Bib wrapped warmly around your neck.
A single plate, sole fruit cut
into tender pieces; you are not delicate
with the feast before you.
Mighty fork, your small fist wrangled
‘round its neck (if the hand
could take without the finality of grasping)
this blunt tool of hunger.
Enjoying one of the last tomatoes of the season
as any young child can:
after the fork fails its steel clattered pillage
( patience waning )
you pluck yourself the battered flesh
by a sticky sliver of rind—
such naive guzzling— and after the last morsel
is swallowed, you take
the plate to your lips and devour the …

I
the trees look like nets capturing sunlight.
they are so greedy
and delicious
the sap ambers over your head
like a syrupy halo.
O look,
your head
is a stack
of pancakes.
And I am
a fork and knife
ready to dig in.
The trees in the forest
Are like niggers
Torturing sunlight with their skin
Spinning their dances in the wind
Is there enough
syrup for them?
II
There are thirty of them
Throwing rocks through
The broken windows
Smashing my thighs
to bits
The pieces of thigh
are bacon
sizzling on the ground
Your tongue is
scrambled eggs
hot
scrambled eggs
which burn my tongue
The abrasion
tastes of
tastelessness
The trees laugh
like angry street children
I am embarrassed
but, more so I am concerned
that …

My pick? Poetry Festival: A Celebration of Literary Journals

Great event. You get to hear more than 20 poets (if you’re so inclined), or just spent time browsing through at least twelve literary magazines. All editors are on site, so it’s great for networking and making friends. If you have any inclination to submit work to local literary journals, I suggest checking out this event and getting a feel for the different flavors of different magazines.

Reading manuscripts at four A.M.
In the diner—the place with
One less ‘N’ than the meal I
Ate twice tonight—

Psychosmology
Black holes must have difficult childhoods
                       consuming everything that gets too close
They probably have to go to special schools
                              and definitely can’t play Little League
Imagine a black hole trying to lick the tip of an ice-cream cone
                                      or hug the dog
The dog would fall forever into a lightless crushing void
                                                   the mute hum of space
                                                   wind through obliterating dust

Victor Pro Nox Noctis
We never could catch the hang of carpe diem
never seize daylight but set out to capture night,
swoop down at sunset like owls from naked oaks,
armed with a deck of cards and fierce desires.
We bet on kings and queens, watched knights race
on horseback, round and round, empty cans piled before us
like poker chips, boasting our wins with sagging eyelids
and slurred words, the fear of daybreak.
Each by each the victors stumbled away in search of rest
as the slow grayness of morning hoisted across the sky.
A wall of empties stood …

To hold your hand
with such devotion
that the sprawl of city
life stops, the feet
of passing traffic silenced;

THE POUND-ELIOT EXCHANGE
Poem by Matia Guardabascio
Critique by Stacey Balkun
“Problems with Authority”
Poetry is pointless
Like pursuing a love that belongs
                   to someone else.
Don’t lie to me. I know you do
Not understand.
This is the age of broken souls;
No poetry beats here,
No love pulsates in these veins.
I belong to the generation of the youthful
Sinewy races
And None the rest on us depend,[i]
Unwanted as we are…
And yet here we are; here
We are thrust into a world
That does not want us.
Fuck you and your authority.
I am me
And I don’t want you either.
This poem works through example to list …

She Hears A Fire In The Night
With the slit wrists and forefeet of a modern messiah
A self-inflicted wound ignores the death of a married man
Every duckling is an ugly duckling, my Dear
Says the old widow to her glass eye
Then plugs her ears with fire hydrants

Variations, No. 100103
Does he ever think of the hole waiting for himself?
They say you do when you shiver in the sun.
Mamma poor mamma.  And little Oliver.
No more meat.  Was there no?
And how much of it?
Grandparents dying in our absence.
Into?
I am different than I was ever before.
I am different now than I was ever before.
But does he ever think of the hole
waiting for himself?
They say, when you shiver
at midday
                          in the bright sun…
Little Oliver!
No more meat.  Once more again no
No more meat.
                               Was there a no?
And how much of it?
And how much of …