• Burning to Read – Hal Bogotch
  • Let’s take it easy –  Jim Smith
  • The Magic Cape – Majid Naficy
  • 90291 – Venice USA – Tina Catalina Corcoran
  •  In the Bathroom at the Hotel Cornell – krista schwimmer
  • Birds II – Paul Beethovan
  • There Are Days – Humberto Gómez Sequeira-HuGóS
  • Verit – Cameron Pryor


Burning to Read


What could be done
with a book
by Henry Miller?
It could be


picked up.
It could be
checked out.
It could be ripped


like a bodice ripper novel.
It could be heaved
up into a bower
or atop a tall tower.


It could be set afire
and then quickly extinguished
like the fleeting lust
of a pair of fervently humping bunnies.


It could be held.  Squeezed tight.
It could be banned.
It could be burned.
It could be read.  And devoured.


-Hal Bogotch


Let’s take it easy


By Jim Smith


Venice is for kickin’ it
for just goofin’ off
We’re always late
What’s the rush?


New York, L.A., Frisco
they’re for business,
rushin’ around in
suits & ties & heels


But Venice my Venice
we squish sand between our toes
Stay up late and cogitate
while they make their silly deals


They’re busy with their clocks & traffic jams
While we sing and dance & touch & hug
They worry & take their meds to stay alive
We toke the holy herb & let the rest slide


The Magic Cape

By Majid Naficy

Running toward the beach
I saw her on the stairs
lying at the last landing
And a rusty cart separated her from the world.
I asked myself: “Is it a woman? … Is it a man?
Or a puppet full of straw?”
She wore a black hat
And a large winter coat
Covered with a white blanket
Like that of my little niece.
She always sucked it through her teeth
And sometimes put it on
Like a magic cape.
When did she leave her house?
Was it raining that night?
Did someone walk her to the door
Or was she alone?
Did she bang the door with a shout
Or creep out of it slowly?
Did she go to find a new world
Or want to give up forever?
Why did she leave her castle
To barricade behind this cart?
When I returned
I did not see her.
Perhaps she was wearing
Her magic cape.


90291 – Venice USA


By Tina Catalina Corcoran


What a Dream!
What a GREAT All American Dream!
What a Scene!
What a GREAT All American Scene!
What a MAN –
What a GREAT All American Man!
90291 – Dreaming in the Sun – What a Land!


What I mean:
IS – A MAN, in this Land, is a Dream!
In a Dream – 
Well, a man, in this Land, is a King!
Takes YOUR HAND – You’re A QUEEN!
90291 – Venice, All night long – What a Scene!


When THE KING – 
When THE KING and THE QUEEN “do their thing” –
What THEY BRING, are THE CHILDREN, who Sing –
Sing, Love’s SONG –
In a Land, where THEY ALWAYS BELONG!
90291 – Hear THE CHILDREN’S SONG – Sing Along!
90291 – Singing in the Sun – I BELONG!
90291 – Venice IS A SONG – WE BELONG!


In the Bathroom at the Hotel Cornell


Standing before the Polished Mirror
I look at the scar above my crotch — 
half of it has disappeared — 
the other reminds me
of a dark grin.


“You’re almost 50,” the Mirror points out.
“Face it — you don’t have the body of your youth.
And don’t pretend it won’t get worse!”


“Well,” I reply, “I’ve lasted longer
than the Maiden Joan whose image
abounds everywhere here at the Hotel Cornell:
in tapestries,
in statues,
in plaques,
in posters,
the Maid of Orleans
reminds me
that not all women, even when young,
concern themselves with the supple body.”


The Mirror considers my statement, then admits  —
“You could have fared worse. Hers was a life
consumed by vision, betrayed by royalty, and fed to the fire.”


We stand there, sizing up one another,
the Mirror and me. At last, the dark grin wins.
“You’ve won this round!” I tell the Mirror.
“But it’s not over yet.
Joan may have recanted once,
but she held out to the end.”


The Mirror says nothing.
My husband calls me back.
I walk away, looking over my shoulder,
and see in the Mirror’s Face
the reflection of my lovely ass.


–krista schwimmer


Birds II


I guess the gift
Is in the lift
You flying there of light
Wings on air
Like Fred Astaire!
I don’t dare!
Lost beggars wandering aimlessly
Inches above the ocean water
Another Albatross Morning!


-Paul Beethovan


There Are Days
 By Humberto Gómez Sequeira-HuGóS
There are days on which I feel
the urgency of exposing myself,
like a naked ape
running amock on Wall Street,
to the consuming elements:


The price index and war
for the salvation of the faith
in the banking system
that continually test my capacity
for keeping the mind still
like a monk absorbed in meditation
inside the furnace of suffering
alimented by the avarice of the bankers.


Will my head be ignited
by a flare of wisdom
or will I collapse
with the stock market
like an innocent bystander
killed by friendly fire?
Carrot … Coach … Run
French Connection
Jail and what’s outside 
Looking in
How do I escape my 
How do I begin?


Is it what everything’s 
Is it what I’m relating?


Is twelve o’clock straight
up to a clock
Am I in the groove
Listening to rock?
Or do I need silence
to think and dream
about what I might find?


Till the morning sun
The light and now I 
feel blind.


–Cameron Pryor

Categories: Poetry