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Acuff, Gale |
Ahern, Edward |
Allen, R. A. |
Alleyne, Chris |
Andersen, Fred |
Andes, Tom |
Arnold, Sandra |
Aronoff, Mikki |
Ayers, Tony |
Baber, Bill |
Baird, Meg |
Baker, J. D. |
Balaz, Joe |
Barker, Adelaide |
Barker, Tom |
Barnett, Brian |
Barry, Tina |
Bartlett, Daniel C. |
Bates, Greta T. |
Bayly, Karen |
Beckman, Paul |
Bellani, Arnaav |
Berriozabal, Luis Cuauhtemoc |
Beveridge, Robert |
Blakey, James |
Booth, Brenton |
Bracken, Michael |
Brown, Richard |
Burke, Wayne F. |
Burnwell, Otto |
Bush, Glen |
Campbell, J. J. |
Cancel, Charlie |
Capshaw, Ron |
Carr, Steve |
Carrabis, Joseph |
Cartwright, Steve |
Centorbi, David Calogero |
Cherches, Peter |
Christensen, Jan |
Clifton, Gary |
Cody, Bethany |
Costello, Bruce |
Coverly, Harris |
Crist, Kenneth James |
Cumming, Scott |
Davie, Andrew |
Davis, Michael D. |
Degani, Gay |
De Neve, M. A. |
Dillon, John J. |
Dinsmoor, Robert |
Dominguez, Diana |
Dorman, Roy |
Doughty, Brandon |
Doyle, John |
Dunham, T. Fox |
Ebel, Pamela |
Fagan, Brian Peter |
Fahy, Adrian |
Fillion, Tom |
Flynn, James |
Fortier, M. L. |
Fowler, Michael |
Galef, David |
Garnet, George |
Garrett, Jack |
Glass, Donald |
Govind, Chandu |
Graysol, Jacob |
Grech, Amy |
Greenberg, KJ Hannah |
Grey, John |
Hagerty, David |
Hardin, Scott |
Held, Shari |
Hicks, Darryl |
Hivner, Christopher |
Hoerner, Keith |
Hohmann, Kurt |
Holt, M. J. |
Holtzman, Bernard |
Holtzman, Bernice |
Holtzman, Rebecca |
Hopson, Kevin |
Hubbs, Damon |
Irwin, Daniel S. |
Jabaut, Mark |
Jermin, Wayne |
Jeschonek, Robert |
Johns. Roger |
Kanner, Mike |
Karl, Frank S. |
Kempe, Lucinda |
Kennedy, Cecilia |
Keshigian, Michael |
Kirchner, Craig |
Kitcher, William |
Kompany, James |
Kondek, Charlie |
Koperwas, Tom |
Kreuiter, Victor |
Larsen, Ted R. |
Le Due, Richard |
Leotta, Joan |
Lester, Louella |
Lubaczewski, Paul |
Lucas, Gregory E. |
Luer, Ken |
Lukas, Anthony |
Lyon, Hillary |
MacLeod, Scott |
Mannone, John C. |
Margel, Abe |
Martinez, Richard |
McConnell, Logan |
McQuiston, Rick |
Middleton, Bradford |
Milam, Chris |
Miller, Dawn L. C. |
Mladinic, Peter |
Mobili, Juan |
Mullins, Ian |
Myers, Beverle Graves |
Myers, Jen |
Newell, Ben |
Nielsen, Ayaz Daryl |
Nielsen, Judith |
Onken, Bernard |
Owen, Deidre J. |
Park, Jon |
Parker, Becky |
Pettus, Robert |
Plath, Rob |
Potter, Ann Marie |
Potter, John R. C. |
Price, Liberty |
Proctor, M. E. |
Prusky, Steve |
Radcliffe, Paul |
Reddick, Niles M. |
Reedman, Maree |
Reutter, G. Emil |
Riekki, Ron |
Robson, Merrilee |
Rockwood, KM |
Rollins, Janna |
Rose, Brad |
Rosmus, Cindy |
Ross, Gary Earl |
Rowland, C. A. |
Saier, Monique |
Sarkar, Partha |
Scharhag, Lauren |
Schauber, Karen |
Schildgen, Bob |
Schmitt, Di |
Sheff, Jake |
Sesling, Zvi E. |
Short, John |
Simpson, Henry |
Slota, Richelle Lee |
Smith, Elena E. |
Snell, Cheryl |
Snethen, Daniel G. |
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Steven, Michael |
Stoler, Cathi |
Stoll, Don |
Surkiewicz, Joe |
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Sweet, John |
Taylor, J. M. |
Taylor, Richard Allen |
Temples. Phillip |
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Traverso Jr., Dionisio "Don" |
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Turner, Lamont A. |
Tustin, John |
Tyrer, DJ |
Varghese, Davis |
Verlaine, Rp |
Viola, Saira |
Waldman, Dr. Mel |
Al Wassif, Amirah |
Weibezahl, Robert |
Weil, Lester L. |
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Weld, Charles |
White, Robb |
Wilhide, Zachary |
Williams, E. E. |
Williams, K. A. |
Wilsky, Jim |
Wiseman-Rose, Sophia |
Woods, Jonathan |
Young, Mark |
Zackel, Fred |
Zelvin, Elizabeth |
Zeigler, Martin |
Zimmerman, Thomas |
Zumpe, Lee Clark |
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Full, From the Grave by Craig Kirchner The limo,
gray leather seats, typical soft ride seemed to be driving itself. A cool, hushed
feeling of finality and freedom at about 50 per, willing without manipulating, despite
the new rain, the driver barely touching the wheel. Occasionally
rubbing the small container in his right pant pocket, Colton ponders Coppola’s
Count crossing the ocean, with his boxes of native soil, the ship on autopilot,
sailing itself to the new land, the next red light. An Altoids tin,
what’s that, three Tbsps. maybe? Alyson sitting next to Colton in her
full-length Victorian and black lipstick, tells him she saw him spoon the dirt
and that she collects clipped nails in a glass case. She keeps it in her room, and frequently
contributes, its major characteristic of course, it is dead, cut from life. Colton’s canister speaks in unfamiliar tones, never feels quite
the same each time he touches it. Only an hour old, it has become the charm, his luck piece,
the heirloom he’ll never lose, the collection he never had, the never handed-off
inheritance that evolves against his leg, and subtly intimates it will eventually grow
something if given a chance, perhaps help with his sleep. not even Baudelaire by Craig Kirchner I’m sitting with The Flowers of
Evil, in my favorite chair, best cognac, a small
reading-lamp the only light in an otherwise, dark room. Early evening
relaxation— this is as good as it gets. Back from a jog, you silently appear, hip-cocked
in the doorway, dirty blonde shook forward, framing
Lopez lips in an incredible ensemble of white
cotton panties and gym socks. I tilt the
shade like a spotlight, thinking maybe a little bump & grind, instead,
you drop to your knees— your reality
more intense than one could possibly write— ever so
lewdly crawls across the Persian rug, gives even
the goldfish gooseflesh, and a hard-on. No one
could make you up, not even Baudelaire.
Dream
Doctor by Craig Kirchner Silence
between the bedclothes on a quiet
afternoon, has a rose reverence, a
calming pace, a new tranquility,
defined by space. The bed is sturdy, four
legs solid on the floor, mega-stones
set just so by Ancients, pushed under
the window with a view of the lake. The geese like June Taylor dancers all turn at once, choreographed in Vs, and me pondering nefarious formations, to a deep lazy sleep. Grasping
pointlessly at reeds and mud as
the lake drains through an hourglass funnel, falling
to dust, dirt, and deep dimensions
below the bed, where worker ants are sticking to the plan, stacking symmetrically, motivated to give time space and space time in a prime meridian castle for their Queen. The
Dream Interpreter arrives with a clipboard, measuring
latitude and longitude, describing
taste as color, intuition as liquid and
pain in geometric shapes. REM eyes dot anew tunnels of archeology and Druids. Geese and Jurassic antennae stay busy, anticipating his monthly visit, through circles of pink quilt, mounds, sneezes, and Stonehenge.
Neon
poem by Craig
Kirchner Throw away
your mascara, mousse and underwear. Wear these lines for a week, just
one week, not a long time. Let
the words mold your face, drape
your shoulders, your delicate breasts. Let the lyric infuse your dreams, scent your pillows, press
your thighs with invisible weight. At the
end of the week if these Emperor’s clothes are your neon poem, call me. I’ll be here on hold, won’t
have eaten but won’t rewrite. You
are new ink that will not dry.
Evening alone by Craig Kirchner It was a third-floor apartment, with patio doors off the living room to a porch
looking out onto a 4-lane, busy
with traffic, Moravia Road. Evening’s
gray was giving an edge, to
the exiting orange-glow of the day that
was leaving through those doors, at
about the same pace the Sunshine Acid I’d
put on my tongue a half hour ago, was
coming-on. In harmony with this transition I left the
lights off, a bit anxious, synapses
popping behind wet eyes, that when the total dark of night controlled
the room I would be peaking
in its grasp. This tic was replaced by a dawning sense
of warm euphoria as
the room settled into a soft humid glow and Eleanor Rigby’s scraping bows of violins were totally
liquid within me. I
was as alone with its pulsing, as
Father Mackenzie and
the other lonely people. The darkness, now part of my psyche, gave a nocturnal
life to the walls, blooming
with energy, textured
like fog— even
the nap of my flannel pants was
quivering with a warmth, and
life of its own. I opened the
curtains, as
the beige street globes came on, adding
color and definition to
the traffic that flowed down
roads connecting the
parking lot below, to the planet, trailers
of headlights branching out in
all directions to everything. Turning back
to the sofa I
felt a squash under foot, as
the large-leafed fern let
out a howl of psychedelic mishap, bleeding
green ooze under my now heavy, traumatized
Cole Haan suedes.
Larry, Moe, and me by Craig
Kirchner Panhandlers in
Ocean City awaiting
draft physicals on Ninth Street— never really owing
what we didn’t have, and
what else is there. Attic rooms on Third St., cold shower stall
in the yard, 2x4’s
of worn white paint and body odor. We stole cigarettes from Ding Bell’s and wine money
from pocketbooks. Moe surfed the big
board, never
tilted pinball and cheated at cards. Tuesdays Larry
shagged the landlady. She
lived on the first floor and had a TV. We watched Sirhan
and Westmoreland while
her tits bounced. She had a freckled throat, and feverish flush— her sofa smelled
of coconut and cum. Mondays and Wednesdays I’d meet Muriel
after her shift at Phillips Crab House. She was slightly plump, with underaged baby fat, peachy locomotive skin and long straight blonde hair full of August sun. She loved dry-humping, and smelled like piecrust and Old Bay. Thursdays
the Steakhouse had all you could eat. Weekends
were parties in the dunes. We
were barefoot and free, like
wind-tossed kites above the beach, indifferent,
invincible but
fragile if touched, denying
such wreckage falling to the sand, the
summer was ours and
there really was nothing else.
First at Pimlico by
Craig Kirchner She
was sitting at the counter in the Diner, black bob,
I think they call it; thin, reminded me
of Popeye’s Olive Oyl. I was sitting in
front of the window, at one of those tables wide
enough for a coffee and an elbow. We
made eye contact and she smiled, got up, walked
to my table, opened her
raincoat to black lace underwear, and thigh-high
black boots. She was built better than
Olive. “We need to get to
the track.” I paid for the
coffee, put my arm around her closing
the coat, and ushered her to the parking lot. “We
need to make the first race.” “I’ve
never gotten this response to the raincoat thing, it’s
refreshing, but I don’t drive. Lost my
license, so I sold the car.” “Do you
have a phone? Good, call a cab. I dreamt that
the winner of the first race pays $22.60.” “Do
you always take your dreams so seriously?” “No,
never actually. But in this dream, you…. you, came up
to me,
opened your raincoat to that
outfit, and told me you loved horses but didn’t
drive.”
4 A.M. by
Craig Kirchner I’m sitting alone at 4 A.M. drinking a delicious Pinot, and attempting, pretending, here at the desk, to write something interesting or perhaps entertaining. Since nothing is
coming, I suppose instead, that I’m
the most expensive bottle of Pinot
Noir, let’s say in Florida, and
I’m given the choice of whom I will be consumed by. Add to that the
lucky selectant, doesn’t
necessarily need to be someone who can
afford me, and the musings
jump to more important criteria. It should be someone who will savor my essence, and appreciate my intensity and vintage. Someone whose deft handling, and patient swirling with the tongue will make this the experience of a lifetime. It will need to be
someone who doesn’t hate, someone
empathetic, a lover of animals and children, all
living things. Sophisticated, enough to look
good in the process, and no anxiety.
Anxiety is bad for digestion. They should be interesting and entertaining, They should be capable of conveying the experience to
others, the majesty of the moment, capable of writing it down at 4 A.M., if that is what becomes necessary.
Leap Year by
Craig Kirchner Time, imprisoned, like the mouse, trying to run with the perfect rhythm to keep up with the wheel. No one is exactly
sure when he was encaged, locked into
calendars and clocks for a sentence of years,
decades, eons. He was free as a bird, no names, specifications, starting points, just wandering through the universe of existence, and then a pause,
everything changed. he was enslaved
with Februarys and Julys, Mondays, A.M.s and
P.M.s. The remodel was supposedly to save daylight, and the perpetual keeping up would need be adjusted every so often, like when you
started tiring or looked over your
shoulder, leapt to catch up, or
perhaps take a bite.
Craig Kirchner is
retired and thinks of poetry as hobo art. He loves storytelling
and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He has had
two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of
Navels. He houses 500 books in his office and about 400 poems in a folder on a laptop.
These words tend to keep him straight. After
a writing hiatus he was recently published in Poetry
Quarterly, Decadent Review, New World Writing,
Neologism, The Light Ekphrastic, Unlikely Stories, Wild Violet, Last Stanza, Unbroken,
W-Poesis, The Globe Review, Skinny, Your Impossible Voice, Fairfield Scribes, Spillwords,
WitCraft, Bombfire, Ink in Thirds, Ginosko, Last Leaves, Literary Heist,
Blotter, Quail Bell , Ariel Chart, Lit Shark, Gas, Teach-Write, and has work forthcoming
in Cape, Scars, Yellow Mama, Rundelania, Flora Fiction, Young Ravens, Loud Coffee
Press, Versification,
Vine Leaf Press, Edge of Humanity and the Journal of Expressive Writing.
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