TIME NEEDS ACTIVITY TO REALIZE ITSELF (by William Merricle)

TIME NEEDS ACTIVITY TO REALIZE ITSELF
by William Merricle

Moses climbs a mountain.
Desire anchors the spirit.
The egg dreams of the perfect cave.
Prayer can lubricate the way to hell.
It’s harder to leave a lonely life than a fulfilled one.
The corruption inside the mirror is too abysmal to excuse.

Planets are round because they try to be as small as possible.
Cruelty’s thumbprint informs the distant evenings.
The death penalty prays for the victim.
Without activity there can be no time.
The moon explicates the night.
Sisyphus says, “Let’s roll.”

* * *

William Merricle lives in Lima, Ohio. His poetry has been published in Pudding, Slipstream, 
ZeroCity, and many other publications. His latest chapbook, Heimlich The Donut, is available
at Pudding House Publications.

“TIME NEEDS ACTIVITY TO REALIZE ITSELF” © 2010 by William Merricle, used with permission

My Favorite Part Of Ramadan Is I Get To Quit Masturbating (Wm Merricle)

My Favorite Part Of Ramadan Is I Get To Quit Masturbating
by William Merricle

I listened to my heart.
She whispered,
“I’m in love, and it’s not with you.”

Adjusting to self-betrayal
Is like scraping ice
Off tears.

Atlas shrugged
Up a way to justify his selfishness.
His cock tastes half-exhumed
To him.

When all you do is
Spin wheels in the filth
It’s easy to be innocent.

Loneliness bumps and grinds
Against my body.
She moans, “I miss you.”
I pass out from anticipation.

The next morning, she sighs,
“Don’t shower yet.
I used up all the hot water
Having sex.”” 

* * *

William Merricle lives in Lima, Ohio. His poetry has been published in Pudding, Slipstream, 
ZeroCity, and many other publications. His latest chapbook, Heimlich The Donut, is available
at Pudding House Publications.

“My Favorite Part Of Ramadan Is I Get To Quit Masturbating” © 2010 by William Merricle, used with permission

Jesusaurus Rex (by William Merricle)

Jesusaurus Rex

there was one
set of footprints in
the fossilized quicksand

that’s where I jumped on
his back when I was weary

it was the only way
to prevent myself
from being gutted 

* * *

William Merricle lives in Lima, Ohio. His poetry has been published in Pudding, Slipstream, 
ZeroCity, and many other publications. His latest chapbook, Heimlich The Donut, is available
at Pudding House Publications.

“Jesusaurus Rex” © 2010 by William Merricle, used with permission

Don’t You Cry For Me (by William Merricle)

Don’t You Cry For Me

I’ve been loving you as if praying
when really I’ve been drawing blood.
I’ve been behaving as if
your pussy is here to protect my soul.

I’ve been forgiving the dirt
for being more pure than I
as it sends muddy shudders
through the gutter.

We shitty poets search for magic
in every orifice
as if we could apprehend the center
of everything. Anything.

It rained all night
the day I left.
Wouldn’t it be great
if it was like that all the time? 

* * *

William Merricle lives in Lima, Ohio. His poetry has been published in Pudding, Slipstream, 
ZeroCity, and many other publications. His latest chapbook, Heimlich The Donut, is available
at Pudding House Publications.

“Don’t You Cry For Me” © 2010 by William Merricle, used with permission

Artificiality Is The Most Subtle Form Of Reality (by William Merricle)

 

Artificiality Is The Most Subtle Form Of Reality

No mention will be made
of any imaginary body part
more than absolutely necessary.

Innocence holds
a black belt in lying
though it never had any formal training.

I feel safe by what I don’t know
is a pornography
found nowhere else in fiction.

Faith is the device hidden in the soul
that creates the illusion of depth.
Desire represents the shadow
of desire.

I have faith
that I will never love again.
But just in case I’m innocent,
someone’s coming to save me. 

* * *

William Merricle lives in Lima, Ohio. His poetry has been published in Pudding, Slipstream, 
ZeroCity, and many other publications. His latest chapbook, Heimlich The Donut, is available
at Pudding House Publications.

“Artificiality Is The Most Subtle Form Of Reality” © 2010 by William Merricle, used with permission

T.M. Göttl at The Barking Spider in Cleveland – 8 May 2009

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M55xfQhhWZw

T.M. Göttl reads on 8 May 2009 at the Barking Spider in Cleveland, Ohio, during
Tres Versing the Panda: Three Days of Poetry Soiree.  Filmed by Jesus Crisis.
 Event sponsored by Green Panda Press (Cleveland Heights) and The Temple, Inc.

T.M. Göttl, a member of the Buffalo ZEF creative community, won first place the first time she competed in a poetry slam, and she’s been heard on 91.3 WAPS and 89.7 WOSU radio. Her work has appeared online and in print, in publications such as Pudding Magazine, Verse Wisconsin, Common Threads, The Hessler Street Fair Poetry Anthology, Opium Press, The Poet’s Haven, and others. Her first full-length collection, Stretching the Window, was published in 2008.

Find more T.M. Göttl at http://www.buffalozef.net/artists/tmgottl.

Jonathan Houghton (by Edgar Lee Masters)

Jonathan Houghton
by Edgar Lee Masters
from Spoon River Anthology [1 of 33 poems added to the 1916 edition]

There is the caw of a crow,
And the hesitant song of a thrush.
There is the tinkle of a cowbell far away,
And the voice of a plowman on Shipley’s hill.
The forest beyond the orchard is still
With midsummer stillness;
And along the road a wagon chuckles,
Loaded with corn, going to Atterbury.
And an old man sits under a tree asleep,
And an old woman crosses the road,
Coming from the orchard with a bucket of blackberries.
And a boy lies in the grass
Near the feet of the old man,
And looks up at the sailing clouds,
And longs, and longs, and longs
For what, he knows not:
For manhood, for life, for the unknown world!
Then thirty years passed,
And the boy returned worn out by life
And found the orchard vanished,
And the forest gone,
And the house made over,
And the roadway filled with dust from automobiles–
And himself desiring The Hill!

[To read more Spoon River Anthology click here.]

Annie Finch reads “Brigid” in Portland, Maine, 7 May 2010

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQHqfV6dlQg

Annie Finch reads her poem “Brigid” on May 2010 in Portland, Maine
The poem comes from her book Eve & appears here with the poet’s permission.
Annie Finch is the author or editor of numerous books of poetry, translation, and poetics, including the poetry collections Calendars (Tupelo Press, 2003, shortlisted for Foreword Poetry Book of the Year Award and recently reissued in CD format) and Eve (1997, recently reissued in Carnegie Mellon’s Classic Contemporaries Poetry Series). Her creative collaborations merging poetry with music, visual art, and theater have been produced at venues including American Opera Projects, Carnegie Hall, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She is Director of the Stonecoast MFA program at the University of Southern Maine.

   

Behind Closed Doors (by Diana Rose)

Behind Closed Doors
by Diana Rose

Scent …clings to a room

Pervacent as cats feet across

mystic night air

It seeps in sleeping minds

with eyes wide shut,

Clandestine

rendezvous in midnight hour

while a sleeping dog lies.

See spot run,

the drum beats the tune

and he runs

baying at moon with packs

of wolves in sheeps clothing

Pissing on fences

erected

for circumstantial reason.

Whispered words

italicized

centered focus

were more than the fine line

walked down the median

with headlights

blurring vision,

Lost…

between the sheets

of the fucked

and mind fuck

Beyond the

ass(sertion)

of reality

fenced framed and fucked again.

American whore

the pictures of her

on the players lists.

More than this

time ticked

tocked…

sands sifted through fingers

where and when

were we before this…

still whispered

were the words…

framed

warm inviting

like the kiss of Judas.

Omission

the slap

with a whip(lash)

discord(ant)

jazz chords

rift final notes

ass(ending)

beyond all belief

as you walked on down the hall.

The closed door

the tale to be told

in darkness

fringe

calculated

estimated

jaded

fucked again.

 

* * *

Diana Rose was known for years on MySpace as “Angelheart” who between the years 2006-2010 produced the “Weekly Top Ten” and spun off a weekly radio show on BlogTalk Radio that interviewed poets and editors and producers around the globe. She is proud to have interviewed hundreds of poets such as Max Parthas, Talaam Acey, Eddie Oliver, Eric Moore, Award winning screenplay writer James Crafford, Epiphany Castro editor, and founder of Madswirl Johnny Olsen. She has been published in LitUp Magazine, Plebian Rag Vol I, Virgogray Press (National Poetry Month Anthology), Alabaster and Mercury Vol I, WebDigest Weekly, Blue Turtle Crossing , 10K Poets National Poetry Month Edition, and Carcinogenic Poetry.  She is glad she didn’t listen to her sophomore year professor to “do the world a favor and give up writing” or she wouldnt have met her soulmate/poet Anthony Thomas better known as Frankie Metro. Together they are fueling the world of small press enough to set the world ablaze. Catch them in open mics in Tampa/ St Petersburg area of Florida… they may be traveling to one near you!  Diana is raising four budding Mad Ones …who are future bad boys, artists and TV Journalists. (Gonzo reporting anyone??)  Join her at the St Petersburg Pier for a bucket of Coronas or a Mojito or two any day!!

Existential Fluffer and the Nihilist Daydream (by Diana Rose)

Existential Fluffer and the Nihilist Daydream
by Diana Rose

The hum of the death rattle
is an ever present
moan…
It is the sound that is in the background
floating between
crimson sky and earthly plane
It is the hiss
at the end of the day…
as the sun sinks to depths beneath horizon
and the earth plummets into the abyss
of darkness.

She holds it between her teeth
like a Spanish siren
weaving between blinks of
your last waking notions
the hiss and the hum
that wraps your mind
into that long tunnel…
halucinogenic toreador of night sweats
She is your incarnate angel
the last plunge into nothing.
That last long walk on down the hall…
you pass…rooms
of glass doors
that you can see…but cant touch
images of what is
what was
and what could be
and yet her rattle continues…
The death rattle hum…
the long flat grey line…
that you trace with crayolas
down that glass as you
walk on down the hall…
She teases with glimpses
lunges of lips
curl of tongue
but out of reach she remains…

Nothingness
a vacuum of perception induced memory
and you pause…
as she stops at the final glass frame
You cant see through the darkness
just the death rattle hiss
the cold glass
and a dim faint light
of the last star
you see
as
suddenly
everything
stops. 

* * *

Diana Rose was known for years on MySpace as “Angelheart” who between the years 2006-2010 produced the “Weekly Top Ten” and spun off a weekly radio show on BlogTalk Radio that interviewed poets and editors and producers around the globe. She is proud to have interviewed hundreds of poets such as Max Parthas, Talaam Acey, Eddie Oliver, Eric Moore, Award winning screenplay writer James Crafford, Epiphany Castro editor, and founder of Madswirl Johnny Olsen. She has been published in LitUp Magazine, Plebian Rag Vol I, Virgogray Press (National Poetry Month Anthology), Alabaster and Mercury Vol I, WebDigest Weekly, Blue Turtle Crossing , 10K Poets National Poetry Month Edition, and Carcinogenic Poetry.  She is glad she didn’t listen to her sophomore year professor to “do the world a favor and give up writing” or she wouldnt have met her soulmate/poet Anthony Thomas better known as Frankie Metro. Together they are fueling the world of small press enough to set the world ablaze. Catch them in open mics in Tampa/ St Petersburg area of Florida… they may be traveling to one near you!  Diana is raising four budding Mad Ones …who are future bad boys, artists and TV Journalists. (Gonzo reporting anyone??)  Join her at the St Petersburg Pier for a bucket of Coronas or a Mojito or two any day!!