Uncategorized24 Jun 2019 08:02 am
Peasant carts before the puddle (detail) by Alfred von Wierusz-Kowalsk (1849 to 1915)

Paige Smith

when it rains
it pours
when it rains
we hide
water unwinds
our space-time
water drips 
down the bark
and buildings
from the gutter
forms puddles
on the sidewalk, in parking lots
on country paths, in backyards
we lock the doors, keep the kids in
pray for the sun

hands appear
from those puddles
heave themselves
from the rim of those
little innocent lakes
onto sturdy land
up climb those heavy
from elsewhere
smelling of
ancient agony
dripping in decay
their insatiable weapons
scraping our streets
the places we reserve
for the sick
the places in front of 
our mailboxes
the places where
children draw in chalk
in these stolen drenched days
they walk amongst us, sniffing for meat
shaking off their radiation
in the showers of this world

and from the puddles
we glance
their netherworld
alien aurora borealis
vomit-colored sky
over stricken slums
where surely
some apocalypse 
has already occurred
surely their rains
descend in acid-flavor
and they see
in their streets
the greenery, the lushness, 
mysterious portals where we
fat-covered folk, so juicy, live
they decide
to step through.

sometimes they seize
a prisoner
a dinner
shoving them
into gutterless space
makes no splash
they tumble down
into the horrored space
across what we know as space

we were blessed
by drought
for a long time
invariable and threatening
the clouds
rolled in
faster than the future
and opened 
themselves up
like jaws
eager to feed
the dry earth
eager to feed
us to the beasts

in the vast
asphalt sea
the grocery store
parking lot
my wife
had no chance
snatched before
she could reach
the handle of the door
pulled down
by the non-faces
and digitless hands
from the nightmare planet
the hands of hell.

the rain
now down
to a drizzle,
the worst 
the formless 
to their disturbing corner
of the universe
our brutal future
our savage past
I walk
down my secure 
the neighbors
dare not look
through their windows
I bring myself
to the park
so dug-up
by dogs,
find a me-size hole
fearful puddle
I peer into
that improbable 
their world
might have been
like ours, once
might have been
friendly, green.

Some of them
might be merciful

Only one way
to know.
I step into 
the rain
water which is not wet
I step into 
the doorway
and disappear
from this earth.
Uncategorized13 May 2019 08:00 am
Woman in dress dancing ,Eadweard Muybridge. Animal locomotion: an electro-photographic investigation of consecutive phases of animal movements. 1872-1885. USC Digital Library, 2010.

Davian Aw

she grows used to murdering doppelgängers
quick jolts to the heart, slipping poison into drink
fatal injections while lost in the helplessness of dream
whispering denials to herself as she hides the bodies
in secret rooms in other worlds.

she walks down rows of her faces blank in death
and tells herself: they are asleep.

she slides into clothes, identities, laughter
of all the people she could have been
welcoming kisses from smiling strangers
unaware they’ve been bereaved.

at novelty’s end, she leaves no trace
but grieving, and nights wearing hope to the bone
searching the rivers and roads of their world

hoping to bring a body home.

Uncategorized25 Mar 2019 08:00 am
created at deepdreamgenerator.com

Marcie Lynn Tentchoff

I was his first,
that means a lot to certain men,
and, for a scientist,
Paul has a love
of all that’s old –
done right, he says –

He’s kept me well.
My cubicle’s luxurious and plush,
and properly maintained —
the maids all vie
to keep the polished
luster of my walls
gem clear.

And though I’m forced
to watch the newer models traipse about,
bedecked in jewels, and chrome,
and circuitry,
en route to dinners
or to plays
to suit his whim…

I know I was his first,
and that, while he keeps their upgrades fresh,
there’s so much to be said
for antique amber,
vintage verdigris,
unadorned, and classic
in the box.

Uncategorized25 Feb 2019 08:00 am
The Slave Ship by JMW Turner, 1840

W.C. Roberts

his chin thrust out like a ledge over the chasm 
between them, their child 
a tiny figure cut out of stone and blackened in a fire
that burned their house boat
to the water line 
he glares at her, eyes like flint and steel 
but the sparks do not so much and singe her hair 
the woman takes up their child 
and cradles him in arms 
not yet turned to stone, but thunder in a confining space
shakes the soot from his brow 
-- the child stirs

there was a time when the men on the banks of the river
would have died for them, and their stories told 
to frighten children who hadn’t the good sense to turn to stone 
when the fire comes and their thatched huts burn down
to the ground

from these ashes we are enjoined, and one of the ravens
he watches over us 
and we, who’d live for ages, and cannot live under the water
that comes to bury us alive
we, who’d live for ages, and cannot live 
in the crook of his elbow like a firearm
we look away, and he looks for us, as the storm’s fury 
shards of a white porcelain heaven breaking 
and they come down on the water, without hardly a splash 
knowing the bottom well, and the chasm between them
who’d take a drink from this well? and know

     what’s left of the sky

father, father, says the child, in the child’s lisping way  
why have they turned against us? are we not good 
for them?

he swallows, as if thinking of his answer;
he steps into the chasm
and is gone
Uncategorized14 Jan 2019 07:36 pm

I will be at Arisia next weekend. Sunday at 4 I will be on the Genre Poetry panel. I’d love to meet anyone who is around. I won’t be able to stick around too long after the panel but there should be plenty of time during the weekend for conversations so please look me up. There won’t be a post next week because I will be too busy having fun.

Uncategorized09 Jan 2017 08:53 am

Hello folks,

I will be at Arisia next week, so please look me up to say hello if you are around.

If you are in the Boston area, Arisia is an amazing SF convention with representation from all of the arts. http://www.arisia.org

Uncategorized18 Jan 2016 08:07 am

Today is the last day at Arisia. I’ll be doing some crafts with the little kids (one of my favorite times of the con!) and wrapping up the weekend.

Uncategorized23 Feb 2015 09:19 am

Orpheus by Forest Rogers

Orpheus by Forest Rogers

Understand, I would not
have followed her through those cold gates,
the horn twisted with the gold,
would have clung to the chill of winter,
the hint of frost.
But her ghost cried to me, called to me,
wrapping herself around my chest.
Not there.

Yet I saw her, I saw her
the cry of a bird,
the snatch of song,
a colorful rag,
her favorite figs —
Her. Her.
No. Not there.

I saw her. I saw her everywhere,
heard her, heard her everywhere.
Lingered over her every word, her every move,
lingered, lingered over every thought,
squeezing my memories like grapes,
until only the driest, darkest ones remained.
Each shadow —

Not her.

Caught, my breath, caught.
I slipped singing through those cold cold gates,
past the slow slow river, the endless shades,
the slow boat to the cold grey halls.
I sang, I sang, and fetched her ghost,
watched it merge with the shadows I clutched,
slowly spinning from my mind.

You ask why I turned, why I did not wait
for another glimpse of the cold blue skies,
to hold her beneath the trees’ sharp shadows,
beneath the living wind. Why I turned
at the very gates, the far sun shining
on my hands. I turned.
I had to know.
Her ghost, or the shadow
of my weaving,
a shadow of
my memory and song?

Bound, she and I, to earth and dust,
I, a little longer, until I slip past those gates a second time,
and grasp her shadow, not our mingled own.

Uncategorized15 Feb 2015 05:25 pm

I’ve got a batch of poems ready to go up over the next few weeks that I’m very happy about.

And more happy news — Mary Alexander Agner was nominated for a Rhysling for “Worlds Apart”, published here last Spring.

Uncategorized10 Aug 2014 12:57 pm

I haven’t forgotten you, I am just having a hellaciously busy summer. I will be back as soon as I can.


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