The Best of Mad Swirl : 07.05.14
”Literature is one of the most interesting and significant expressions of humanity.” P. T. Barnum
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Digital Illustration, Greatest Show(man) on Earth (above) by featured artist Johnny O. To see more Mad works from Johnny, and our other contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we tinkered with the task of self control, challenged to parse the half from the whole; we boozed through a limp libido to pen the perfect climax (happened in a wink); we kindled a Kama Sutra stir to peak the passions of him and her; we liberated latent dreams, a stay in the streets for an erstwhile, vagabond heiress (of stars); we frictioned sticks, fueled flames in flicks, found words on the go to make one come; we aspired to sustained inebriation to bear an unbearable incarceration; we jumped our jilted, geriatric disappointment with old-fart-fueled fantasy. In our dementia, it pays to dream big! ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
The Lovely Women of My Life
If I met the same women now
I probably wouldn't know them.
They're missing teeth, I bet,
and have gray Medusa hair.
Their eyes no longer dance, I'm sure,
and they have liver spots everywhere.
They likely wobble in their flats
and haven't worn heels
since adding fifty pounds.
Some of them, I'm certain,
wouldn't recognize me, either,
despite thick spectacles.
They can't recall the picnics
we enjoyed with wine and caviar
under oak trees in Grant Park,
never mind the nights that followed.
Who needs a woman that forgetful?
I need a younger woman now,
someone I can finally marry,
a girl with a figure like Monroe,
Hepburn's eyes and Hayworth's hair,
someone lithe, slim and graceful,
someone strong enough to push
my wheelchair up the ramp.
- Donal Mahoney
(2 poems added 07.05.14)
editor's note: Retiree reverie; a hankering for youth from an oxygen tent. (Another new one from Donal on his page; it's a real blast. Check it out!) - mh
Whiskey
The whiskey burns,
chasing the fruit loops down my throat,
she enters the room,
and sniffs the air,
silence reigns,
until depression invades,
an army she unknowingly leads,
taken captive years ago,
whiskey my only cure,
keeping alive the hope in the soul,
someone will find me,
or maybe,
allow a prisoner exchange.
- Douglas Polk
(1 poem added 07.04.14)
editor's note: Hash marks on the wall, shot glasses on the table; marking time with no hope of parole. - mh
FIRE STYX
I rub together words
to get her to come.
First the smoke, then the ember.
Finally a flame remembers her name,
but refuses to tell,
till I spit on the light,
and out it hisses.
Anxious to grope ankles
to swing her inside the cave
to pull through my dream her hair,
rub together words
to get her
together with me to come.
Eager to flee my itch
I scratch but to
ratchet the itch up.
But will never come to scratch
the act of rubbing words together
to get her to come.
- Willie Smith
(1 poem added 07.03.14)
editor's note: Fire by friction and poet's fiction; both an itch we gotta scratch. - mh
Communion
Greyhound fresh
with your blues shoes
and backpack
and back home
Mama's tears
still damp
on your cheek.
Sun magic outline
city block stare
glowing haloed girl
all flower fresh bloomed
and debit card
and blood of the lamb.
Drifting up to you
gently as smoke,
I take your burden
all Lucky Strikes
and grave dirt
and one third of the stars.
Melancholy moccasins
keeping time with
black, buckled beat boots
and four-fifty pints
on a dirty grey blanket.
And sunset by the river beneath
celestial ceiling we share Pamplona,
Picasso, Paradise Lost and potted meat.
Crossing our fingers
we fall in love a little
for the briefest moment in time.
City scape illumination
reflected in rushing waters
like Vincent's blurry stars.
At dawn
my boots back on
I will walk you again
to a bus stop pilgrimage
to anywhere next
but my quick broken
heart is rooted
to Downtown mornings
here
and my favorite bars
on a side-walked city street
named for Bill.
- Justin Booth
(added 07.02.14)
editor's note: Home life to street life to body and blood, eternal life, so brief; and all those stars. (Special Note to our North Texas Swirlers: Justin will be the featured reader at our Mad Swirl Open Mic on August 6. Come hear this outlaw poet read 'til we're raw and tingly all over.) - mh
Spring Sedoka
Her
Verses too fragile
For platitude of paper
Crave parchment of his broad chest
With kohl of her eyes
She spins yarns of solitude
Into pillow book of love
Him
Unraveling pages
Between old empty covers
Feels new dark ink drops
Painting fresh squeezed breath
On soft mounds of rising suns
By brush tip bidden
Her
They come in waves
Lay half forgotten by dawn
Dreams stuck in empty covers
Fodder for musing
Beads of rudraksh slip between
Fingers of her compulsion
Him
Dark seed tears uncurl
Insights prayed in circles wide
A thousand more fears vanquished
On new strings are strung
clear lanterns of fresh visions
Between opening lashes
Her
Golden bridge looms
From his eye to hers
Spilled drink from broken glass
Brings her heart on knees
Lit up in pieces
They burn for consummation
Him
Sharp edge of deep gazes
Connects strong silk threads
Fog in two ports stops sight short
Lighthouse lenses shine
Fire onto high waves
Guiding meld of warp and weft
Her
Whirling breathlessly
In blue light his verses weave
She unfurls her newfound wings
To embrace blue pearl
Serpent uncoils and rises
Gorging upon their undoing
Him
Tips of undreamed heights
Splash sheer sheens of undyed eyes
Through wide eyes embracing flame
Intertwining curves
Sing sinewed notes sweetened
Full by her lustered softness
Her
Unbounded stillness
Murmurs in unfathomable
Rolling labyrinth within
Tenacious roots grow
Around ruins of their reason
Amaurosis lighting way
Him
Throbbing beacon echoes
Around beams from distant doors
Squeezing fresh apexes
Now from old growth notes.
Deciphering encrypted.
Melodies of dormant juice
Her
Her verses rebound
Around desperate desert
Await familiar rustle
Of returning feet on the
Gravel of whimsical spring
To thaw frozen muse
Him
His soles hastening
Through mud and dust toward her
Bright welcoming smiles
So once again lips
can create a single song
from beats of two hearts.
- Nalini Priyadarshni & D. Russel Micnhimer
(1 poem added 07.01.14)
editor's note: These two can tango Kama Sutra sensationally, salaciously! Come again? (This poem marks three accepted for Nalini. Check out more of her madness on her page as our newest Contributing Poet.) - mh
bohemia
booze the way old men like it –
a touch of class
(random lines skipped over)
if this were another time
there would be volumes of poetry
of your aspect, your body
but
I know nothing else
save this twinkling spent
and thinking bohemia
- Jhon Baker
(1 poem added 06.30.14)
editor's note: It's all twinkling; even brighter in the glints off the ice cubes in the bottom of the glass. - mh
Of I and Me
My will and want, my drive, and the choice between right and wrong.
I battle myself in the same old battle ground.
Here I can walk the clouds and conquer the world.
Or fall from grace with a loud thud.
Here I can be my own best friend.
Or stay on as my worse enemy yet.
Here I can work to improve on my story.
Here I can fly, aim high, reach for glory.
Take a leap or do it a step at a time.
Though there is that one small matter,
Left for me to master,
Of I and Me,
To let go of my fears,
Take charge of my mind,
Assume control of my being.
- Arif Ahmad
(added 06.29.14)
editor's note: We all play tug o' war with ourselves, then try to hide the stretch marks. - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "A Little Ghost Story (The Intruder)” by Ralph Freda… "Our world is full of sunrises and horrors, and both of them wait to seep through your doors and windows, and no locks or blinds will keep them back." Here's a taste to tease ya’:
When Joanne DuMont first opens her eyes in the morning it usually follows an intense night of waitressing. She has already slept late (9:30, or so) and relishes her slow mornings to herself. She’d waitressed all her adult life, raised a son (now grown) by herself, and now enjoys her morning to herself.
Her mornings are now free, quiet, calm, all hers. Joseph, her son who still lives at home, is her pride and joy. Twenty-three-years-old, a good kid, handsome, and big. Like his sonofabitch father he's strapping: six-foot-one and two-seventy-five. And now, since it’s Saturday morning, Joseph is fishing, gone at first light.
Speaking of light, it's streaming into her bedroom, beautiful, and thick, and warm—the second floor of a small home, her bedroom faces due East. At almost ten in the morning the sun had been up for awhile and has already acquainted itself with the kind of day it will bring. Sleepily, Joanne thinks of Joseph out upon some Michigan lake, one of a thousand
Get the rest of your read on here!
••• Open Mic •••
Although it's not polite to say "We told you so!" we're sayin' it anyway!
This past 1st Wednesday at "Mad Swirl presents... The Curiel Family!" it was absolutely everything we'd hyped and hoped it would be... and MORE! The whole Curiel Clan brought their own unique & divine light to our stage & swirled it up in a most beat-utiful way. Huge THANKS to the Curiel family for letting us witness their gifts. And big ol' thanks to all who came to Absinthe Lounge to appreciate & participate in our mic madness. Each and every one of you Mad Ones out there made last night one of THE best in recent memory.
Thanks to ALL the wonderful poets and musicians who shared their words, their verses and their fine light with us. t'was a fine night to be alive and in our Mad Swirl world. In case you missed this Mad action, here is the line-up of who was who…
(all photos courtesy of Dan "the man!" Rodriguez)
Click here to view 'em all!
Feature:
The Curiel's
(Chris, Tamitha, Chaz, Caleb & Chloe)
Hosts:
Johnny O
MH Clay
Chris Zimmerly
Mad Cast:
Opalina Salas
Paul Koniecki
CJ Critt
T Bell
Logen Cure
Carlos Salas
Teresa Megahan
BA
Mike Donahue
Desmene Statum
James "Bear" Rodehaver
Victory
Nemo Blakemo
HUGE thanks to Swirve (Chris Curiel and Gerard Bendiks) for keeping the beat til the wee hours of the night. We got taken to another dimension of time and space on the wings of their jazzy madness!
And as always, big THANKS to the patron saint of the loco local mad ones, Kevin, owner of Absinthe Lounge.
And finally we would like to thank ALL of you who freely shared their hand claps, finger-snaps, hoots and howls with all the mad ones who got up on this sacred mad swirlin' mic.
We look forward to all the m-adventures to come! Stay tuned...
AND, as you may or may not know, every 1st Wednesday we get all giddy with the swirlin' madness. COMING SOON:
August: Justin Booth
September: R.A. Hernandez
October: Kerseymere
November: Karen X
December: Paul Koniecki
•••••••
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...
Expressin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Digital Illustration, Greatest Show(man) on Earth (above) by featured artist Johnny O. To see more Mad works from Johnny, and our other contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we tinkered with the task of self control, challenged to parse the half from the whole; we boozed through a limp libido to pen the perfect climax (happened in a wink); we kindled a Kama Sutra stir to peak the passions of him and her; we liberated latent dreams, a stay in the streets for an erstwhile, vagabond heiress (of stars); we frictioned sticks, fueled flames in flicks, found words on the go to make one come; we aspired to sustained inebriation to bear an unbearable incarceration; we jumped our jilted, geriatric disappointment with old-fart-fueled fantasy. In our dementia, it pays to dream big! ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
The Lovely Women of My Life
If I met the same women now
I probably wouldn't know them.
They're missing teeth, I bet,
and have gray Medusa hair.
Their eyes no longer dance, I'm sure,
and they have liver spots everywhere.
They likely wobble in their flats
and haven't worn heels
since adding fifty pounds.
Some of them, I'm certain,
wouldn't recognize me, either,
despite thick spectacles.
They can't recall the picnics
we enjoyed with wine and caviar
under oak trees in Grant Park,
never mind the nights that followed.
Who needs a woman that forgetful?
I need a younger woman now,
someone I can finally marry,
a girl with a figure like Monroe,
Hepburn's eyes and Hayworth's hair,
someone lithe, slim and graceful,
someone strong enough to push
my wheelchair up the ramp.
- Donal Mahoney
(2 poems added 07.05.14)
editor's note: Retiree reverie; a hankering for youth from an oxygen tent. (Another new one from Donal on his page; it's a real blast. Check it out!) - mh
Whiskey
The whiskey burns,
chasing the fruit loops down my throat,
she enters the room,
and sniffs the air,
silence reigns,
until depression invades,
an army she unknowingly leads,
taken captive years ago,
whiskey my only cure,
keeping alive the hope in the soul,
someone will find me,
or maybe,
allow a prisoner exchange.
- Douglas Polk
(1 poem added 07.04.14)
editor's note: Hash marks on the wall, shot glasses on the table; marking time with no hope of parole. - mh
FIRE STYX
I rub together words
to get her to come.
First the smoke, then the ember.
Finally a flame remembers her name,
but refuses to tell,
till I spit on the light,
and out it hisses.
Anxious to grope ankles
to swing her inside the cave
to pull through my dream her hair,
rub together words
to get her
together with me to come.
Eager to flee my itch
I scratch but to
ratchet the itch up.
But will never come to scratch
the act of rubbing words together
to get her to come.
- Willie Smith
(1 poem added 07.03.14)
editor's note: Fire by friction and poet's fiction; both an itch we gotta scratch. - mh
Communion
Greyhound fresh
with your blues shoes
and backpack
and back home
Mama's tears
still damp
on your cheek.
Sun magic outline
city block stare
glowing haloed girl
all flower fresh bloomed
and debit card
and blood of the lamb.
Drifting up to you
gently as smoke,
I take your burden
all Lucky Strikes
and grave dirt
and one third of the stars.
Melancholy moccasins
keeping time with
black, buckled beat boots
and four-fifty pints
on a dirty grey blanket.
And sunset by the river beneath
celestial ceiling we share Pamplona,
Picasso, Paradise Lost and potted meat.
Crossing our fingers
we fall in love a little
for the briefest moment in time.
City scape illumination
reflected in rushing waters
like Vincent's blurry stars.
At dawn
my boots back on
I will walk you again
to a bus stop pilgrimage
to anywhere next
but my quick broken
heart is rooted
to Downtown mornings
here
and my favorite bars
on a side-walked city street
named for Bill.
- Justin Booth
(added 07.02.14)
editor's note: Home life to street life to body and blood, eternal life, so brief; and all those stars. (Special Note to our North Texas Swirlers: Justin will be the featured reader at our Mad Swirl Open Mic on August 6. Come hear this outlaw poet read 'til we're raw and tingly all over.) - mh
Spring Sedoka
Her
Verses too fragile
For platitude of paper
Crave parchment of his broad chest
With kohl of her eyes
She spins yarns of solitude
Into pillow book of love
Him
Unraveling pages
Between old empty covers
Feels new dark ink drops
Painting fresh squeezed breath
On soft mounds of rising suns
By brush tip bidden
Her
They come in waves
Lay half forgotten by dawn
Dreams stuck in empty covers
Fodder for musing
Beads of rudraksh slip between
Fingers of her compulsion
Him
Dark seed tears uncurl
Insights prayed in circles wide
A thousand more fears vanquished
On new strings are strung
clear lanterns of fresh visions
Between opening lashes
Her
Golden bridge looms
From his eye to hers
Spilled drink from broken glass
Brings her heart on knees
Lit up in pieces
They burn for consummation
Him
Sharp edge of deep gazes
Connects strong silk threads
Fog in two ports stops sight short
Lighthouse lenses shine
Fire onto high waves
Guiding meld of warp and weft
Her
Whirling breathlessly
In blue light his verses weave
She unfurls her newfound wings
To embrace blue pearl
Serpent uncoils and rises
Gorging upon their undoing
Him
Tips of undreamed heights
Splash sheer sheens of undyed eyes
Through wide eyes embracing flame
Intertwining curves
Sing sinewed notes sweetened
Full by her lustered softness
Her
Unbounded stillness
Murmurs in unfathomable
Rolling labyrinth within
Tenacious roots grow
Around ruins of their reason
Amaurosis lighting way
Him
Throbbing beacon echoes
Around beams from distant doors
Squeezing fresh apexes
Now from old growth notes.
Deciphering encrypted.
Melodies of dormant juice
Her
Her verses rebound
Around desperate desert
Await familiar rustle
Of returning feet on the
Gravel of whimsical spring
To thaw frozen muse
Him
His soles hastening
Through mud and dust toward her
Bright welcoming smiles
So once again lips
can create a single song
from beats of two hearts.
- Nalini Priyadarshni & D. Russel Micnhimer
(1 poem added 07.01.14)
editor's note: These two can tango Kama Sutra sensationally, salaciously! Come again? (This poem marks three accepted for Nalini. Check out more of her madness on her page as our newest Contributing Poet.) - mh
bohemia
booze the way old men like it –
a touch of class
(random lines skipped over)
if this were another time
there would be volumes of poetry
of your aspect, your body
but
I know nothing else
save this twinkling spent
and thinking bohemia
- Jhon Baker
(1 poem added 06.30.14)
editor's note: It's all twinkling; even brighter in the glints off the ice cubes in the bottom of the glass. - mh
Of I and Me
My will and want, my drive, and the choice between right and wrong.
I battle myself in the same old battle ground.
Here I can walk the clouds and conquer the world.
Or fall from grace with a loud thud.
Here I can be my own best friend.
Or stay on as my worse enemy yet.
Here I can work to improve on my story.
Here I can fly, aim high, reach for glory.
Take a leap or do it a step at a time.
Though there is that one small matter,
Left for me to master,
Of I and Me,
To let go of my fears,
Take charge of my mind,
Assume control of my being.
- Arif Ahmad
(added 06.29.14)
editor's note: We all play tug o' war with ourselves, then try to hide the stretch marks. - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "A Little Ghost Story (The Intruder)” by Ralph Freda… "Our world is full of sunrises and horrors, and both of them wait to seep through your doors and windows, and no locks or blinds will keep them back." Here's a taste to tease ya’:
When Joanne DuMont first opens her eyes in the morning it usually follows an intense night of waitressing. She has already slept late (9:30, or so) and relishes her slow mornings to herself. She’d waitressed all her adult life, raised a son (now grown) by herself, and now enjoys her morning to herself.
Her mornings are now free, quiet, calm, all hers. Joseph, her son who still lives at home, is her pride and joy. Twenty-three-years-old, a good kid, handsome, and big. Like his sonofabitch father he's strapping: six-foot-one and two-seventy-five. And now, since it’s Saturday morning, Joseph is fishing, gone at first light.
Speaking of light, it's streaming into her bedroom, beautiful, and thick, and warm—the second floor of a small home, her bedroom faces due East. At almost ten in the morning the sun had been up for awhile and has already acquainted itself with the kind of day it will bring. Sleepily, Joanne thinks of Joseph out upon some Michigan lake, one of a thousand
Get the rest of your read on here!
••• Open Mic •••
Although it's not polite to say "We told you so!" we're sayin' it anyway!
This past 1st Wednesday at "Mad Swirl presents... The Curiel Family!" it was absolutely everything we'd hyped and hoped it would be... and MORE! The whole Curiel Clan brought their own unique & divine light to our stage & swirled it up in a most beat-utiful way. Huge THANKS to the Curiel family for letting us witness their gifts. And big ol' thanks to all who came to Absinthe Lounge to appreciate & participate in our mic madness. Each and every one of you Mad Ones out there made last night one of THE best in recent memory.
Thanks to ALL the wonderful poets and musicians who shared their words, their verses and their fine light with us. t'was a fine night to be alive and in our Mad Swirl world. In case you missed this Mad action, here is the line-up of who was who…
Click here to view 'em all!
Feature:
The Curiel's
(Chris, Tamitha, Chaz, Caleb & Chloe)
Hosts:
Johnny O
MH Clay
Chris Zimmerly
Mad Cast:
Opalina Salas
Paul Koniecki
CJ Critt
T Bell
Logen Cure
Carlos Salas
Teresa Megahan
BA
Mike Donahue
Desmene Statum
James "Bear" Rodehaver
Victory
Nemo Blakemo
HUGE thanks to Swirve (Chris Curiel and Gerard Bendiks) for keeping the beat til the wee hours of the night. We got taken to another dimension of time and space on the wings of their jazzy madness!
And as always, big THANKS to the patron saint of the loco local mad ones, Kevin, owner of Absinthe Lounge.
And finally we would like to thank ALL of you who freely shared their hand claps, finger-snaps, hoots and howls with all the mad ones who got up on this sacred mad swirlin' mic.
We look forward to all the m-adventures to come! Stay tuned...
AND, as you may or may not know, every 1st Wednesday we get all giddy with the swirlin' madness. COMING SOON:
August: Justin Booth
September: R.A. Hernandez
October: Kerseymere
November: Karen X
December: Paul Koniecki
•••••••
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...
Expressin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
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