The Best of Mad Swirl : 06.29.13
"A man will die, a writer, the instrument of creation: but what he has created will never die!" Luigi Pirandello
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Paradise by the Sea series (above) by Toni Martin.
We are proud to bring back artist Toni Martin to the virtual version of our stage here at Mad Swirl. Why? Because we figured we might not be the only ones wanting an encore from this wonderfully mad artist. Her latest batch, although swirled up with the same contagious madness, is much different than what you might expect. If you're expecting, for example, the beautiful Britney Murphy-esque painting she shared with us a few months ago. Or the numerous works with eyes that captured a certain something inside of you. This time Toni brings us much more obscure works (and perhaps all the more captivating?) from a collection called 'Paradise by the Sea'. She seems to be telling us a story. The oceanic patterns, the paint splatters making waves on the canvases... it almost feels like something lost. Or perhaps something found? Maybe you'll be able to tell us how this visual story starts and ends? You know you wanna... - Madelyn Olson
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we braved a bleary-eyed, post-dawn breakfast with dogs and dancing butts; we swaggered from summer boardwalk wiggle to tenor sax tickled dad's child's giggle; we suffered death, bereavement and pain to inherit the benefit of capital gain; we ogled indiscreetly, breasts and thighs, were stripped, not neatly, by feminine wiles; we weighed the worth of why to dwell under a wonderful witch's spell; we quelled a monster, quick and terse, restored our garden of love and verse; we stuck through mug-sucking, side sticking, road riding, grappling with non-querulous queries. No joke; we don't know. Road broke with just enough for a cuppa joe. Sip, sigh an' simmer down, now; that sharp insight is coming 'round, now... ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
americana
i remember, early friday morning is
your scraped knees
pushed through the driver’s seat
& my hair stuck in the headrest
(back before i cut it short).
we & no one else to keep us
from windows down and
heat high, fan on 4:
time measured in afternoon cartoons
moves no faster & all trees
blur from windows at parkway speeds.
i remember you, in savoring gasps
between gusts of wind & the clicks
when cassette tapes flip sides.
it’s those breaths, when you ask:
are we dust in brunch table sunlight?
to float & settle & float again
in coffee/tea with too much sugar,
& stick to the sides of the mug?
- Andrew Chmielowiec
(1 poem added 06.29.13)
editor's note: Roadtrip deconstructions, asking hard questions; accepting no answers but what the wind blows through. Open window, open mind. - mh
Parts one and two
Love is my destiny, part one.
Poetry is my honey nectar,
Part two –
Its sweetness slowly
Sliding down my chin.
I shall not live
In fear of hairy,
Cowardly monsters
That move quietly
In the dark still
Of the night planting
Injustice
In my fertile garden.
- Dawnell Harrison
(1 poem added 06.28.13)
editor's note: Monster, don't trample, but tip toe; let injustice not take root, or take no part in one or two. - mh
Witch Calling
You call me witch in a delicious sort of way,
That doesn’t hint at piled wood,
Nooses, or water boarding of any kind.
Rather you rasp the word,
As if it slid slowly down your tongue
Lightly skipping each taste bud,
Committing to memory the savor of my skin,
And your eyes never leave my lips
As if you might miss one smile,
Or something more precious to you.
Good witch, or bad, I tease.
And you rumble “mine”
In a way that makes me shiver warm.
I would ask you what sorcery I do,
But you would list the things
I am without thinking,
The glow of my skin
Barely an inch from your fingers,
The tiny moan you catch in a kiss,
The arch of hip to hip,
These things you call magicks.
You call me witch,
Your hand in my hair
Holding me steady
So my eyes will not close
When you kiss me again,
Whispering my name
As if the spirits would carry it
To Hecate’s throne
Leaving me your witch,
Forever and a day
My oh so sweet Familiar.
- Lisa Shields
(1 poem added 06.27.13)
editor's note: A non-vexed victim names happiness and hexer in one. Witchcraft most wonderful; what she is without thinking. (With this poem, we welcome Lisa to our crazy collection of Contributing Poets. See more of her madness on her new page.) - mh
TRAVELING MAN
Another stripper in another town.
This one dances on a table
like all the other tables.
And it’s the same dance surely,
because look at those legs.
Those are Fargo, North Dakota legs.
They’re Melbourne, Florida legs.
And they move the same way
they moved in Baltimore and Kansas City.
So he feels like the same
jaded piece of crap
he was in Baton Rouge
and in Spokane
and in Des Moines.
No matter where you are it’s always the same.
Women get naked.
Men beat them to it.
- John Grey
(1 poem added 06.26.13)
editor's note: Yup! Naked; our erotic imaginings. But no guy can guess what she's thinking; except, for sure, it's not about us. - mh
Cunning
Dad was a hunter of first report.
He paid big bucks to have all of his trophies stuffed.
He had a menagerie of stuffed birds, animals,
and even a few fish.
When his will was read, he left his collection of trophies
to his family. His oldest son got first choice and
so on down the line.
My older brother, Charles, took a realistic
looking cougar with its mouth wide open and a
paw ready to strike. My older sister, Margie
took a giant swordfish.
So it went until we came to David, my 13 year
old nephew. To everyone's surprise, he wanted a giant
moose head.
His parents were dismayed, but they helped him
haul it away. We all wondered what fascination
that scroungy old taxidermy held for the boy.
I saw him a week later at a family dinner, and I
asked about his newest possession. I knew something was up
when he gave me a huge smile.
He told me that he didn't have that moose head anymore.
He wrinkled his nose as he told me that he
had sold it on eBay for 200 bucks.
- Mike Berger
(1 poem added 06.25.13)
editor's note: Legacy loved for gain leaves "richer" remembrance. - mh
STREET PEOPLE
Crowds at dusk
with summer here
at the last rainbow
of some Friday night
dry out on the town,
with a lighter arm
of short shirtsleeves
tasting the smoke
among the barbeques
in fires of hot stoves
by skinny rows
of street people
listening to my alto sax
on the loudspeaker
along the waterfront
breaking glasses
of wine with waves
for tourist friends
on a boardwalk of trees
where crows try to rest
on park back benches
and a new born
on his father's shoulder
goes berserk with laughter.
- B.Z. Niditch
(1 poem added 06.24.13)
editor's note: A great snapshot, reflected in the golden glint of a tenor sax. Summertime! - mh
Valparaiso in the morning
sheets of milky mist caress the steep, winding hills.
decrepit seafront homes are inhabited by 18th century ghosts.
A lonely cigarette butt dances down a side street with
the help of a gust of sea breeze.
Seagulls in congress talking about the night before.
A pack of street dogs eating breakfast together in a desolate square.
Mildew collects on top of an empty beer can.
Valparaiso in the morning!
- Luke Ritta
(1 poem added 06.23.13)
editor's note: A familiar sight the world over for midnight marauders caught after sunup. - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Of course you do! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Coffee Break" by Roger Real Drouin: "As long as there’s coffee in the world, we can drink away all the heartache and all the girls. Is that true? Think about it as you walk lonely into the forested abyss." Here's a taste to tease your eyeballs...
(photo by Tyler Malone)
Under one of the oaks of the dense hammock, Bryan poured the last of the coffee from the thermos into the stainless mug. / It would have been good on ice, but it was strong coffee, and it would do and hold him over until they got to camp. The tiny myrtle warblers traded calls and flickered through the oak’s shadows. / The hound mutt lay across the only patch of light coming through the hammock, listening to the warblers, and Bryan remembered one of those mornings when he’d wake early and get out the muddy hiking boots and the lanky and lean pup would start running in circles in the small apartment. She knew what the boots meant, that the weekend had come, that they’d ride out in the old truck...
Get the rest of your read on here...
••• Open Mic •••
Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of July (aka 07.03.13) at 8:00 sharp when we will swirl it up madly in the live way that we do every month. Get to the Lounge early, dig upon the musical musings of Swirve and this month's feature, poet Christopher Soden! And stick around after our feature set to get your madness on one of the 17 spots on our list... first come, first on the list! Which means... get there early!
Come one, come all! Mad poets, musicians, actors, singers, circus freaks and Elvis impersonators... come-n-strut-yo-stuff. Come to participate. Come to appreciate. Come to celebrate. Come to be a part of this collective creative love child we affectionately call Mad Swirl.
Got questions? Visit www.MadSwirl.com for more details.
AND, as you may or may not know, every 1st Wednesday we get all giddy with the swirlin' madness. COMING SOON:
August: TBA
September: Hep Kat Mama
October: Rafael Andrade Garza
November: Cheyenne Gallion
December: Chris Zimmerly
•••••••
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the mad conversations going on in Mad Swirl's World? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...
Livin' On,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
We are proud to bring back artist Toni Martin to the virtual version of our stage here at Mad Swirl. Why? Because we figured we might not be the only ones wanting an encore from this wonderfully mad artist. Her latest batch, although swirled up with the same contagious madness, is much different than what you might expect. If you're expecting, for example, the beautiful Britney Murphy-esque painting she shared with us a few months ago. Or the numerous works with eyes that captured a certain something inside of you. This time Toni brings us much more obscure works (and perhaps all the more captivating?) from a collection called 'Paradise by the Sea'. She seems to be telling us a story. The oceanic patterns, the paint splatters making waves on the canvases... it almost feels like something lost. Or perhaps something found? Maybe you'll be able to tell us how this visual story starts and ends? You know you wanna... - Madelyn Olson
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we braved a bleary-eyed, post-dawn breakfast with dogs and dancing butts; we swaggered from summer boardwalk wiggle to tenor sax tickled dad's child's giggle; we suffered death, bereavement and pain to inherit the benefit of capital gain; we ogled indiscreetly, breasts and thighs, were stripped, not neatly, by feminine wiles; we weighed the worth of why to dwell under a wonderful witch's spell; we quelled a monster, quick and terse, restored our garden of love and verse; we stuck through mug-sucking, side sticking, road riding, grappling with non-querulous queries. No joke; we don't know. Road broke with just enough for a cuppa joe. Sip, sigh an' simmer down, now; that sharp insight is coming 'round, now... ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
americana
i remember, early friday morning is
your scraped knees
pushed through the driver’s seat
& my hair stuck in the headrest
(back before i cut it short).
we & no one else to keep us
from windows down and
heat high, fan on 4:
time measured in afternoon cartoons
moves no faster & all trees
blur from windows at parkway speeds.
i remember you, in savoring gasps
between gusts of wind & the clicks
when cassette tapes flip sides.
it’s those breaths, when you ask:
are we dust in brunch table sunlight?
to float & settle & float again
in coffee/tea with too much sugar,
& stick to the sides of the mug?
- Andrew Chmielowiec
(1 poem added 06.29.13)
editor's note: Roadtrip deconstructions, asking hard questions; accepting no answers but what the wind blows through. Open window, open mind. - mh
Parts one and two
Love is my destiny, part one.
Poetry is my honey nectar,
Part two –
Its sweetness slowly
Sliding down my chin.
I shall not live
In fear of hairy,
Cowardly monsters
That move quietly
In the dark still
Of the night planting
Injustice
In my fertile garden.
- Dawnell Harrison
(1 poem added 06.28.13)
editor's note: Monster, don't trample, but tip toe; let injustice not take root, or take no part in one or two. - mh
Witch Calling
You call me witch in a delicious sort of way,
That doesn’t hint at piled wood,
Nooses, or water boarding of any kind.
Rather you rasp the word,
As if it slid slowly down your tongue
Lightly skipping each taste bud,
Committing to memory the savor of my skin,
And your eyes never leave my lips
As if you might miss one smile,
Or something more precious to you.
Good witch, or bad, I tease.
And you rumble “mine”
In a way that makes me shiver warm.
I would ask you what sorcery I do,
But you would list the things
I am without thinking,
The glow of my skin
Barely an inch from your fingers,
The tiny moan you catch in a kiss,
The arch of hip to hip,
These things you call magicks.
You call me witch,
Your hand in my hair
Holding me steady
So my eyes will not close
When you kiss me again,
Whispering my name
As if the spirits would carry it
To Hecate’s throne
Leaving me your witch,
Forever and a day
My oh so sweet Familiar.
- Lisa Shields
(1 poem added 06.27.13)
editor's note: A non-vexed victim names happiness and hexer in one. Witchcraft most wonderful; what she is without thinking. (With this poem, we welcome Lisa to our crazy collection of Contributing Poets. See more of her madness on her new page.) - mh
TRAVELING MAN
Another stripper in another town.
This one dances on a table
like all the other tables.
And it’s the same dance surely,
because look at those legs.
Those are Fargo, North Dakota legs.
They’re Melbourne, Florida legs.
And they move the same way
they moved in Baltimore and Kansas City.
So he feels like the same
jaded piece of crap
he was in Baton Rouge
and in Spokane
and in Des Moines.
No matter where you are it’s always the same.
Women get naked.
Men beat them to it.
- John Grey
(1 poem added 06.26.13)
editor's note: Yup! Naked; our erotic imaginings. But no guy can guess what she's thinking; except, for sure, it's not about us. - mh
Cunning
Dad was a hunter of first report.
He paid big bucks to have all of his trophies stuffed.
He had a menagerie of stuffed birds, animals,
and even a few fish.
When his will was read, he left his collection of trophies
to his family. His oldest son got first choice and
so on down the line.
My older brother, Charles, took a realistic
looking cougar with its mouth wide open and a
paw ready to strike. My older sister, Margie
took a giant swordfish.
So it went until we came to David, my 13 year
old nephew. To everyone's surprise, he wanted a giant
moose head.
His parents were dismayed, but they helped him
haul it away. We all wondered what fascination
that scroungy old taxidermy held for the boy.
I saw him a week later at a family dinner, and I
asked about his newest possession. I knew something was up
when he gave me a huge smile.
He told me that he didn't have that moose head anymore.
He wrinkled his nose as he told me that he
had sold it on eBay for 200 bucks.
- Mike Berger
(1 poem added 06.25.13)
editor's note: Legacy loved for gain leaves "richer" remembrance. - mh
STREET PEOPLE
Crowds at dusk
with summer here
at the last rainbow
of some Friday night
dry out on the town,
with a lighter arm
of short shirtsleeves
tasting the smoke
among the barbeques
in fires of hot stoves
by skinny rows
of street people
listening to my alto sax
on the loudspeaker
along the waterfront
breaking glasses
of wine with waves
for tourist friends
on a boardwalk of trees
where crows try to rest
on park back benches
and a new born
on his father's shoulder
goes berserk with laughter.
- B.Z. Niditch
(1 poem added 06.24.13)
editor's note: A great snapshot, reflected in the golden glint of a tenor sax. Summertime! - mh
Valparaiso in the morning
sheets of milky mist caress the steep, winding hills.
decrepit seafront homes are inhabited by 18th century ghosts.
A lonely cigarette butt dances down a side street with
the help of a gust of sea breeze.
Seagulls in congress talking about the night before.
A pack of street dogs eating breakfast together in a desolate square.
Mildew collects on top of an empty beer can.
Valparaiso in the morning!
- Luke Ritta
(1 poem added 06.23.13)
editor's note: A familiar sight the world over for midnight marauders caught after sunup. - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Of course you do! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Coffee Break" by Roger Real Drouin: "As long as there’s coffee in the world, we can drink away all the heartache and all the girls. Is that true? Think about it as you walk lonely into the forested abyss." Here's a taste to tease your eyeballs...
Under one of the oaks of the dense hammock, Bryan poured the last of the coffee from the thermos into the stainless mug. / It would have been good on ice, but it was strong coffee, and it would do and hold him over until they got to camp. The tiny myrtle warblers traded calls and flickered through the oak’s shadows. / The hound mutt lay across the only patch of light coming through the hammock, listening to the warblers, and Bryan remembered one of those mornings when he’d wake early and get out the muddy hiking boots and the lanky and lean pup would start running in circles in the small apartment. She knew what the boots meant, that the weekend had come, that they’d ride out in the old truck...
Get the rest of your read on here...
••• Open Mic •••
Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of July (aka 07.03.13) at 8:00 sharp when we will swirl it up madly in the live way that we do every month. Get to the Lounge early, dig upon the musical musings of Swirve and this month's feature, poet Christopher Soden! And stick around after our feature set to get your madness on one of the 17 spots on our list... first come, first on the list! Which means... get there early!
Come one, come all! Mad poets, musicians, actors, singers, circus freaks and Elvis impersonators... come-n-strut-yo-stuff. Come to participate. Come to appreciate. Come to celebrate. Come to be a part of this collective creative love child we affectionately call Mad Swirl.
Got questions? Visit www.MadSwirl.com for more details.
AND, as you may or may not know, every 1st Wednesday we get all giddy with the swirlin' madness. COMING SOON:
August: TBA
September: Hep Kat Mama
October: Rafael Andrade Garza
November: Cheyenne Gallion
December: Chris Zimmerly
•••••••
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the mad conversations going on in Mad Swirl's World? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...
Livin' On,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
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