Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Zombie Logic Review Returns From Near Death With Poetry By Sara Mithra

Zombie Logic Review returns for the holidays with some poems from an exciting new voice, Sara Mithra. 


Normally

Normally, I have political reasons 
for how long does 
the same time as the 
blood churned in her head. 
Rather than auditioning 
new ideas to help you out there 
that I can see your name and password. 
The kind words, the more 
everyone accepted it as an alternative 
to the ground, 
but she couldn’t bring it up to date.
In a conflicting memory of 
you who don't want the same 
as imagination. These people 
fill their respective authors 
of her, but she made due on Monday.
I'm not exactly hungry for you, but I know 
where to find out what to expect from me. 
The only originality came because 
it was with vague appreciation 
that he stared down the street. 
I would have liked dinner and drinks 
at least. 


Burred

When I first started painting,
Curtis took me under his wing,
as the older, more experienced artist. 
He said I took to oil like
a duck takes to water.
Even though he was as crazy as a loon
I trusted his estimation,
tired of winging it
and getting snubbed by galleries.
For February, we were happy as larks,
gessoing all night. No early birds in our studio.
“Working’s for the birds,” we scoffed, and he
leaned in for a sloppy kiss always naked
as a jaybird.
I didn’t want to spoil the agoraphobic month
free as a bird to paint with my hair and toes.
Wasn’t this killing two birds with one stone?
Art and love?
Curtis brought books home from the library 
to give me a bird’s eye view of postmodernism
and showed  me where my name would be
in anthologies when I was afraid to count my chickens
before they hatched. 
“Getting you famous is duck soup! One solo show
and you’ll be that rare bird: young, talented, alive.”

But it’s been a year; that bird has flown.
Curtis finally got his ducks in a row
and punched all his canvases in a swan song
worth remembering. A little bird told me
it was Sheila, but I figure it’s just as well:
birds of a feather flock together. I stopped
painting cold turkey on a Thursday.
I’m no spring chicken anymore.
Even when I eat like a bird, fat piles on.
From his wobbly bike, Curtis flipped me the bird,
like I’m the bird-brain and he’s
as scarce as hen’s teeth.
I admit, he really ruffled my feathers in the good way,
and the birds and the bees were nothing to sneeze at
either. But sometimes a mentor-lover
hangs like an albatross around your neck. 

So don’t listen when a dodo says, 

What’s good for the goose is good
for the gander. I never liked painting.
I always considered myself more of a writer.

Sara Mithra



Counter

Counter and burning myself on my blog. 
"The order of preference for the equinox 
the best way for a moment 
to review this information 
is strictly speaking with the nurse." 
Number of people who talk 
about how much they cost:
she couldn’t bring up success stories of other people. 
However, the best of all other trademarks 
or registered trademarks of their reserved space 
for a few weeks ago. 
I'm sure that I have something 
for everyone to know about. 
This one is upside down. 
She gazed up to your Mother's Day 
to all members of the most 
delicious questions. The naked mast 
and the tailor made it clear that 
he is the best train station. 
Our ship it out 
of town for work in progress. 
I do not reply directly to your account. 
You will brew 
the same time 
as well as his sister.



Names that are also Words

Bill: the beak of a water bird
Rick: an outdoor stack of corn or wood

Tuck: to turn something over on itself
Jimmy: to open by force
Pierce: to make a hole

Skip: run in bounding hops
Cliff: a precipice of rock

Chuck: to throw away
Rod: a hard length
Phil: taking up all the space it can take

Mark: a blemished sign
Nick: to accidentally slice
Brad: a nail formed from wire
Ward: avert, repel, or turn aside

Drew: covered in pencil or pen
Taylor: one who mends

Grant: to bestow
Warren: where rabbits call home
Bob: to float up and down
Ken: limitedly know
Rob: to take what isn’t yours

Frank: to tell the whole, horrid truth
Will: what we can do
Harper: play a stringed tune

Chase: to run after
Miles: a great distance
Westly: in a westerly direction
Lee: away from the wind



Tuesday, December 3, 2013

My Apologies

My apologies to all the great poets I have received poetry from the past two months. Two months ago a very large aneurysm was found in my ascending aorta, and I had surgery to replace a section of my aorta with human tissue, and my aortic valve was replaced with a St. Jude's mechanical valve. I have a backlog of poems I'll be publishing here in the next few weeks, and I am grateful to those who have entrusted me with their work. I am in cardiac rehab, and getting stronger daily. I am resisting the urge to write poems titled "What Makes Me Tick," and other corny references to my surgery. Here is an account of my synchronicity with St. Jude.