on your skin
I’ll be your cool water
And everything.
I won’t let the dark dream
Take you away,
Cause with me here
I want you to stay.
I’ll be your sunshine.
I’ll be your shade.
I’ll keep you happy
On the cloudiest day.

© Joseph Farley 2011

Joseph Farley edited Axe Factory for 24 years. His books include Suckers, For the Birds, and Longing for the Mother Tongue (March Street Press).

Guest Poet: Mike Berger

Cutting

Blood oozes out; she smiles. Her
demon depression retreats. She
knows just how to cut; long and
vertical, and not too deep. Slice
just enough to make the blood flow.

She hides her bloodletting behind
long sleeves as she hides from
the darkness inside with a knife.

She sharpens the knife so it won't
bruise or tear. She stops the bleeding
with a rag. She puts the bloody rag in
a plastic bag and throws it in a dumpster
on the way to school.

She tells herself she is worthless. She's
done it so many times she's come to
believe it. The cutting stops the pain, but
too soon it returns.

She struggles each day through school
and can't wait to get home for another
blood letting.

Run Away

My old man was mean as hell...
He wanted to run my life.
At sixteen I ran away to fly
like a wild bird. I hit the streets
and soon discovered it was
an ugly place. There were no
pleasant melodies. The only
birds were vultures waiting
to pounce.

I fell into an ugly world. It was
called “A bed for a bang.”
Occasionally one of the vultures
would share a dobby and for
several hours my tears would be
gone. I hated being mauled
drooled upon and screwed just
for a place to sleep.

I stayed with Brad for three weeks;
things were looking up. Then came
the time I couldn't perform and he
threw me out. I don't know what I'll
do when winter comes. I don't have
a coat I guess I'll have to find a
pimp. At least I’ll get paid for what
I’m doing...

© Mike Berger 2011

A member of the Academy of American Poets, Mike Berger, Ph.D. is the author of two books of short stories. Three of his humor pieces have won awards. His work has appeared or will appear in sixty-five journals, including AIM, Still Crazy, First Edition, Stray Branch, Mid West Quarterly, Evergreen and Westward Quarterly. His work has appeared internationally in Australia, Portugal, Mozambique, England, Canada, and India. He has been writing poetry for two years, and is a winner of several poetry contests. He has published three chapbooks, Raw, and Lighten Up by CC&D Press, and Smart Assed World by Writing Raw. A fourth chap is due out.