An Infinite Regression of Past Lives

By Peter

A skunk walks across the beach
in a red and white striped one piece,
a surfboard under his arm.
He stops every woman
to ask for the time of day.
None give it to him
as bikini clad women
tend not to wear watches.
They are, for the most part, cordial
in their refusals,
but the waves laugh at his rejections.
The skunk, visibly frustrated by the guffaws,
refrains from spraying the water
out of respect for the other beachgoers.
The skunk is not a skunk at all,
He is a businessman carrying a briefcase.
The sand is Grand Central Station.
He constantly checks his watch,
then squints at the schedule,
then back to his watch.
He is the type of person who shows up
hours early in case of this very predicament
and would likely catch his train with time to spare.
He asks anyone and everyone
for directions to the proper platform,
pointing to his ticket for reference.
No one acknowledges his presence.
He is not a businessman at all.
He is me. I am no businessman.
I am in a motel room
washing my face
I don’t know what city I’m in,
some town bordering Detroit.
I stare into the mirror in the mirror,
see how many of me there are.
It’s three a.m. and I have a strange feeling
I’m going to a funeral tomorrow.
Why else would I pack a suit?

An Infinite Regression of Past Lives

Poems by Lyonrah

A friend warned me once,
told me to steer clear
that all it gives is pain,
but that’s not how I see it,
the hue can change.

It would be a lie
to say it didn’t feel like I was wilted and dry,
sitting alone wounded, exhausted, spent, 
cursing the sun lit contagion.
But to me,
a youngster with his head 
full of yellow and orange dreams,
the colors tend to whisper breathlessly,
shift and shimmer
from translucent to opaque,
sometimes coming 
as a glossy sheen.

Now though it seems
to be
not the color of dark mystery
but the soft light edge of a dawn,
where it stands above a spread
of complimentaries.

Out of sight, a memory lingering, 
a fire light I saw for the first time 
when I couldn’t distinguish 
between dreams and reality.

Poems by Lyonrah

Drunk On New York

By Peter

 

Madness is unrefined passion

Passion is exonerated madness

Yak’s milk is sweet

and I drink to no end

 

No end

like these streets—

I walk every one

and never grow tired

 

knowing even eternity won’t last forever

and I have a train to catch

out to the countryside, where a mad yak

waits for me

 

with an infectious smile

with pure milk

 

which I drink to no end

and think of the endless city streets—

with bronze idols, glass walls,

cemented paths

 

That is all behind me now

The streets are behind me

The train is behind me

The mad yak is behind me

 

goading me to keep going to no end

goading me to drink her milk to no end

 

until the last sap of life is drained

so she can sleep to no end

 

so her dreams become my dreams

and my dreams travel beyond

the endless city streets

who refuse to sleep

 

They drink me to no end

consuming the same mad yak visions

that gestate in the womb of slumberless nights

who give birth to babies

 

that overrun the endless city streets

with cries for yaks milk.

The wails resonate

off skyscrapers as

 

an admission of want for nothing

other than mother,

an omission of subways, stadium deals,

condo complexes, dreams of electric sheep.

 

A call for transformation

of pavement to pasture

and the world’s city citizens

to sprout curved horns

 

grow hooves, don thick coats of fur

and udders and udders

filled with the passion and madness

of yaks milk

Drunk On New York

Voice Control

By Peter

 

wave function rolls

over tongue

 

say it

      say it

                  it again

 

thoughts like

              french kiss

         ear lick

                       mind meld

 

right thought (check)

         right speech (check)

             lights

                      camera

                   (right) action

 

communication out

       of focus

 

a monkey teaching a dolphin

               to climb a tree

                              both agree that

                        oranges are oranges

 

peel means skin

        skin does not mean peel

   you can skin a banana

             but you can’t peel a cat

you can tuna fish

                    can the piano

                                             it’s out of tune

 

false positives

     doubly negated negatives

          placebos work

if you let them

 

everything is a matter

                                     of percentages

                 90% of the time

         from vegas to wall street

            but I live in kansas

 

off-broadway is still broadway

           paris is still paris

                   and still burning

 

I make a claim

                       then stake it

      I have no idea what

                                          that expression means

 

none of the words I invented

                 are in the dictionary

       I shout them

                      from rooftops

                           on cold nights

                      words are just a song

                               I don’t know the melody

 

translate english into

                             english into english

               and the original

                             meaning is lost

if it had one to begin with

 

this corn maze means

            something but

                                is too big

         for me make it

                          out alive

                     I need the bees

                        to dance my way out

 

I recite my lines      

    stage directions say

                                    to exit left

            I do

                 the curtain closes

                       no one applauds

Voice Control

Acid Poem

By Lucas Herrera

Far from now

Anywhere to ever be spoken of

My contrary calls

Gleaming back through the spectacles

Hold up light truth it shines in its utmost robust and hoping never know for words hit the page

it is grounding so much more than any quick serenade.

Radiant the night time shouts at me

The screaming of the taxi lights

The burning of the apple bee

Steep there and sip your tea

For god

Who is it

Wheres the world of wisdom

A book

A monologue

A carpentry fatality

With these disheveled

Just take to the page some son

For all we know?

Ferris wheel of your memory remember?

Back and forth up and down and all upside down with the most you looked onto me with gooey brown eyes,

where your feet have been have never touched the ground.

You skip through the never ending celestial is you gaze back you feed me across planet earth.

 

Acid Poem

Untitled Poem by Veronica Levels

 By Veronica Levels

My mind once held so much confusion, I wasn’t able to speak a word.
No words flowing out of my mouth
But the silence,
It spoke the unheard.
Tear stained cheeks, I couldn’t even begin to describe the pain.
I had been thru hell and back and I doubt things would ever be the same.
They’d ask how I’m doing, I’d respond with I’m doing just fine.
Being weak is not an option so that’s my favorite line.
Throughout the many months, Jada was my helpful eye.
Promise being my best friend helped me to point out every lie.
Saliha, you’re the one that taught me not to give every situation a reaction
Unless well needed.
Well unhappiness was sentenced to death,
Guilty it pleaded.
I knew no matter how hard I tried, I wouldn’t be able to do this alone.
But I also knew I needed peace and couldn’t be knocked off my throne.
I had left the negative behind and set my main focus on the positive.
The moment I did so I knew it was time to move on
I had to forgive.
I had forgiven those that hurt me in multiple ways, I had forgiven those that treated me as an option most days.
After years and years of held in hate I had forgiven my father. To hold in so much hate I thought why bother.
I had forgiven those friends that turned their backs on me but I swear I’ll never forget how they would ,
Lie
Sneak around
And deceive
I forgive you for walking away when things got tough, and I forgive you for misleading me to believe it was love only knowing it was lust.
As I’m looking at the person who hurt me most in the eyes I find myself reminiscing about the pain hurt and lies.
Forgiveness is the key you need to defeat your enemy and once you do so they’re no longer draining you taking away all of your energy.
Forgiving was the hardest, yet most rewarding thing that I ever had to do. I mean how do you forgive someone who didn’t give one care about you ?
Well you do it for you .
One thing I said to myself is whoever put me last, I’m going to put them first.
But I no longer want them to feel what I felt and that includes
The pain
The loneliness
And the hurt.

Untitled Poem by Veronica Levels

It has come to a point

It has come to a point, where writing only happens

if the clock is way past 2

and the neighbors must be sleeping

it has come to a point, that half full wine glasses

seem to stay on the coffee table

just a day or two too long

time has taken me further, I’m older than I can remember

last time I saw myself I still wore a coat, I think it was green

while my music should be playing

for at least a year or three

God, do you remember

the first time I spoke to you

even though I believe

think there’s a place

worse than this

It has come to a point, where we as people

accept our failure, label it as routine

and think that this is what we are

intended to do, all along

LU.

 

 

It has come to a point