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more than enough to explainBogdan DragosProtest as Free SpeechArthur GrahamInsofar as everything is political, HST has never been the most overtlypartisan rag. We've been called left by the Right and right by the Left, so Iguess we must be doing something good in between. Freedom of speechhas always been the main thing for us, and that's a value largely sharedacross the spectrum.Unless of course you're saying things they don't want to hear.Granted, our ongoing protest against the stale state of poetry is a far cryfrom the protests currently taking place against police brutality. No oneever came after HST with tear gas and billy clubs, after all. Some nastycomments here and there, sure, but whether you're protesting our littleprotest or the protests out on the streets, you ultimately have the right todo so. You also have the right to come across as an intolerant asshole, ifthat is how you choose to come across. Our perspectives can competewithin the marketplace of ideas. Despite the profound ignorance and evilof mankind, the best ideas still sometimes win.Anyway, we're not solving all the world's problems here within thesepages, we're sure as fuck not solving them on Twitter, and we're certainlynot solving them all overnight. If history is any indication, it's possiblewe're in for a slog.In the meantime, as always, enjoy some poetry.Arthur GrahamSalt Lake City, June 2020There was nothingto explain hereThe man’s wife toldthe paramedicseverything theyneeded to knowHer husband wrote poetryYes, that would be enoughto explain why he'dcut off his own penisand tried to use itas a penbefore collapsingon his desk,blood pooling athis feet down belowJust being a poet wasmore than enough toexplain what he didShe didn’t have tojustify his unorthodoxapproach to inspiration“He’s a poet,”she saidThey understood
TeknirikonJohn GartlandHe was holding forth in Bada-Bing,In this year of the Yellow Death,erotically deviant, hilariously scandalous.I’d read those scattered fragmentsof the satirist, Petronius,knew drollery, outrageous actsof lewdness, were his thing,and scorn for solemn moralistsuntil his final breath.There’s a rash of visitations,from people doubtless dead Into my dreams.It’s the plague year, most confirmedly,and in such times, it seems,a mind most fearsthe onset of infirmity andsheds forgotten fellowships and phantoms;acts out those conversations never said;sins yet untried, and outlawry unransomed.A lust for pleasure burgeonsin these miasmas of dread.As fumes of illegality laced air in the locality,he caressed a fair companion of ambiguous sexuality.Clearly, fruits of their society were coming to a head.This keystone fragment I stole from ruins So, let’s raise a glass or two, he saidand scoff at turgid life;prefer a brace of strumpetsto some temple-tethered wife,and chart our decadent declinewith most audacious style and wit,for scrofulous tyrants weigh our lifeand roll dice for the price of it.Now poetry and art are bonfires,blazing by the river, where critics of the emperorsink, disembowelled, together.Reverberating rapper bars pumpfantasy and gangsta-chic butApuleius’ Golden Ass is all the fiction that I seek.Lust and folly, like some Pompei meth-house, under ash,are my worlds to immortalise, with cynical panache.A death sentence hangs over us, by majesty decreed.I took the knife to my own life;hot ladyboys and harlots come, and watch my genius bleed.
Mr AlmostDave CullernYouA. Lynn BlumerSomedays are shrouded,locked in rage.Displaced angerbetter off contained.Reflect in soundwaves,jaw fully extendedas if to consumeits tremendous—Somedays, it hits the gulletfloor like a wet back wrestlingthe reverberation.Find its spine—its verbiage.It’s relentless—this echo.Somedays.Today, I can hold it still / hold it stilllong enough to read itsvertebraeprotruding up a marked hide& I etch a fresh line:“It’s just you again.”It’s just you again.I’ll give up the fagsThis eveningThe booze in a coupleOf daysStart writing that novelA week Tuesday, gives me time to buyA new penA new deskA new chairI’ll go running in my new running shoesNext weekDo press ups and sit upsAnd squatsI’ll even take the leapAnd find a therapist, talk aboutStarting fresh, that’s what my problem is,Probably the week after thatI’ll cook vegetables for my dinner fromThe third of next month,Watch calories from then on,I’ll probably only have a few a dayAfter that,Be skinny by the end of the yearI gave up the class A’sYesterdayAnd I’ve done really well with thatSo I think I’m ready to testThe limitations of my ageing bodyIn multiple waysStarting first thing next monthI’ll get to doing yoga,magick, meditationAll that eastern stuffBut not until I’ve got all ofThis other shit out of the wayI’m not a fuckingMiracle man.
mrs. samilian taught 8th grade mathJack Henryevery timemrs. samilian slappeda dusty chalkboardw/ her pointer sticki smiled.no more than 5” tall,mrs. samilian taught 8th grade math.some days she woreleather pants.some days she slappedthe board w/ her pointer stickwhile wearing leather pants,and i would smile.one daymrs. samiliancalled on me toanswer a problemat the board.she wore leather pants,slapped the board.i could not stand up.i did not smile.‘is there a problem,mr. jack?’slap‘you cannot come upto the board?’slap slap‘why can you notcome up to the board,mr. jack?’slap slap slapi stoodslowly.girls cringed.boys laughed.one shouted,‘jack’s got a boner.’and i did,proudly.mrs. samilian took one look,smirked.‘you may go.’instead of the principal’s officei went to the boy’s restroom.slap, slap, slap.when i explained to the principal,he let it go. ‘he’s just a boy.’when i explained to my father,he let it go, as well.when i explained to my mothershe grounded me for two weeksand made me apologizeto mrs. samilian,who politely declined,when i tried to raisethe subject at hand.
TangledJohn D RobinsonMaybe the Illiterate DemigodsPeter MaglioccoShapes blended,bodies wrappedand tangled likebarbed-wire,time hadtemporarilystopped in thesparse cheaprented room,the invisiblecalendar shreddedand strewnacross the floorlike theabandoned clothesof lovers:evening wouldenvelope themand morningwould releasethem into aworld unawareand uncaringof their fadingsilhouettes.Poets are the most pedestrian people of all:They can’t pretend to be Rock stars,Wearing trendy garb & looking hipSporting Elton John sunglasses – no,They are the everyday sorts you seeLooking like hell in supermarketsShopping for what might be a last supper.From lips of bourgeois infidelsStreaming across minds of mad men,The poets blend in with the crowd& sing their songs in sotto voceWhile mice & men wage war constantlyFor the might of the illiterate demigodsLusting for greater corporate oligarchyTo feed the mass media mendacity.“But I’m not a poet,” you tell me,“Just another whore jerking you off.Don’t cry out at my illiterate handsCaressing your balls while you pretendTo be jaded, in extremis ”My words don’t mean shit, I know that:All the profound rhetoric we flood blogs& the social media quagmire are negligible, I tell you;It took you to find me a phony underneathThe spasm-moments of the voidEvacuating the sperm count of humanityCrying out its language of lustsIn a nanosecond where your clitMerged with the colossus of time,Riddling me with your tonguing slitVacuum (where the cum residesIn sweet syllables for the one night stand?).The Alphabet AdviceJohn D RobinsonNow, after 4 decadesI cannot rememberhis name butI remember someadvice he offered:‘When you go downon your woman,write the alphabetwith your tongue andby the time youget to ‘M’she’ll be satisfiedno bullshit’He was right,and I’ve keptto this adviceever since,never reachingbeyond the letter J.Give me one more head, Magdalene, thenI might learn the gospels of your lustWritten in the palmOf your savior’s bleeding hand.
The Sweet LifeAlan CatlinThe Torture KingDave CullernWhen I was young,But not that young,I wanted to run awayWith the circusOf courseBut my skill setLent itself onlyTo banging in the pegsI could have been a geekI guessBut I've never likedThe taste of snakesAnd I can only get so drunkBefore I vomit upThe reservations of sobrietySo I stayed home,Read long booksAbout freaksAnd carniesAnd wrestlers and crime,Dark shitOf courseBut I always wishedI'd learnt to fall,Practised up a funny walk,Picked up tips onTaking a custard pie to the faceLike the clownI always longed to be.I read a bookAbout eating glass,Dreamed of getting onThat ferris wheel truckI saw from my parents car windowOn motorway drivesTo safe holiday villagesI lay on spiked bedsFor my school friendsBut my sinusesNever accepted masonry nailsAnd juggling anything other than my ballsWas always going to be perilousAnd end in bloody sheetsTwenty-four seven slow motionstrip tease soirees and the neonpalaces they take place in.Brooks Brothers bandits with ringfinger tan lines, nose candy nostrils,late model Beamers in valet parkinglots staffed by parking lot hot jocks,one conviction shy of a life withouthope of parole. On the take flat feet,lap dancers with social diseases,extended families to feed.Broke down bouncers one steroidshot from brittle bone mass reduction,small ball syndrome. Been-there-donethat-fuck-the t-shirts waitresses andthe bartenders that serve them.Jukebox junkies, spinning plattersfor brains, collapsed veins and bloodblisters the road map for the immediatepast, the near future, up against a hasn’tbeen-cleaned-in-years bathroom wall.The happy-days-are-here-again, all majorcredit cards accepted, hookers and theirmaxed out johns one orgasm away froma not-so-happy overdose death. The baddebt bail skip collectors and their heavilyarmed, concealed weapon permittedhenchmen. The lower depths beneaththe main rooms no one admits exist thougheveryone knows, would go there if theycould. The tits-up-in-hell staff that worksthere and the music that they play, alwaysone dirge short of a requiem mass.Here, where home is, where they hangthe hats, the privileged few, the ones whocome, and the ones who can never go.
Smoldering and DrainedAnthony Dirk RayDeath CollectiveDonna Dallasas I smoke the cigarmy life dwindles andburns toward the endcorrespondinglyas I drain the whiskey glassmy time on earth swirlsand disappears in like mannerI ask for nothing morethan a distinctive feelingI apologize unto all existenceif that is entirely too muchyou promise everythingbut give nothingto me that is somethingbank roll my existenceforego the inevitablehave sex with my mindmasturbate with intentioncolder than an iglooclaustrophobic as suchindescribable sensationsmasquerading as emotionsdesensitized and mesmerizedhypnotized by the facadepainted faces and bloody cuntslong live the weekendthe towel is on the bedan indecent desirebeckons my sensibilitiesdragging my mindset to thedepths of earth’s corehypnotized by the innateled astray from moral conceptonly to delve deepwithin cranial blacknessdwelling on negativityno escape foreseeabletedium lingersdarkness spreadsand the song plays onLine my coffin withthe butter-yellow Austriansfrom our beach cottagebedroom withthat cathedral ceiling we lovedto stare up intoforeverPull some Venetian prismsoff the hundred year oldchandelier that flickered sun-holesonto us from the window and makeearrings out of them for me pleaseYou can lay me into a mahogany casketwith my black Chanelthe one we boughton Place Vendomein the midst of a rain so heavyit was God upon usSlip my Louboutins on feethard as stonebend the toes so my arch is angled to the shapeof that divine heeldon’t put a ton of makeup on meI don’t want to look garishat the wake and scare awaythe handful of viewers gogglingover my long and broken bodysave itBurn me afterlove itlight me upit was me you bastardhowl at the fireI smolder and catapult up the shaftin a whirlwind of smoke and ashFinger through the sootto find a nailor a piece of a toothperhaps a bit of hair
Sex, Our Badger and GodCorey MeslerThe badger’s in the kitchenmaking chai.He says he learned how fromhis sensei.My wife and I are settling into watch thatnew Hollywood blockbuster:Jackpot Vernacular,starring the ingénue, SundayLipinsky.I tell the wife, boy would I liketo and she says her, too.The movie takes our mind offthe wrecking ballpoised outside our plateglass.It looks like anotherplanet, that’s what the badgersays. Only to abadger, I think, but I smile myreassurance.The chai is hot and spicy andas smooth as a blowjobso that we forget the holes in themovie’s plot, theholes they try to patch with Sunday’sample backside.It’s almost enough.“Snuffle,” says my wife and thebadger is pleased.“We have to get rid of him,” shesays when he leaves.He seduced my secretary.I contemplate this and decide thather secretarylooks a lot like Sunday Lipinsky.I wouldn’t mind, etc.The movie rattles forwarda little longerbut our concentration is shot,like Kennedy,like the moon.We decide to cover each other withchai and see what happensto our sex lives.It’s not a bad way to spendthe afternoon, evenif you know you have to letyour badger go.And, when I mount my loving wifelike a cowboy,I think her ass is as good asSunday Lipinsky’s.It gets me through. It gets meto the other side.It gets me and it gets her and weall muddle along,as the rain begins to Gene Krupathe roof,and the wrecking ball glowsas if it has conjured Dr. Dee’s spirits.The arc of its intentionis something to see.So I cover my wife’s nakedness witha quick cairnas the world shatters,shaking its myrmidon coat, a wet god,now appearing for the first time,almost too late.
Lines Intersecting as Seen from a Bus StopJacob Ian DeCourseyIt’s 9 amI’m waitingShe and I / Light Breaks ThroughCasey Renee KiserDon't bother mewhen I've shovel in handHot emotions are hard to controlShe has got to go the mirror said so Find a new place to rest her headShe lets people have their wayand drags me downToday, I am taking chargeI let in a strange visitorFearless and free–the merge was successfulShe and those pillsare buried togetherand I must show my new friend around my mindA gray February overcasttints the bus stopand all surrounding thingsBuildings lurchthrough frozen sunbetween statuesquepedestrians whilethe wind turnsa girl’s hair sidewaysThat same fucking sedanbeeps three timeswhile speeding past asthe pavements burst againwith cold pigeons like steamA man and woman press throughand the woman is screamingShe hurls a whiskey bottleat his head andthe bottle shattersagainst the streetA truck blares its hornand rolls over the glassalways is such a short timewhen we live so long,sings a distant ambulanceI cover my ears asthe 35 arrivesThe doors slide openand nobody is driving andthe windows are crowdedwith demons
how can you be such a monster?Bogdan Dragoshe spent four weeksaway from his familyin a rented apartmentsomewhere onthe outskirtsof townhe told them thathe needed thishe was a writerneeded to focus on his workconducting his researchundistractedhis little girl would callfrom time to timeasking daddy to hold hisphone against his foreheadwhile she made a kissing soundon the other linevery wholesomeexcept he lied aboutholding the phoneagainst his forehead“How can you besuch a monster?”asked the naked prostituteseated on the edge of his bed“Shut up,” he saidtossed his phone on the deskand unbuckledOzoneMark J. MitchellThe wind tickles leaves without moving them andYour clothes cling cool and damp to your skin andYou’re still too warm for comfort andAll the trees on this block seem unfamiliar andYour shoes scrape rough against smooth concrete andYou’re sure you’re not on the right block andYou scan the clouds to see if the moon bleeds through andYou try to glimpse lightning rods on deserted roofs andThat song you don’t know just won’t leave your ear alone andSomeone disappears around that corner just ahead andYou’re sure you know her but she never wore that dress andA week old newspaper clutches at your ankles andThe air smells like a lake you remember but have never seen andA bus hisses by red and orange in the darkness andYou only want to reach your home safely andFall to your knees to pray for rain to pray for an end
Sweet Jesus SausageDennis VillelmiColonoscopy of GodCraig PodmoreOh, my lover,Vertical cosmos of salacious flesh!Foetal Adam writhing inThe curves of your thighs,Chants of distaste;Fragments of appleDressed in maggot vein.The heart of your desire unchaste!The seeds that you’ve plantedIn our mother I despise,Vermin gnawing at the thesis of faithBut despite the deafening criesAnd the butchery of CainWe can all pray in thisWound of fallacy.We’re the colonoscopy of God –The anatomy of a bad idea.The Man born of the Child who always sat at the backOf the classroom;Never an astute, but I learned to read, write, and sharpen my knifeWell enough to cut my way through both womb and city intoThe state of Forever.Picture me in the Camp of Beasts.I, and any given Night don’t get along.Is your canine sleep more important than my lion’s weeping?I’m on fire!It’s a Catholic conflagration and I’m down on my kneesTo Lucifer to put it out.The Doll unwrapped on December 25 is alive!Soon disfigured by the nuclear family dog and leftIn the winter-stunted grass it grows now with aButchered prostitute’s soul calling the chewed plastic home.The Doll puts the questions to God:‘In what kind of carcass shall I sew myself up anew?Where in this town is the shop in which you’ll sell me cheapAgain since You can’t by Grace grant me the Grave?’-Magdalene ‘s MeatsThere the Jesus Sausage is made.Whether its apostles or civil worms, they all rejoice.Sweet Jesus! By each bite we can walk on water, or wine.Gravity is in the hands of the Damned.
All the AssesDamion HamiltonOn my feedTits and assBored and hurtingScrolling through my phoneOn SaturdayWishing time would slowAgainst the comingOf next weekSo I think of tits and assesAnd they comeThrough my phoneAll the tits and assOf InstagramBrown tits, white tits,Yellow tits, green titsAll the tits and assesSkinny asses, fat assesFirm asses, soft assesAss that make a manBe like woahI remember way back whenAsses weren’t so popularNow so many womenShow them off for the cameraAt home and out in publicEven at the gymLifting weights in pursuitOf better assesSo many assesWith attached smiling facesThis must be what I wantCos it’s all that’s in my feedMy excitement growsAnd grows with each new picOne assTwo assesTwo hundred assesTwo thousand assesAll the AssesAnd all the breasts as wellBig breasts, small breastsFirm breasts, soft breastsHeavy breasts on older womenI remember one with breastsDown to her kneesTwo breastsFour breastsFour hundred breastsFour thousand breastsAll those goddamn breastsAnd that’s on topOf all the assesDid I forget the legsSo many varied legsThin legs, thick legsLong legs, short legsBlack legs, white legsAll those sexy legsLike woah
Holy Candle BluesMichael D. AmitinIn the red-sweet sunsetangel brother bends his blown glass earover the wall of eternitylistening in on my restless rathouse jamShe entered peeling story-caked wallsriding lightning rod broomsswept me out to half-dippermoon bridgewe swung downtown wherewaltzing heirs warmed six-figure derrieres above smorgasbord firesI faked all the right questions into hell’s paradisepanting at the emerald city orgasmwaiting beneath her olive skin gypsy thin cocktail feastignoring the runaway beastand someone beamedthey make a great coupleas we dished sweatto god’s blistering last-chance desperate romance bugle callmy ragged sailor heart pirouetting out the hornpipe doorwhere muddy cliffs lick their chops and moreOn the way downthe devil in white linen gown served dark red obsession winebefore flaming flambé soft brown coconut limbs stole my grina fly doing backflips in the honey potThe lava-baked seamillion miles awaya moaning rusted ship creaked like a red infectionbegging to be freed from the last ripples in that skin game portYou knew all along prophet of the beautiful tracksthat my ramble played in a forest of doomI surrendered dear Monk in the sad samba nightThat wind pushed me mountains awayflushed me out of hiding in the prehistoric pubescentroad-burnt grottoat the piano bar you played me like a thundering chordtill a midnight candle grabbed the shadesfire roaring down in flameswe crawled like god’s sweet snails to the clear-as-a-bell dayGlaring up through the dark blue smokewhere red sunset angel rained wild, untamed amazing grace ashesdown on desperate love’s last twitchapplauding the singed curtain calllive! live! he cried from his bongo perch on heaven streethot orange coals fading in the chilled breezewords we’ll never speak again you and Iunless fate has too much time to deal strange train cardsThis harp strung midnight reveriesad violins hijack innocent dreamsand twist the arm of violet-coated wishesIn my hidden dark roomholy candle blues.whispers a sea wind blowing
“It’s just you again.” It’s just you again. Mr Almost Dave Cullern I’ll give up the fags This evening The booze in a couple Of days Start writing that novel A week Tuesday, gives me time to buy A new pen A new desk A new chair I’ll go running in my new running shoes Next week Do
