Sunday, February 18, 2018

Poetry and Photography By David J. Thompson

David J. Thompson is a poet and photpgrapher who captures street art worldwide.

A Perfect Sacrifice

Jesus played a lot of baseball
as a kid, mostly centerfield,
led Nazareth Central High
to the district championship
his senior year. After that
he played for First Baptist
in the local slow-pitch softball
church league. His last year
they met a team of pagans
from the Roman garrison
in town for the league title.
In his last at bat, Jesus laid down
a perfect sacrifice to move
what proved to be the winning run
over to third. He went to his knees
on the first base line, gave a prayer
of thanks to his God up above
even though he’d been thrown out
by a mile. The Romans started yelling
at him from their dugout, stuff
I can’t repeat about his mom, the Virgin Mary.
They didn’t understand that style
of play then, big, burly guys who relied
solely on the long ball. Jesus said softly
that he forgave them as he jogged off
the diamond and that really pissed off
the Romans, some soldiers were waiting
for him in the parking lot with aluminum bats
after the game. Jesus never showed up
for the team banquet or another game,
and that was many, many seasons ago,
but his teammates keep praying and believing

he’ll show up again before their last at bat.

Photography by David J. Thompson

His Very First Miracle

Don’t tell his mom, but Jesus lost
his virginity on prom night, just like
most of us. His date was Rachel Schwartz,
class valedictorian who left for a kibbutz
a few weeks later and Cornell in the fall.
They were grinding hard against each other
during the last dance to The Long and Winding Road,
stopped at a party at the Ramada Inn where
they drank some Miller Lite and smoked
a little weed, ended up ravenously groping
each other on a ratty couch in the basement
of Jesus’ best friend Peter Stone’s house.
They managed to get naked in high school record time,
and when Rachel called out Jesus Christ!
louder than a tv evangelist, and went limp
beneath him, Jesus knew right away he’d performed
his very first miracle, even if it was the kind
you’ll never read about in the Bible.

One Less Thing To Forgive

Did you see where archaeologists
digging around in Nazareth found
Jesus’ high school yearbook?
His baseball card collection and
Boy Scout badges, too?  All his
childhood crap, the same worthless stuff
our moms got rid when we went off
to college, or is now packed away
invisibly in our basements, attics,
and storage units everywhere.
The newspaper said it was in
what they believe was the dumpster
behind the nursing home where
the Virgin Mary spent her golden years.
She probably just got sick and tired
of waiting for her oldest son to keep
his promise to come back and grab his shit,
so she just stuffed it all in some Hefty bags,
yelled at the maintenance guy to get it
the hell out of there. You can’t really blame her,
I guess, and now that it’s been found
Jesus will have one less thing to forgive
his mom, and one more good reason
to get his ass back here like he promised
so many years ago.

Saturday, February 17, 2018

Zombie Logic Review Photo Correspondant David J. Thompson

I like to think of David J. Thompson as the Zombie Logic Review roving reporter and photojournalist. Wherever he is in the world we get a report. 


My sister keeps
a full cardboard box
of Persian kittens
on her kitchen table.

Eating dessert is out
of the question.

Debutants by David J. Thompson

Just As We Fire

In all my dreams
I go target shooting
deep in the woods
with Montgomery Clift.
It’s very quiet in the forest,
and we always end up kissing
as we load our weapons.
Just as we fire, I wake up
feeling wet and sticky,
with a melting pistol
in my hand, the smell
of gunpowder in the air.

Georges by David J. Thompson

Where This Comes From

My new girlfriend believes
a virgin queen and her army
of white rabbits rule the moon.

I don’t know where
this comes from. I think
she was raised Baptist.

Steve by David J. Thompson

After The Storms

Mornings mean Bloody Marys
and buckwheat porridge,
while afternoons are full
of dire tornado warnings.
My neighbor raises table rabbits,
so after the storms, tonight
I’ll go over the fence to set them free,
maybe grab a few plump ones
for delicious breakfast sausage.

Wrinkles by David J. Thompson

Mornings Come So Early

Each night before bed
I drink a cup of warm milk,
swallow a few sips
of cheap cherry brandy,
and eat a handful of Xanax.

Mornings come so early,
these days.

Poetry By Jeff Bagato

A multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose as well as electronic music and glitch video. Some of his poetry and visuals have recently appeared in Empty Mirror, Futures Trading, Otoliths, Gold Wake Live, H&, The New Post-Literate, and Midnight Lane Boutique. Some short fiction has appeared in Gobbet and The Colored Lens. He has published nineteen books, all available through the usual online markets, including Savage Magic (poetry) and Computing Angels (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at

Eat Your Own Dogfood

the bigmouth singers
lapping at the edges
of human decency
waiting for an in
like a tweet autocorrected
into daydream reality,
a twilight world
at the tip of remembrance
where dogs eat dogs
and jello makes a main course
for the barking millions—
why not push all
the choco bars
into the middle of the room
where anyone can
grab one on a whim
like plucking diamonds
in the sunshine,
‘cause the sparkle
makes a diamond real,
like taking a banana
from a bartender
and hoping for booze,
like rubbing a lamp
and expecting a genie
to appear with three wishes
and a bag of hamburgers,
all fat free and smothered
in peanut butter;
you got your can of mollusc stew,
a propane stove and a case
of Budweiser, so you’re ready
for anything, just not
the things you’re supposed
to do, or those that come
with a deadline

Resistance to Extinction

Mars plays with a plastic
eraser as the sun goes down,
which he eats, and then is ready to hit
the bars, ‘cause he can’t listen to non-existent  
radio; he won’t nod to the dollar man;
he doesn’t carry false teeth
in his hand—and is stopped for
running without identification;
“Things are getting worse,” Mars
says, “First it was the candy
tax, then the smile wars,
broken radio, the castrated
muse, and now false teeth
requirements; well, I resign;
I refuse to carry a badge,
walk the straight line, recite
the alphabet backwards and
forwards, step in time to virus
rhythm like a chokehold on the
American mind—there’s a whole
world out there where nothing
is true, not even the cocks and
pussies of the tight-lipped
millions, and if I can’t shake
the tree till the apple falls,
then you have no choice
but to kill me,

Plastic Love by Design

Aesthetic plastic radio waves for goodbye
Charlie on the dime, his last two
nickels rubbed raw in the phone booth
and answer from Rhonda not forthcoming—
she’s tied up with anaesthesia
on a stainless steel slab, laying
like hair in a pile, like an old lady’s wig,
ass in the air for another blade,
a better love, a figure
retired and aspiring
to the surgeon’s knife and the heat
suture of the blood-free work zone—
sorry, babe, it was you
piled there like the moldy grapefruit
I found in the refrigerator rear—
and maybe while my hand
was up those ass cheeks like in a seatcover
loose around styrofoam peanuts, I left
the fruit behind and got to carry a silicone
bag home to my baby for a teething
lesson—a little schooling in all that’s pretty
and bright and free to love me
better death—
                      We’ll never
work again after we face alone
the destruction of the gods—
stitches across the mons, up the back and arm,
like a teddy bear’s vomit in a flea
market stall-


Saturday, February 10, 2018

Erotic Blackout Art By Vanessa de Largie

Vanessa de Largie is an Australian artist who divides her time between London and Melbourne.  She's an award-winning actress and author.  She's also a prolific journalist, columnist and blogger.  Vanessa is currently the monthly sex-columnist for Maxim Magazine's print issue.

Vanessa de Largie creates erasure art which expresses her fierce and unapologetic sexuality.  Her pieces collectively fall under the title: Erotic Blackout.  Her work has been described as delicious, subversive and lurid. Her erasure art has featured in numerous publications across the net.

I quite enjoyed and agreed with this piece written by the artist on the topic of slut shaming in The Huffington Post 

I've always been a huge fan of Surrealist and Dadaist techniques, as well as Exquisite Corpse. But no one cares what I think, so here are two more pieces by Vanessa de Largie.

Thursday, February 8, 2018

Caution: Spoilers

Sometimes I find poems I had written and discarded in the stacks and feel better about them than I did when I decided they weren't up to par. Not saying this one is. 

Caution: Spoilers

Relax, I'm no sadist.
I am not here to dispell 
Your illusions,
Or spoil the latest program
They have written for you.
Your heroes are villains,
Your gods are demons,
And your children will
Toil in vain to try and change this,
Then die in despair
And disillusion, knowing
Their lives meant nothing.

As for the show: haven't seen it.
-Thomas L. Vaultonburg

Sunday, February 4, 2018

Poetry By Michael H. Brownstein

Michael H. Brownstein has nine poetry chapbooks including A Period of Trees (Snark Press, 2004), Firestorm: A Rendering of Torah (Camel Saloon Press, 2012), and The Possibility of Sky and Hell (White Knuckle Press, 2013). He is the editor of First Poems from Viet Nam (2011).


Once again he made the no exist list
once again he entered the office
his hand balled up, but not as a fist—
more an anvil of petrifacation and stone,
fossilized joints, fractures and breaks,
tears near the wrist, calcified bones.
Once again he was told him to go to his classroom
and wait, but he said he could not
until he made the list of students who exist.

Do you not understand the strike in lightning,
the thunder curse that comes after,
the unsustainable armadillos moving 
northwards with the warm waters?
Rootworm, boll weevil, red-winged 
blackbird, great grizzly of the western caves,
West Niles virus, give us your best shot.  
The Australian box jellyfish drinks
in the oxygen of a change in weather,
its long tentacles black lipsticked tire treads,
wind worn, wind weaved, a car careening
out of control, its driver breaking ferociously, 
an oak, thick weed, tall grass, the only future 
either will ever know. Make sure 
the last woman alive turns out the lights. 


I am exactly like I am.
No water of mistrust here.
Swamps, perhaps.
Perhaps the heavy coil of wood
and bones to go with it,
the shadow of a new day
sun lipped; cloud lined,
the snail of curiosity:
the bee-sting of intellect.

There was no landscaper in your life,
there was no man without a car,
there was just me:
The brake in the stomach feels no pain;
the break in the heart, everything.

White hair of frost,
powder and grey,
the rage of the storm diminished:
patterns and known drunks
a rhapsody in the color you like least.

Discover something new.