Yellow Mama Archives II

Craig Kirchner

Acuff, Gale
Ahern, Edward
Allen, R. A.
Alleyne, Chris
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
Burke, Wayne F.
Burnwell, Otto
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
Fillion, Tom
Fortier, M. L.
Fowler, Michael
Galef, David
Garnet, George
Garrett, Jack
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
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, John R. C.
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
Sesling, Zvi E.
Short, John
Simpson, Henry
Slota, Richelle Lee
Smith, Elena E.
Snell, Cheryl
Snethen, Daniel G.
Steven, Michael
Stoler, Cathi
Stoll, Don
Surkiewicz, Joe
Swartz, Justin
Taylor, J. M.
Temples. Phillip
Tobin, Tim
Traverso Jr., Dionisio "Don"
Turner, Lamont A.
Tustin, John
Tyrer, DJ
Varghese, Davis
Verlaine, Rp
Viola, Saira
Waldman, Dr. Mel
Al Wassif, Amirah
Weibezahl, Robert
Weil, Lester L.
Weisfeld, Victoria
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

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.

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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