I Sing To My Wild Biology – by Krista Schwimmer

Sleep – by Humberto Gomez Sequeira-HuGos

False Hope- by Mary Getlein

My Great Religion – by Daniel J. Kaufman

Rattle Moon – by Aryn Youngless

Moonlight Porch – by Majid Naficy

Old in Venice –  by Lynette

Monday, January 28 – by Roger Houston


I Sing To My Wild Biology

(For Walt Whitman)

by krista schwimmer

i sing to my wild biology –

to the beautiful DNA strands

turning & twirling in

their perfect double helixes –

to the wild mitochondria

powerhouses of my cells –

to the robust ribosomes

with their messengers

binding, binding.

i sing to them all

in their hidden stations

as they work their ways

& give me life.

i sing to my wild biology –

to my unique DNA

with its perfect symmetry & templates

that allow copies of my ancestors

to pass into & through me.

i sing to these ancestors, too –

whose genes whisper their unsung desires

through me, while still my own DNA

turns in its perfect double helix.

i sing to these few emissaries

of the total sum of my wild biology –

and to their smaller parts, too –

the neutrons & protons & electrons

created by the dance of the 6 quarks –

those charmed & strange gods

who remind me that even scientists

when naming their discoveries

bow down to the imaginative soul.

i sing to them all –

my tiny, sufi masters

swirling & burning inside me

so that i can make my way out

into the Kingdom of Animalia

where – startled – i find

i do belong.



For the Beachhead Collective Staff

Disentangle the obstinate mind

from the grindstone of time

and place it on the portal

where the winds of awareness

disperse the remains of memory.

Empty your eyes of fear

and burn the sense of self

like a ship of red cellophane

on the waves of white light

filtering through your body.

Sleep without your head

in the emptiness of dreaming.

Awake when you understand

that your being is a soluble idea

in the chemistry of galaxies.

—Humberto Gómez Sequeira-HuGóS

Los Angeles, 18 January 2013


False Hopes

She: talks too much, endlessly,

a verbal salad – lots of stuff thrown in

none of it really meaning anything

just keeps going, on and on and on

He:  sits quietly, calmly, waiting it out

She: got her car towed away

the car they were living in

now they are literally on the streets

they are desperate, they look hunted

He:  tells you of articles he’s read in the library

is calm, beautiful, with huge brown eyes

is polite, waits, endlessly waits

She: talks more and more

trying to talk her way out of it

tries to talk her way into your life

hoping you will rescue her, and him

He:  is waiting, to one day fly away

will give up the role of caretaker

give up the role of parent

role reversal: he’s had to parent her

instead of the other way around

She: wears you out, wears you down

leaves you empty, drained of all compassion

He:  is quiet, polite, grateful

accepts the gifts you give with dignity and thanks

You: wish you could do more

get them off the streets, give them a home

feel guilty, but know you have to take

care of yourself

It’s a train wreck waiting to happen,

and it’s getting closer all the time.

– Mary Getlein

*There are 51,000 men, women and children living on the streets of L.A.


My Great Religion

by Daniel J. Kaufman

I have a great religion

Based on beauty.

Somnambulant colors

Of the aurora borealis,

Curvaceous youth, dappled

Sunlight on a summer lawn,

The flower’s abstract bliss.

Beauty of line and curve

Beauty of shape and form

Beauty of bird songs

Laughter of babies

Celestial music of the spheres.

My mystical religion

Unveils itself in shooting stars

Sprayed against the black sky,

In luminescent surf,

In fractal patterns

Through crystal prism

Raindrops and oil slicks

On wet asphalt roads.

I have a great religion

Based on beauty,

Indigo buds, lilies of the alley

The horizon’s hardly perceptible

curve at the oceans edge,

the seagulls plaintive caw,

the post-storm morning air

awash with angels.

The evanescent morning star

Submerged in powder blue,

Slipping glimpses

Of the eternal.

I have a great religion

Based on beauty.

—Daniel J Kaufman


Rattle Moan

By Aryn Youngless

I need to stop

To stop the noises in my head

The thoughts that rattle

Shake & moan, pulling me

From the tasks at hand

From the writing & the chores

& the hugs & the kisses

& the words & the music

& the laughs & the love

& the life

I need to stop

Stop the over analyzing

How I look & what I say

& the people near me

& those in my life

& the subtext, underlining

& the subtitles never pop up

until it’s too late

Stop ignoring the feelings in my gut

& my heart

how I hate them, just to spite me

I need to stop

Stop absorbing others thoughts

Out of fear & isolation

As if they create some impervious curtain

& behind, I am naked, naked, naked

I need, I need, I need

I need to stop – being so needy

Yes, I need to stop

Stop myself – & let go

Of the past, of the future

In this moment, in my words

In everything, everything, everything

In my wants, & my needs, & duties

I need to stop – I need to enjoy

For the whole world has gone crazy

& instead of embracing the madness

I sit here, yelling at myself

And I don’t f—–g care

But I do, so much

And it’s sinking me

& I can’t stop, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t

& the thoughts rattle, & shake,

& moan, & consume me so much

that I forget what I was doing

in the first place


Moonlight Porch

By Majid Naficy

For Kelly Edwards

Should I call it “veranda” or “spring terrace”?

But “moonlight porch” is more beautiful:

This newly-budding breast

Which has leaned back charmingly

To the stone chest of each house,

This open, inviting  hand

Which has stretched out near each window

Longing for something lost.

In the evening in Kelar Abad

I sit in the veranda

And share my tea

With tea bushes,

And at night, in Isfahanak

I go to the spring terrace

To find my intimate cricket.

But now in Venice Beach

Let me sit in this moonlight porch

And smoke a cigarette with you.


Old in Venice

Grey hair,

Wrinkled skin,

Knobby joints,

Wobbling gait,

You’ve passed your prime,

A testament of advancing age,

You’ve exchanged your tiny grocery – your brainchild

for the government hand-out,

For the social security check that was stolen

as you boarded a noonday bus,

You’ve chosen Fear,

Golden padlocks glisten on your front door,

Sunlight streams diffused through grated windows,

Your cane became the beating stick

for muggers possessing twice your sinews

for burglars with pistols,

You’ve become the prisoner,

Forsaking your youth,

Growing old in Venice.

– Lynette


02:22 Monday, January 28th, 2013, Adullam ….. A silent moon wept beams up in the sky, Imprisoned in her exile, flying by. Held in a gravitational malaise, With endless stays, occasional delays Afforded her,could not acquittal bring. On chill nights such as this, I hear her sing A song of longing, never to know love. She has no children, giving all they have To her design. Her barren craters ring. A severe case of acne, forbearing, To make her hide one side,

avoid always, So Earth cannot stare at her sad, dark rays. No veil of nitrogen to shield her eye. She hasn’t breath to even heave a sigh ….. Yours in lunacy,

– Roger Houston

Categories: Poetry