Valentine's Day at the Loser's Bar & Grill

I.
I'm unlucky in love
and not so hot with the lottery
I'm the last to get the flowers and the first to forget the day
I'm the Valentine loser
always with the excuse to go with the no date

Next year will be different
so just stick with me baby.

II.
I stand under the street light
Nursing my last cigarette I look at my watch
and figure, "You're not coming"

and that reservation for the restaurant
you said you liked so much
May as well go and get myself drunk

It starts to snow
and I think, 'this is all I need'
to get cold and wet
to go with my attitude
to go with my life.

I pull out your number and trudge to the nearest phone booth
I dial the number and get your voice mail

III

The crowd sure is noisy
and the couples are having fun
there's love in the air
and lust in the voice

but as for me
I sit here alone
let me sit here my friend
and for the price of a scotch
I'll reveal the secrets of this day

Love is for losers, for dreamers, for chumps
it binds you and gags you and ties you up in knots
it drags you to the top and pushes you down the steps
each step is a new experience
and there's excitement and joy
but at the bottom is a pillow
over a hard concrete floor.

just remember it fun for a moment
but hurts like hell when you crash
so stay as you are and watch the lovers fry.

I thank him for his thought
and say 'give the man a scotch'
we both raise our drinks and
clink our glasses in salute.

This issue features a new writer, some old friends and some writers we haven't seen for a while.  Thanks all for contributing your work.  If you ever want to write to any of the poets, just e-mail me and I'll forward your mail to them.

Grave

I brought someone new into Volon today
and told them tales of you.
Over mountains in Colorado he and I flew
and then to a valley of sorrow, one you and I never knew.
Finally, I took him back to reality and left him at the door
I then turned back to return and visit our land once more.
I visited the ruins of our castle
and found your tombstone there.
I left a white rose upon the ground,
and my tears dropped onto your grave.
Is it true you've really gone?
Then why does it seems
you still walk on with me,
watching,
conversing?

Valerie Schwander
 
 
 

Cutout #01

For these squealing girls
The Devil's Throat, somewhere ahead
In the grounds of our upmarket hotel
"Cameras," shouts the boatman
Throw in cute little raccoons who nibble handouts
Sure, some of them have been outraged
Afterwards, he'll lick his cubs clean

Cutout #02

She lies in her high
lying in mud. She can hear
She is interested in all this, but
she felt as a child, dawdling
and pressed for time
took a dim view of certain types of
graceful neck and bare brown arms

Cutout #03

nothing quite as beautiful as
the surface, deeper than most
new death is met with a sharp intake
and dope. People sit for days
to recover the bodies found
or sit glued to a Nintendo screen.
And money is rarely an object.

Cutout #04

the garden. We ate it with some
need to feed the starving.
more interesting than suggesting
Politics - or science - gets in the way.
Where a belly meets the brain.
questions go to the heart of our hopes
about whether we're getting a fair deal.

Cutout #05

fate has in store to punish us
too much good luck
hopefully nothing worse will happen
can't just enjoy good fortune
thinking about how fat you'll be
ask the questions, hold the answers and rule
in tight trousers and a shirt unbuttoned to the waist.
 

Cutout #01 © George Anotnakos 2000
Samples used from:- 'Falling Down' by Alistair Smith and
'Talk to the animals' by Sue Williams, The Sun-Herald Magazine,
SundayLife! 16 January 2000
© John Fairfax Publications Pty Ltd

Cutout #02 © George Antonakos 2000
Samples used from:- 'Back from the dead' by Jane Wheatley and
'How to impress girls' by Robert Drewe The Sydney Morning Herald Magazine,
Good Weekend 26 February 2000
© John Fairfax Publications Pty Ltd

Cutout #03 © George Antonakos 2000
Samples used from:- 'The rapture of the deep' by Thornton McCamish and
'Golden slumbers' by Nicki Gostin, The Sydney Morning Herald Magazine,
Good Weekend March 25, 2000
© John Fairfax Publications Pty Ltd

Cutout #04 © George Antonakos 2000
Samples used from:- 'Good taste prevails' by John Newton and
'State of the union' by Bettina Arndt, The Sydney Morning Herald Magazine,
Good Weekend April 15, 2000
© John Fairfax Publications Pty Ltd
 

Cutout #05 © George Antonakos 2000
Samples used from:- 'The dark side' by Jane Freeman and
'Stand by your man' by Sue Williams, The Sun-Herald Magazine,
SundayLife!, 23 April 2000
© John Fairfax Publications Pty Ltd
 

Bondi Beach
                    I'm smoking dreams

                                                           Mind Is

                                                            MIND is a SAO biscuit
                                                            BODY is a sausage roll
                                                            HEART is a pavlova
                                                            POLITICS is a lawnmower
                                                            SPIRIT is a cigarette .

' Cutouts  1-5' used words samples cut from the weekend magazines of the Sydney Morning Herald and the Sun-Herald. Published by the Fairfax Press. I requested an opinion from Fairfax at the time regarding copyright and the use of the samples. They replied that although it would not be their general policy to approve such use of their text,'...it would be admissible for you to use the words in the format you suggest as the act (copyright) allows for such small quantities of words to be used without our permission."'Bondi Beach' was shortlisted for Sydney's Waverly Council's 'Written in Sand' project - only eight selected.
  © George  Antonakos 2000
 

A WEEPING WILLOW

It's so cold out here that tears turn to snowflakes,
And snowflakes wisp themselves merrily amoung the wind
Whipping thru the leaf emptied long branches
Of a crying lone
Willow

Wishing its greenery back would be futile
Against a cruel purple November sky-
And so it goes-
The cycle of life
The cycle of love.
wallow your saltwater tears
And be brave my friend-
For you are stronger
For you are older and
Therefore, wiser than most.
And beckon the howling winds of winter to dare fling wildly your
branches
For bend you will
But never break.
And as the snowflakes knit themselves into a coat about you,
Bask yourself into the warmth of its lining
And rest your bark peacefully amidst a nesting crow or two.

And I

I will pluck the last yellowed leaf to dry a fallen tear
And squirrel away its memories within my broken heart,
Until the spring returns to you your greenery
And unto me-
A long lost lover of long ago.

Aaron LaFlora
18 noviembre 2000
Copyrighted
 

My Pale Wailing Moon

P aled,

On Being Joy

The maples bow kindly in a welcoming embrace
As I laggardly pass through them and pull into the
Driveway of the large red house where an old woman

Bakes me cookies, banana bread and implores that I cannot leave yet
Because "the apple crisp will be done in just 5 more minutes."
She calls me Joy though that not be my name but
I don't mind if it makes her happy.
She feels safe enough to invite me into her old house
Where posts warning solicitors and just about everyone else to stay
away
Adorn her front door.
And she feels comfortable enough to have me into her house of disarray
where
Two old mutt- dogs bark to greet me while
Sniffing out the unfamiliar scents between my thighs until
I pet them just enough
That they settle in next to a foot
And coo softly their wishes of being young enough
To once again run and fetch that tennis ball in the corner of the
hallway
Which now lays still and covered with dust.
I ponder the memories this room must have once held
With eyes shut briefly
Interrupted by an
Old voice which lays a plate of steaming apple crisp
Onto a dusty wooden table laden with bible and slices of paper
prophesies
hidden beneath it.
She watches anxiously as I lift the steamy fruit onto my tongue and
then
Her Yellowed teeth beam into a smile as I nod graciously in approval.
Soon,
She'll fill my arms with banana bread and a slice from that bibled
paper's
prophesies
While
We tenderly hug our farewells.
And she'll once again call me Joy
Though that be not my name,
But I never mind if that is what makes her happy.

Aaron LaFlora
20 octubre 2001
 
 

http://www.pointoflife.com
 

The Lost Scent

I imagine Father splayed
on the closet floor --
its gritty carpet, possum fur
after the wide-eyed wreck --
mixing a bottled tear with
the lost scent of your blood.
Shoveling through broken-backed shoes --
tongues still promising toes.
The sandal there.  The summer gone.

Grabbing the white-toothed moon,
sleeping on sore red gums.
Shepherd of lost leaves,
stricken wish, lamenting
the way the pollen just goes
and the burlap stays.
Tripping on empty sweater sleeves,
on the end of the dance.
Hanger's point in cornea.

    by Janet I. Buck

***First Published in Retort Magazine

Assuming the Snake

Acquainted with leathery coils
and tune-less scales,
mirrors steamed in the bruise
of settled blood,
it's easy to assume
a trail of slithering snakes,
let the desert just be
in the sand.
The sculpture unfinished
and soft.
Easy to refrain
from lifting the rock,
disturbing the soil,
from planting
untrustable tulip bulbs,
from taking the burlap
off of the roots.

Trained by
the glare of the dark,
it's easy to let the puppet
of hope fall between
the gaping cracks.
To lump all men
into the jagged
and dangerous reef,
consider the shark
the meat of the sea.
Be certain that stars
wear garlands of thorns.
To hat the head,
love the closet for the door.
To pitch an iffy diaphragm,
masturbate like violins.
Keep fingers
in condoms of gloves.
Consider the moon
a leper in white.

    by Janet I. Buck

***First Published in Retort Magazine

Mushroom Caps

T omorrow is always a queasy plank.
I'll spend the winter's oiled cloud
with my chin in the cup
of your shoulder blade.
Cross my toes with yours, genuflect
against the pressing thump of time.
These days, the carousel is tired,
but we went to the summer fair,
slobbered cotton candy style,
wore translucent pink
on rolled-up, wrinkled sleeves.
We drew the unguarded breath,
took a long drag
off the shortened stick.
We popped a button
in the gust of reach.

I stare at your face,
its creased mosaic,
veins of sapphire
miming the moon at dusk.
Eyelids of old mushroom caps,
this is our lot, this sag.
When the sack breaks
into the manger of death,
I shall know we loved
as mosquitoes bite, swell, explode.
Leaving a mark behind.
This dream did do that nervous jump,
land on haggard fours,
sway to the jazz of the dance,
consider the sweat a perfect rain
that went to puddle, then to stream,
then to river, then to sea.
The curve of the shore
was worth this salt.

    by Janet I. Buck
 

The Miracle of the Kisses

That night, the cock denied him thrice.
 His mother and the whore downloaded him,
nails etched into his palms,
his thorny forehead glistening,
 his body speared.
He wanted to revive unto their moisture.
 But the nauseating scents of vinegar and Roman legionnaires,
 the dampness of the cave,
and then that final stone...
 His brain wide open, supper digested
that was to have been his last.
 He missed so his disciples,
 the miracle of their kisses.
He was determined not to decompose.
 
 

  When you wake the morning

When you wake the morning
red headed children shimmer in your eyes.
 The veinous map of sun drenched eyelids
 flutters
 throbbing topography.
Your muscles ripple.
 Scared animals burrow
under your dewey skin.
Frozen light sculptures
where wrinkles dwell.
 Embroidered shades,
in thick-maned tapestry.
 Your lips depart in scarlet,
flesh to withering flesh,
and breath in curved tranquility
escapes the flaring nostrils.
 Your warmth invades my sweat,
your lips leave skin regards
on my humidity.
Eyelashes clash. 

Fearful Love 

Cherubim turn swords,
cast flaming fig leaves
on a cursed ground.
With bruised heels
we labour
among the bitten,
festering fruits of our ignorance,
making thorns and thistles
of our crowns.
In the sweat of our faces,
a pheromonic resonance.
In our dusty hearts,
skinclad, in cleavage,
we hope to live forever,
flesh closed upon itself,
conceiving sorrow.
Our trees are pleasant to the sight
of gold and onyxstone
and every beast and fowl has its name
except for our nakedness.
In a garden of talking serpents,
cool days and lying Gods,
I betray you to the voice
and hide.

Snowflake Haiku

Where I begin
your end
snowflake haikus
melt into
crystalline awareness.

I guard
your quivered sleep.
Your skin beats moisture.
The beckoning jugular
that is your mind.

My pointing teeth.

A universe
of frozen sharp relief,
the icy darts your voice
in my inebriated veins
in yours.

Sam Vaknin is the author of "Malignant Self Love - Narcissism Revisited" and "After the Rain - How the West Lost the East". He is a columnist in "Central Europe Review", United Press International (UPI) and ebookweb.org and the editor of mental health and Central East Europe categories in The Open Directory, Suite101 and searcheurope.com. Until recently, he served as the Economic Advisor to the Government of Macedonia. His web site: http://samvak.tripod.com

EARLY RETIREMENT

In 1931

When I was a young boy in the depression days,
Toys where really scares, You made your own,
So in the driveway, I set me up a farm,
From milk weed pods, I built my cow,
After my Mother had shown me how.
Big ones for the body’s small ones for the heads,
Crossed sticks made the legs, a short stick for a neck,
So now I need a fence, I stuck some sticks in a line,
Corner posts must be big to build a good fence,
With my Dads hammer I drove in the corner posts,
And knew I had better put it back real quick,
 

I left my farm for a while, never a thought,
About my Dad coming home,
He ran over my fence and said , “ what if I’d gotten
a flat tire”
And I was guilty with no Defense,
So as a young farmer, I was forcible persuaded to retire.

LeRoy Doran
 

THE FLAME-SWALLOWER

You could see him flaring over all
the headlights, López Mateos
esquina con Paseo Alamedas, Atizapán:
a spectacle for rush-hour stopped cars,
motorists impatient with their pesos.

She was appalled. A nudge and whisper
to her driver took a whole romance
of Spanish to convey. But finally,
speechless beside her in the backseat,
he was bound away from his bright pobreza.
And only at night after prayers, alone,
dares he tip his throat
and flick with his tongue
a word, offering
to the black night past his window
to swallow a fire you could see
under all the stopped stars.


BRYANT PARK, A PHOTO

Snow is never the same, and always
accumulating, sublimating cold to cold
as two old lovers turn their backs
on the lens to walk away, together
in charcoal winter-coats
under dark umbrellas, growing
smaller with each step. Each
step leaves its brief imprint,
dusted over with snow and filled
until you’d never know they walked
here, but for this gelatin-
silver instant, black
on grainy white. Snow, years.


BY THE GATE

The others look like
they’d just come in
off patrol:
the doughy cheeks, blood-
encrusted lipstick, raw eyes,
stern shoulders holding up coats
with brass buttons.
They smell of cigarettes.

She’s out of place
as a passion flower.

You know it wouldn’t be safe
to stand beside her.
You never could find a way
past all the others
to hold her hand.

Oh yes you could.


PRINT FROM AN OLD ROMANCE

The courtyard captures moonlight
flat, with black etching
at the edge of cobble, stucco, tile.
Under a full moon it keeps
its margins secret. Half
the pool of a fountain, half
the petals on gathered boughs.
A partial arch, a hint of window
where perhaps the curve of a cheek
or eyebrow suggests someone
waits. Shadows are wrought
in iron. She's somewhere on the other
side of lace.


Taylor Graham
piper@innercite.com

Closing Words

    So remember everyone, to get those cards, flowers and spend that time with that special person.  Get right close and squeeze each other.
    March will feature an interview with Christine Fellows.  Her new CD is coming out on March 5th, so I'm going to push myself to get the next issue out by that day.  I'm going to have information as to where you can purchase it.  If you can't wait visit her website http://www.christinefellows.com .   You'll find all the information you need to purchase it.  There's also her biography and some mp3's of songs.  Since she gives the permission to download, do it, and enjoy listening to her voice and the words of her music.
    I'm always looking for contributors of any style of work and anything that interests you.  If you have written a review of a book, movie, piece of music and you want it published, send it along.  There's always space available.

For more information about "Above Ground Testing", you can visit my website at https://www.angelfire.com/on/abovegroundtesting , or you can write me at pabear_7@yahoo.com .  I've updated my archive and so just follow the link from the homepage.

All work is copyrighted and belongs to the individual creators.  Respect their efforts.
©2002

this issue is dedicated to the memory of Peter Gzowski.  He was the voice of Canada and Canadians through his radio program "Morningside".  I was a faithful listener and did have the chance to meet and thank him for making me feel good to be a Canadian.  I also have somewhere in my possession an autographed caricature of him.  His final program was a couple of years ago and yes I did cry at the end.
    thank you Peter for telling me Canada is filled with fascinating people with interesting lives.  You will be missed.