The Best of Mad Swirl : 09.13.14
••• The Mad Gallery •••
This month we are extra excited to show you some old photographs we found while sifting in our grandparent's attic. Fool ya'? Sike! These seemingly throwback images are the photog gems of our featured artist, Rosie Lindsey! Trust us when we say that we can go on and on about Rosie's work. But sometimes, when it comes straight from the source, it proves to be much better than we could ever do... "I wish I had a time machine so I could visit Times Square in the 70's or travel before the interstate HWY system was put into place. All I can do is document the echoes of those times and places". Please Rosie, we here at Mad Swirl don't think we're alone when we ask you: don't stop documenting these classic echoes! Ms. Lindsey has a knack for capturing a certain lost energy of a time past that most of us wish we could travel back to. But thanks to Rosie, we can look at these stunning, chilling photographs and pretty much feel like we are there. Wanna take a trip with us down memory lane? Then check out these classic shots and lose yourself in the madness of what was, with the swirls of what still remains. ~ Madelyn Olson
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we pinched professorial pecadillos, simmering in centipede smiles; we caught a cuckold's ire to pay for unfaithful fire (fealty lost in freedom's cost); we smiled at love so smitten, a man entwined in words written; we held back the night, filled cracks with light; we found inspiration in isolation; we confounded the cosmic glass, with ceiling stars of a diamond lass; we tipped the scale of things top-shelf, out-weighed the world to let shine self. It's a balancing act, every day. Read to wipe the world away. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
there’s always somebody with a longer pipe,
a bigger hose, a higher car, a louder voice,
a holier prayer, a furrier cat, more modern p.a. system,
bigger book, crazier look, jazzier hook.
more bark-filled branch, more experience in romance,
fancier pants, better dance. more charm, longer arm,
higher IQ and more and more and more of everything than me and you.
there’s always somebody with a louder voice,
wider choice, bigger wit, more brawn and grit.
there’s always just somebody with more,
makes a grander exit out the door, owns a smoother tile floor,
lives on the street of greater jones, elicits bigger moans.
always someone who can outdo you.
so don’t try, don’t sigh, don’t rush, push, squash
swelter with bristle and gristle and effort.
burst with will, over-kill. let go. don’t try.
listen to the breath run out your nose for
one pure second, that’s all.
if you could forget who you are for one-quarter of a second
you could be more than you.
there’s always somebody who could out-run you,
out-gun you, out-smoke you, out-fight you, out-joke you.
show you his mansion in the back,
turn your palace into a shack.
meet you on 4th street and turn your feeling into second place.
predators, workers, normal people with intention or without
un-do you before you try--
hang it up, let it alone, be still.
don’t ask, don’t try, don’t pull-push.
if you forgot who you are and released,
you’d be satisfied. and there would be
no place to finish, first or last.
you’d be everywhere without dis-satisfaction.
you’d be in the center with everything and if you could see the rose,
you’d realize it’s bigger than the entire cosmos. then.
if you forgot who you are in that way,
in the center with everything, larger, then you could be found,
while the rest are holding tiny straws of false gold.
- Carl Kavadlo
(1 poem added 09.13.14)
editor's note: And while you're at it, tell me the sound of one hand clapping... - mh
Like a Diamond in the Sky
Twinkle the stars in night’s display—
Sun’s shining rays light up the day…
and yet, if futures vast we may
divine, white dwarf with diamond core
(that crystallized in ages yore)
will pulsate like a cosmic gong
its tintinnabulary song
(no longer sunbeams to bestow)
in seven billion years or so…;
then Sol might twinkle for the eyes
of distant poets far more wise,
beyond our cares— whoever dares
(if dreamers dwell in heres and theres,
whate’er whene’er where’er they are)
to seek and find our once bright star
(that like us also flames and dies)—
those with the loupe to look with sighs
for long lost Lucys in the skies…
- Harley White
(1 poem added 09.12.14)
editor's note: When galactic poets wish upon our star... - mh
Hiding out in the mid-night blue.
Old school cool jazz blowing hot.
Felines present purr their own songs,
in the smoke-filled room.
Peanut-butter and honey sandwiches;
more coffee and smokes.
Fingers on the keys, unconscious dictation.
The wind rustling through the chimes
outside sends a momentary chill to the blood.
The machine takes another call;
don’t feel like talking right now…as usual.
Let nothing intrude but the senses.
Hiding out again…and always.
Bless this perfect isolation.
- S. A. Gerber
editor's note: When "unconscious dictation" comes best; when it's only you, yourself and... - mh
Things squeeze out of cracks
egg whites drip
grass blades strike sidewalks – shooting up
rain sneaks through patio pane
A fatted thigh presses and pops needing ease
earth quakes and rumbles
erupting – releasing power, fire, gas
water won’t be held back by cloud
and light slips underneath the locked door
- Heather M. Browne
(1 poem added 09.10.14)
editor's note: I need a good caulk for my composure. Only let the light show through. - mh
Eyes weary and spent behind that sparkle
that glimmers just for you
Hands rugged and strong behind the gentle
that strokes across your cheek
Lips cracked and cold yet smile such warmth
as your eyes catch onto his
Voice gravelled and low yet ever deep
speaks words so full of sweet
Breath heavy and loud stops in its tracks
as you flirt THAT look his way
A man's love is written in the little things he does
which speak much more in volume than 3 words ever could.
- Tina Clowes Kay
editor's note: What's said is dead if what's done don't follow. Man - Woman - Truth! - mh
Cost and Freedom
We are married to each other
I earn the bread and butter
and that leaves you to manage our shelter.
Being bothered about your jobless old friend Nick
while I was away at work,
You missed to wash my suit
as you eventually got lost
over the phone with him and slept…
with all due respect,
I am not a male chauvenist...
I understand your freedom but
every ounce of freedom comes with its own cost...
All I am asking is,
free me from paying the cost of your freedom...
- Sam Rapth
(1 poem added 09.08.14)
editor's note: There's the universal question, "Who pay's for your freedom?" The universal answer is still in debate... - mh
The Unsustainability of Bugs Tracking Bread Crumbs
Shooing away sparrows to make room to dance legs over lectures,
Their paternity, at last’s become the latest celebration, leftovers
Notwithstanding. Physical energy can’t be as ugly as slugs.
If critters can’t help but be servile to predators, it’s best to shelter them;
Cat-loving grandfathers abound; they come a cropper to living rooms.
Fend off insensitive directions, thereafter, remain more than horrific.
Consider the sexist episode of one American professor, an old bachelor,
Caught amidst the abundant pinching of cheeks and noses, grinning
At little girls (alongside some adults, calibrations got regulated).
Accordingly, the door to room six, in that neighborhood of stone, decked
High and higher with lanais, near the parking area closest to boxes, brings
Extended family, other white collar crime, adultery as exercise plus entertainment.
It remains undesirable to allow bugs to track bread crumbs. We’re wiser when
Training roaches, millipedes, human creepy crawlies, the separation of responsibilities
From pleasures. Extra effort’s needed with elders intent on bad goings on.
- KJ Hannah Greenberg
(1 poem added 09.07.14)
editor's note: And perpetual perfidy is hard to maintain... - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Got a hankerin' for a story that you could sink your teeth into? Then check out the latest addition to our short stories library, "Crooked" by Shawn Macrae. This tasty tale just might get you a bit hot and bothered. Why? Because it is both delightfully deviate and definately disturbing. Right up our alley! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone had to say about this pick-of-the-week story: "Get your kicks while you can, any way you can. Do it before someone gets their kicks out of kicking you."
Here's a taste to tease ya’:
It happened after a night of drink and drugs, licking, sticking, sucking and fucking her way into friendship at a party. Jenny was speeding the streets trying to make it home before her father found her gone. He was always up with the first chirp of an early bird, and her time was quickly dwindling, as the fading moon foreshadowed the sun on the distant horizon. She was almost home when she saw the sirens flashing in her rear view.
Jenny knew the town was over populated with pigs on patrol, and there was nothing for them to do but break balls. That was the general consensus in all small towns. More often than one would think, it was an upstanding citizen who fell victim. Someone who avoided trouble, worked hard, and paid their taxes which afforded for those bastards all the unnecessary coffee and donuts, not to mention, a roof beneath which, at night, they rest their weary egos.
She had always considered that officers of the law were losers with little man syndrome. That they spent the majority of their lives eating the shit that their peers continually over fed them only to attain a badge and regurgitate on the next generation with a sense of entitlement. She never really went out of her way to avoid trouble with the law but often slipped beneath their radar casually waving her middle finger. Not this time.
She pulled off to the side of the road, and he approached her driver side window.
“LICENSE AND REGISTRATION.”
While he reviewed her paperwork she noticed him casually glancing at the cleavage her tight shirt revealed. She couldn't bear the consequences, so she began to verbally egg him on.
Pull over now and find out the final verdict right here!
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...
Short Story Editor