Tuesday, March 29, 2016

Michael Marrotti

Euphorically Wiping My Ass

In with the new
Out with the old
Euphoria
has a funny way
of cleaning out
the system
Now all I need
is hand sanitizer
and toilet paper

We met by fate
You're a pawn
in the game
of capitalism
You make me
the me
I wanna be
The majority
of life's problems
become obsolete
When we
come together
You level out
the turbulence
Make me smile
I show some teeth

Bring forth the light
When I was trapped
in the darkness
No need to despair
Hopeful feelings
and prolonged orgasms
are here for the taking
No encumbrance

Friends till the end
My little friends
Mass produced
More living less fighting
Now I can exist
in a despicable world
Resistance
You're as welcomed
as a gorgeous face
Opposite gender
Opening up
for a long passionate kiss

© Michael Marrotti

Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he's not writing, he's volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man's work, please check out his blog:www.thoughtsofapoeticmind.blogspot.com for his latest poetry and short stories.

Sunday, March 20, 2016

Silence Unguarded- Marianic and Jean- Pierre Parra

Paintings and drawings by Marianic Parra Text by Jean-Pierre Parra Translated from french to english by Claire Zoe Waldman




Silence unguarded


you force
tamed by sleep that leaves
the cry
into the dust of death




Marianic Parra  2008  «Silence unguarded»  volcanic sand  150-120-3 cm


Silence unguarded – Declination I


Machineries of dream turned
by the wind sorted out


you endure
eyes deeply closed
the strange light that passes trough







Marianic Parra  2015  «Silence unguarded – Declination I»  drawing gouache on paper  29,7-42 cm



Silence unguarded – Declination II


Heir
bottom of Earth bursted out
of destroyed time


the sun suspended
occupies
in the permanence of living life
everything





Marianic Parra  2015  «Silence unguarded – Declination II»  drawing gouache on paper  29,7-42 cm

Silence unguarded – Declination III

Far from hours
Far from months
Far from years


you look like
balance guarded into going life
a man going to the men



Marianic Parra  2015  «Silence unguarded – Declination II I»  drawing gouache on paper  29,7-42 cm



Silence unguarded – Declination IV

Without struggle
against strength
of the lights of life played


you stretch
the infinite dreams alive





Marianic Parra  2015  «Silence unguarded – Declination IV»  drawing gouache on paper  29,7-42 cm

Marianic PARRA & Jean-Pierre PARRA Marianic PARRA: painter - painter, sculptor - sculptor Jean-Pierre PARRA: writer - writer, poetry - poetry


Parra Art

Marianic Parra’s artwork combines with Jean-Pierre Parra texts. Game lines / game writing - rhythmic composition. Both artists are part of the alliance of painting (where the entire surface of fullness and emptiness is in play) and poetry (where everything is suggested by words). Painting then borrows from poetry to compose poetic painting, and poetry is in the painting in order to help understanding. Both painting, and poetry, as reference for each other in a fruitful dialogue that affirms the creative imagination drawn in irreducible differences. Marianic Parra and Jean-Pierre Parra live under the sun of southern France, and close to a shore of history and stories from Greek myths and Arabian tales; they want to be part of the poetic and mythological reality of Mediterranean Sea. Marianic Parra presents her work in solo and group exhibitions throughout Europe and United States, she has published several catalogs. Her studio is located in Beziers, France. Jean-Pierre Parra through many books of poetry said the words that fit his worldview; he is haunted by two extreme themes: beauty and evil which are the two great mysteries of human adventure.

Sunday, March 13, 2016

The Worst Principal In America

                                                               A, B, C, D, E, F-CK




Or, How the Bullshit of Being Afraid of Lawsuits Lead to a Rape and Attempted Rape Within Five Days of Each Other at a Disgraceful Public School

By A Special Education Teacher with the Worst Principal in America*
With Art by Jihane Mossalim

*Who Shall Remain Anonymous, with ghost writing help from Hug Honor of Modern Histories & Philosophies Magazine (Editing:  Roo Bardookie & Peabody Winston)
Good Intentions Paving the Way to Hell

     I was happily living the dream life in this tropical paradise.  The tropical paradise of postcards where the “locals” say aloha to you and smile if you tip them.  They really mean fuck you, thanks for coming, now go home you fat, white punk and your dirty, spoiled kids.  That is really just about anyplace where you get tourists and Americans.

      Living the life of tennis, snorkeling, hikes in the mountain jungle, the malls, walks in the park, watching my kid growing up surfing, paddling, also playing tennis, and doing great in one of the too many private schools, because 75% or more of the public schools in this paradise suck, filled with twinkie filled arrogant teachers, stupid kids, and administrators who are part of the Yakuza dream. Oh yes, they funnel money back to Japan, as they have taken over this school system and run it like their own private mafia.  It’s really not just a couple of girls that got raped within five days of each other, it’s all of us taxpayers, parents, kids trying to learn, teachers who want to help, and the community in general. No reach around, no smoke after the act, no breakfast, and you sure as hell aren’t going to spend the night afterwards.  Very prison rape-y.

     So, I am cruising the island, listening to parrots and roosters, when I say to my wife, “I am done with teaching and coaching our daughter, I would like to try and do the same things with kids in the DOE. Since I have degrees in Special Education, I should see if they could use my help.”

     By the way, fuck the local mentality of thinking because you weren’t born someplace that you aren’t as good as people, or saying fuck off to people who do come in and try to help kids. When you have a personal agenda or your adult political agenda is one that is placed above the welfare of students, you’re a hindrance to not only the good intentions, but the reality of the kids getting short changed.  Especially if you are in a position of power and people are genuinely trying to do good.  Let me sugar coat this, as I have done so far, “Go to hell!”

     Ah, but I’m venting.  Let me take a quick coffee break and calm the fuck down.  Here is a picture by friend (and I mean friend of education), Jihane Mossalim:




You might think that I am making up constantly pulled fire alarms, kids making other kids fight against their will like caged matches at recess, our own kids spray painting private parts and fuck-you’s all around the campus, kicking doors as hard as they can and running away, and now the rape and attempted rape (of a special needs girl), to get back at this school for the botched job they did when a teacher was falsely accused within two weeks of starting the job of using bad language.  Fuck that!  But, here is the kicker.  I wasn’t even on the campus at the time the mastermind decided to say I had done this.  Dirty language in this literary masterpiece is one thing, but I don’t cuss in the classroom.  The VP and the principal went after me full bore, while I was training in my beloved special education IEP crap.  IEPs for the most part are a bunch of bullshit that you never teach like in the classroom.  You kind of inherit them through osmosis, but it is the actual kid that you work with, not 3 out of 4 chances-with 80% accuracy.

     But, do recall that this is the place where federal judges had to step in because low lives here on this tropical paradise, were sending their  kids and “loved” ones to the top of a mountain home road to wallow in their own filth, and be fed apple sauce.  I have seen this fenced in area with miles of housing that is basically a prison for the mentally ill, mentally retarded, and those with any affliction that might cramp the lifestyle of our beach and BBQ going families.  Yea, these assholes had to be federally mandated to take care of their family members in ways that are on par with other families getting sub par public educations in one of the worst school districts in America.  A shining light of hope in the middle of the Pacific.

     We bend over backwards for your twisted and fucked up kids, while the regular kids who just want an education get bullied and harassed, and sometimes treated like shit by the actual teachers.

     Baby, there ain’t nuthin’ to do but give them back their own medicine.  The final two months of this year are going to be spent in silence, answering questions with yes and no, avoiding the telephone and email, and basically keeping them in the dark and running secrets like they did to me and the entire school to include the other students and the female teachers who were not informed about the rapist, who happened to also pick up charges of kidnapping using zip ties to secure the girls, and happened to have a knife in his book bag to boot.  This was criminality at its worst, special needs kid or not.  This principal put students at risk, teachers at risk, all to avoid lawsuits.  And, if she was following protocol of the DOE, what kind of fucked up protocol is it where the criminals are under a cloak of invisibility to return to the school after three days, to try and rape again with nothing in place to protect anybody, as he was free to roam and rape without anyone knowing.  Of course the father of the second girl wanted to kill somebody.



Wednesday, March 9, 2016

Three Short Poems By Stephen Toft

Stephen Toft was born in Hampshire in 1980 and grew up near Swansea, UK. He currently lives close to the River Lune in Lancaster, UK with his girlfriend and their children. He works with homeless people. His poetry has appeared in a variety of international journals and anthologies, and in 2008 Red Moon Press published his first collection, the kissing bridge


Drunk Ballet

the night
plays backwards

and we laugh
at our feet

the stars are frozen
on the sidewalk

waiting for
your arabesque


Later

stirring
her coffee
created
a vortex -
I dived in


Something once said

listening
to Joni Mitchell
my friend says:

this is how
i imagine my
mother 
would've sung

he then lights 
a cigarette and
sits there

holding it

Editor's note: I'm a big fan of short poetry forms. I remember one of the joys of Exquisite Corpse was seeing the short gems by Mike Topp. It can be a deceptively difficult form. Zombie Logic Review would always like to see more like these.

Sunday, March 6, 2016

Poetry By Jack Harvey

Michael the Paphlagonian

Michael’s fingers
were big as his arms,
riding in from
a good war;
sick as a dog, 
he won acclaim.

A long disease does more
to our souls
than our bodies;
the fretful blood
and flesh accept.

God called,
Michael answered
at the last;
the crown of gold
exchanged for 
the white robes
of the anointed,
the helmet of salvation.

At the sacred font,
omphalos of
God’s mother,
Michael stands;
dipped in the 
watery hole
Michael emerges,
waiting on death
like a good servant.
The mystic waters
close again,
unbroken
as Christ’s belly.

Take, O take
these bleeding guts
away, whispers Michael
to his servants.
Tottering off,
he remembers Zoe
betrayed in her palace,
a moment’s pleasure repaid.

He has gone to 
his reward,
they say, 
looking skyward.
In a golden halo
he smiles from 
his beautiful picture;
art for life. 

Psellus told too much 
and not enough about
those troubled times;

again and again
never to touch
the groping fingers
find the reins.

  =========================================

    Dead As A Doornail
 (Odyssey Book XI- Nekuia)

Farming not at all 
we like,
the pasture boggy and
the day dirt-long with toil.

In the kingdom of the dead
Achilles’ flap 
about working a live sharecropper
than ruling the death-house-
he must have been kidding.

He was.

Toil is lady luck’s backside,
unfurnished and smelly;
give me ghosts and
the rest of eternity.

 ===========================================
Poet Jack Harvey


      Good Night Nurse

Nearing once again
the legerdemain
that forced my wandering gaze
to the gate in
that grey wall,
like China’s wall,
that rises and falls,
following the hilly terrain
between today and yesterday;
swallowing once again regrets.

So silly to forget
that what’s planted
comes up or doesn’t-
falling far
from the tree
the acorn borne
abroad by 
noisy winds
discovers newfangled
splendors;
its parent oak
couldn’t care less,
pitched down to mold
or chopped and trimmed,
its strength lost
against the earth.

Nearing once again and losing
what little time
I spent diddling
my accounts;
unbalanced, the books are shut
before my eyes-
red and black ink run.

Fearing once again
I fast on dreams
untasted, unadorned;
before my eyes
my lovely children
live on without my
devotion; without me
Sanskrit and Volap√ľk
are spoken.

In my grey coat
lost in Constantinople,
old whore whose
veins of streets
stand out
on a Cleopatra forehead;
daydreaming
her sacred heart
leads me through
door after door
to the hidden keep.
There, I wait
for the sun, raining
through a grate,
to touch with light
the lonely hermit queen.
Attendant physicians
at the birth of beauty,
do we treasure the event?
Leda’s eggs,
shimmering like pearls,
pass through hairy gates;
on their way
the sundering twins,
the queen to be
drawing Greeks 
like bees swarming.

Forget the war,
the waste,
forget the cure,
forget history;
to the pure
all things shine like 
the sea on a summer day
and a golden mirage
courts the mind’s eye,
hangs in the sky,
night after starry night.

In the earth
the termite queen gives
births upon births;
we don’t see 
her patient labor
or care.

In the reaches of eternity,
observers and observed,
to that unwinking third eye
we blur so quick
that even August’s
meteors slow down
before we change our place.

Veering once again,
time, a word,
a metaphor reversed,
runs backwards,
ram’s horn uncurled,
eating and emitting light.

Christ or chaos,
I need air,
air more than light.
Let Goethe see
in the last violet 
of the evening;
I want to breathe.
Coming up empty,
time running
short as a 
baby’s foot,
loses its place.

Let’s start again
with nearing once again
the despair that’s
so stupid in a
grown man;
overgrown,
grown old,
phantom, dream, shadow;
to himself
life’s little dear
onward he goes;
his stronger-than-sorrow heart,
his essence,
his esurient greed,
whatever you call it, 
needs no time 
like the present
to show its force majeure.

Nearing, nearing
forcing us through
the crack in the gate,
hark, the magic
is a picture of,
is a study of,
is numbers.
One number.

One.

And when winter comes
it provides;
itself an
ant among ants.


========================

     Girlish Lips

Red countries,
geography 
of smiles,
grimace of 
pain or love,
fat heroes
of composure.


============================================  


The Persistence of Beatrice

Yes, then I kissed you
behind the barn and 
in the barnyard things
went on and on.
You quacked 
like a duck and 
I honked like a goose
behind the barn and
then you went to heaven
and we all cried.
At your grave
the birds
sat on the ground 
and blinked.

But soon the 
grass grew in
behind the barn and 
in the barnyard
you crowed on and on.


Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, Mind In Motion, Slow Dancer, The Antioch Review, Bay Area Poets’ Coalition, The University of Texas Review, Innisfree Poetry Journal, The Piedmont Journal of Poetry and a number of other poetry magazines over the years, many of which are probably kaput by now, given the high mortality rate of poetry magazines.  


The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, N.Y. He was born and worked in upstate New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired. 

Saturday, March 5, 2016

Emerging Rockford Poet Joseph Altamore

Joseph Altamore is a twenty-one year old poet living in Rockford, IL. He has been featured in several publications including Black Heart Magazine and Walking is Still Honest Poetry Press. He is currently compiling a chapbook entitled Monolith of Now. He also enjoys Chinese food a little too much.

"Can Elope"

The man with the grey hair minus thirty years is your closest friend. 
You can never meet him, a ghost being drowned in invisible ink. 
But as he walks by, you can hear the muffled screams of something 
you would have liked. All things come from preexisting things. 

You can trace cracks in church parking lots to the celerity of late 
church feet to the disapproving visage of Christ and so on. Or you 
can take things forward: high traffic on Sunday leading to worn away 
streets will mean god is spending your tax money. 

A honeydew minus love is a cantaloupe. "They're sad," your mother
said, "Because they can't elope." You remember the little cubes she 
cut them into. They even looked sad.  Your grandfather plus your father 
is a leather belt. Subtract your grandmother and you get ice cream and hugs. 

An airplane minus wings is a submarine. An airplane plus critical failure 
is also a submarine. A submarine divided by the atlantic is a tin can floating 
in a massive jacuzzi. See how calm you can be with these momentary inequities, 
waiting for the next result, building your equations. 

The great mathematician: "I plus college. I plus new job in Utah." 
We still don't know how nothing times nothing equals a carpet of stars, 
or why. 
But, either way, you don't pronounce the T anymore.



The Moon, the Stars, and Something Less Pretty

"You're the most beautiful woman in here," Pinball tells Oil Painting. Throughout all of human history, the first and only instance in which this line has actually worked brings me to you now. It's like eating a surfeit of donuts when that first bite tastes like Jesus' tears. When even blasphemy is too good a word for it. Her hips swayed like the tides, and eyes like the sun, I am told. I am not sure if this makes my father the moon, though he is equally dichotomized. But the stars had finally aligned. And the date with whom he entered the bar? She would find her place in other constellations. I am not sure if this makes the bar a night sky, though many have described it as a cold, dark place. The night sky, I mean. He asks her if she can have children. She asks him if he's crazy. I am not sure if his answer is No or Yes or Sometimes, but I am not sure I know what it should have been, either. Even after twenty-one years. Regret is lurking the alleys of this place, skirting the edges of circumstance. But it's out the door, around the corner, and up the emergency fire escape for now. Its pollen only lingers in the nostrils for a moment. Short enough to decide for yourself if you felt it or not. Funny thing about regret, it never really comes. You just wake up next to it one day and call it baby. Funny thing about donuts, the longer you eat them, the worse that you're going to feel.

Rockford Poet Joseph Altamore




The Language of Giants

In the summer of 2004, T-Ball opens his brand new eyes
to the sound of angry giants playing hopscotch in the kitchen below.

Door slams are actually paragraphs of words all said at once.
You can spend your entire adult life trying to pick apart the syllables.

The questions will arise in his flower bed mind like thistles:
Why all the fighting? What was it about? Why is "Love" a four-letter word?

Enough of that for now. It comes later. For now, try to imagine getting a
hug, then a bullet through the head, then another hug to make it all better.

Try to come up with a sentence using a fifth grader's economy of words
that's square root isn't, "I'm confused." It's like Rome: all roads lead there.

What would you have him say? Venturing down the carpeted steps to the
source of all unholiness, to thrown objects awry, and a mother with a jack-o-lantern face

of hollowed-out dreams.



The Sun, the Earth, and Something Terrifying

We see divorce every day. 
Every morning the continents volley the phrase,
"Still mad," back and forth through a mouthpiece of saltwater.
The ocean is having a harder time mediating.
You wanna talk about a fucked-up childhood? Try watching two bodies 
slowly ripped asunder over the duration of aeons.
Who can say what incited the conflict?
But its effects are felt everywhere: 
jet-lag, war, the division of tongues we call language.
Imagine being on a sailboat when the big fights break out,
choppy waters nearly throwing you straight from the vessel.
Now the boat is a car going way too fast,
the stereo knob is rolled down.
Oil Painting eyeing holes through the windshield 
as Pinball swallows a Vicodin big enough
to dam the river from brain to mouth.
Have you read the tabloids? It's the Sun and the Moon:
trouble in celestial paradise, something about another star.
Something about the Moon always being out too late.
Something about the Earth writing a book of poetry.
We think we're in love until we don't anymore.



Devoured by Flies

Imagine
there is arcing and buzzing 
like forks of light overhead, the sun blaring its
rays, soaking into your shirt.
Imagine
you are in love and a kid.
In that order, love then kid, meaning the love is not
circumscribed within the precinct of childish understanding.
Imagine
a jar of love, what does it look like? It has little notes in it
naming pieces of you somebody enjoys. It has a guitar pick on a string.
It has a little stuffed brown moose, the flotsam and jetsam of longing.
Imagine 
a pinch of the flesh, no not a pinch, a sinking of teeth,
something raw, open, sore-like
leaking onto your shirt.
Imagine
somebody telling you not to say anything
as they slip you something that isn't love through the gap
of their mouth. It's not love but it could be. It's wet like love, desperate.
Imagine
you're a kid and you have sex,
in that order.
Does it hurt? Is it scary?
Imagine
a crimson stain on your shirt.
Imagine 
twenty crimson stains on your shirt.
Does it hurt? Is it scary?
Imagine
a jar full of burning notes,
little patches of you igniting in the charring sun.
Imagine
agony.
Imagine
consternation.
Imagine
a circle of lovers like rabid hyenas 
or 30,000 flies, swirling, rotating like muzzles in the july sun.
A halo of faces around your line of sight.
You can hear them talking,
arguing over who will get 
the next
bite.