Ivory Tower-Georgia Park

If I shaved my head clean
would you stop
paying attention to me
would you just drop it
please

if I moved into
an ivory tower
and painted the ceiling
all pretty colors
would I become a better person
without the distractions
of these horrible men?

the answer is,
I’ve done it,
several times
for long periods

and I always end up
missing the attention
of the one man
I hope to connect with

I haven’t met him yet.


[Georgia Park is creator of Private Bad Thoughts, curator of Whisper and the Roar a feminist literary collective, and a writer for Sudden Denouement. She is a wonderful poet with an enormous heart. We can’t imagine this journey without her. Please check out more of her wonderful work.]

Trace the Fortunes-David Lohrey

The only President we’ve ever had who

Ignored Hollywood was George W. Bush. I doubt

That Meryl had him in for a strawberry brunch.

Did Ellen ever send him over a bottle of sparkling water?

Bush couldn’t have cared less; Barbara raised him

To stay away from trash. Up in Maine, the locals were rough.

He learned early. He learned the hard way.

Clinton was a star-fucker. He rented the Lincoln bedroom

To Charles Bronson, Streisand and, I’ve heard,

The President of Disney, possibly all on the same night.

The toilets were disconnected since their shit doesn’t stink.

But it does pile up.

 

By why turn on Hollywood?

It’s our salvation.

All social critics end up there, even Faulkner:

More recently Wallace Shawn, the playwright,

Whose trademark topic is selling out. Everyone falls for it,

Everyone wants a piece of the action,

Even if only a walk-on part in Woody Allen’s “Celebrity.”

Star power is irresistible. Obama wants a TV series.

His daughters have auditioned for “Girls.”

A starring role in “Breaking Bad: Part II” would help Biden

Forget his dead son.

 

No, really. I take it back. It’s jealousy,

That’s all. I’d love to be Goldie Hawn’s neighbor.

I’d love to wear a tux on the red carpet,

Rate a star on Hollywood Boulevard,

Be fitted for a Mickey Mouse costume.

It’s in our genes. All Americans, each and every one of us,

Dreams of being a star at the annual parade,

Waving to the crowd from the back of a convertible,

Receiving wild cheers and accolades from frenzied crowds.

My only question, my only hesitation is this:

How gratifying is it to be rich when everyone else is poor?

Is it any fun to be Mickey Mouse in the Sahara Desert? If ordered

By Disney’s CEO or the President of the U.S. of A.,

Would Donald Duck gun down his fellow Americans?

Would he mow us all down?

My guess is yes. Listen for his quack as it gets louder.


[David Lohrey was born on the Hudson River but grew up on the Mississippi in Memphis. He currently teaches in Tokyo. He has reviewed books for The Los Angeles Times and The Orange County Register, has been a member of the Dramatists Guild in New York, and is currently writing a memoir of his years living on the Persian Gulf.]

 

Can’t

PBBR

A Forum for Divergent Literature

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Can’t

by pbbr

Can’t sleep lately. Everything’s too bright. I’m not used to serenity; I am comfortable in the moss, under a rock, in the onyx flames of ill repute. Where light burns black with a perfect pitch, a neglected bastardized stinging glitch, oily but warm. Someone came along and snuffed the blackness. It’s too bright in this room. I want to go back to sleep, but not for as long as I will if I do.

Can’t breathe lately. The air’s too clean. Septic breath of a lurid death is what I crave. Putrid stench, nostalgic days. Comfort food like mom used to make, wasp nest chili and seaweed pizza. The old familiar sting of glass in broken nostrils, coppery fragrant like dead wood. Stink of shit and honeysuckle. But someone came along and brought fresh flowers with them. Not the offensive ones; the gorgeous odor of peace. And…

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Hurts Doesn’t It (Lyrics) By SRP

SRP tells it like it is

A Forum for Divergent Literature

tunnel-vision

HURTS DOESN’T IT (Lyrics)

By. SRP

I don’t feel that bad
When it hurts anymore
I can’t tell if it’s you
And I can’t tell when there’s pain
Sometimes when I think I feel
Sometimes I think it hurts
to tell the truth
And it’s you
And it’s me
And it hurts doesn’t it
And I’ve just become numb
And it don’t hurt so bad
Have I just become numb
You don’t hurt so bad
anymore
Sometimes I think when I feel this way
Sometimes I think it hurts
to tell the truth
I don’t feel that bad when it hurts
anymore
I can’t tell if its just me
and I can’t tell if its you anymore
and it’s you
and it’s me
and it hurts doesn’t it
Sometimes I think when I feel this way
Sometimes I think it hurts
Sometimes I tell the truth this way
I can’t tell…

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Maybe This is Forever – Jasper Kerkau

Jasper Kerkau shines bright

The Writings of Jasper Kerkau

Executive smiling and gesturingI haven’t been this happy in a long time. The silence of Saturday night used to make me cower and cringe, panic in the restroom and bury myself under covers, waiting breathlessly for the sun to come up, for the vampire night to recede back into my nightmares. The fog of autumn burned off; a stillness and quiet flows through my empty house. I breath it in slowly, waves of peaceful solitude pour over me, smoothing out my idiosyncratic creases, taking me to a place most people live; a place I never knew–the world of normalcy and general complacency. Perhaps I could take up residence here, away from the shadow people and dark mental clutter that burdens me, leaving me washed out, shattered by suspicious conversations with everyone. Maybe this is forever. Maybe I am fixed, better than I was before. I can wake up on Sundays, make a…

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The Long Road Home

Stunning work from Nicole Lyons

The Lithium Chronicles

It’s been awhile since I’ve walked
this dusty road,
but I remember it well.
That spot there,
where the sun never quite reaches,
is where I found myself
on my knees
praying to a God
I didn’t believe in.
Bodies upon bottles
upon razor blades gleaming
with self-harm and a cocaine glow
fill the ditches beside me,
and the trenches of my memories.
In this place the hills are alive
with the sound of sudden drops
and last gasps,
and the air is thick
with the stench of shame.
This is a long road,
and east is west
and north is every failure
I have ever eaten.
South lies,
between humility
and every lie I have ever
sworn in blood.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

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