The Best of Mad Swirl : 01.10.15
"I'm saying look, here they come, pay attention. Let your eyes transform what appears ordinary, commonplace, into what it is, a moment in time, an observed fragment of eternity." Philip Levine
••• The Mad Gallery •••
“East Dallas follies. Yes, the tree was there.” (above) by featured artist Gerard Bendiks. To see more Mad works from Gerard, and our other contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we pondered the press of no-thing-ness; we raced to rescue a withered woman, seeking solace in bubbles and batteries; we gloried in self-righteous rage, damned the needs of our old age; we met a moat-muzzled toad, dosing in roses; we went from freedom of expression to commercial compression, from back yard to front; we revered a rat's lesson in death, turned to learn of love instead; we entered empty rooms, we turned old pages, in search of a word gone missing. We ever inquire of muse and mind for perfect words we hope to find; the life is in the looking, the rush is in the writing. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Something is Missing
It often disturbs me awake
Draws me room to room
Each window in sequence
Shades up, blinds open
Even out the front door
Nothing up or down the street;
As always the presence of
Absence is troublesome,
An uneasiness that wanders
Through my day, the way
The house seems emptier
My work more ironic and
The numbing days I get
Through knowing that more
Will follow, a progression
Without any real progress;
Something is missing, gone
With the people I knew
The years I felt whole and
Nothing quite replaces it,
An empty mailbox, silent
Phone, a simple word I keep
Looking up but never can find.
- J.K. Durick
(1 poem added 01.10.15)
editor’s note: Loneliness is doubly painful for a poet, obsessed with the search for the perfect word to describe what's missing... - mh
Poisoned Rat
We found him laying in a back lane
down The Melyn, six or seven of us
barely teenagers and fascinated.
An old English Professor, who always
smoked a ‘Sherlock Holmes’ pipe
whilst walking (And who normally
could not stand the sight of any of us!)
stopped to chat and have a gander.
As we slid a piece of cardboard under
him and lifted him off the cold, hard
concrete and took him over to some
long grass behind a nearby church
laying him down safe out of the way
of angry feet and whirring push-bikes.
He was the biggest specimen that I had
ever seen, (then or since!) about the size
of a size 10 boot and that’s without the tail.
Ancient face all scarred up but they were
all old, healed marks and apart from that
he looked perfect except he did not move
at all nor gnash his ferocious teeth at us.
Instead he just lay there upon his side,
breathing rapidly and watching us with
his shining, intense, clever ebony eye.
We all came back the next morning
but he was gone, body still there rigid
but the spirit had escaped and run far off.
We stole a shovel from a nearby garden
and buried him and Damien said a prayer
and with our little lesson in death over
we went looking for girls to try and learn
about something else just as important.
© 2014
- Paul Tristram
(1 poem added 01.09.15)
editor’s note: Runners in the rat race (some new, others spent) seeking to learn biological truths. - mh
Back-yard And Front-Yard
In the back-yard,
spontaneous and talent-wise
boundary, over boundary, single and others -
each and every lively act of the magical bat
enchanted the tumultuous crowd
to feel sporting in every winning or losing moment,
emotional in their heartfelt expression
and proud to be a part of inspirational history.
In the front-yard,
the same thrilling act is still on -
but quite synthetic and script wise,
well performed by a commercial rod
ensnaring the luxurious mind and foolish brain
to feel more hilarious,
to become ever-blind
and compelled to be a part of a story -
conceived and written by a non-sporting hand
- P.K. Deb
(1 poem added 01.08.15)
editor’s note: Don't like that story from a "non-sporting hand." I'll take the backyard scene every time. - mh
Obsessed
Need squats in my head
obscene and obese, a toad
among roses. Ghost greeds
oppress me most, buzz and fuzz
of untested doses, back road meds,
bee-rows moaning, led indeed.
Loads redder than incest
pose and preen, boast and gloat, muzzle
my mind in a moat.
- Mercedes Webb-Pullman
(added 01.07.15)
editor’s note: So come the consequences of "untested doses." It's a mess in that moat. - mh
Altruism
My daughter is boycotting
companies that lie to her
or steal from her.
On her hit list so far:
Comcast, Apple, Hertz, Commerce
Insurance, Walmart, Sorrento’s Pizza
and a local gas station.
I warned her
that she’s going to run out
of stores and services
by the time she’s my age.
Fuck ‘em, she said.
- Michael Estabrook
(1 poem added 01.06.15)
editor’s note: Ah, the search for truth in advertising; an endeavor for the idealist. - mh
bubbles and batteries
she shops like I imagine
with venom dripping from Prada
assertively filling her basket with dreams
with invisible powders and voodoo spells
aromas to erase the stench of the day
as if entering the malodorous haze of home
can mask her race to the exit zone
so I follow her down the aisles
the produce mocking her, daring her
canned goods, the symbolism aches to her
frozen desserts...she tears up
knowing how cold it is to be
as she lingers a bit too long before running
to her rescue in bath and beauty
where lilac bubbles flood her senses
but she checked out long ago, long before
longing took over her days, yet she knows
there's a price to pay before leaving
the candy...
ahhh, they strategically place the candy
on your way out...next to the batteries
bubbles and batteries
that's all she needs
- Rob Dyer
(3 poems added 01.05.15)
editor's note: The only antidote for a Prada bite. Run a bath now... (read two more from Rob on his page; a terrifying tale and a sobering slap - check'em out.) - mh
Longest day: Liberation meditation on no-thing-ness
clear night sky with no star or planet or moon
clear day sky without sun or cloud or blue
bare earth without stone or dust, root, bark, flower or seed
ocean without shore or waves, foam, salt or tide
strong music with out beat or note, measure or melody
wind without direction or motion, not inhaled nor exhaled
heart empty of systole and diastole , in and
out lungs always full and empty and still
legs stepping feet tread every step of full path
arms surround empyrean with minuscule hugs
voice of silence embraces matrix of echoes
even AUM fades away
- D. Russel Micnhimer
(added 01.04.15)
editor's note: This is the sound of one hand clapping; assets under management (AUM) hold no-thing to that of no-earth, no-heaven. Ponder this... - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Is it just a dream or do you need a read? It's sometimes hard to differentiate between the two worlds. And nothing speaks to that more than the latest addition to our short stories library, "Dreams That Trip" by Namitha Varma.
Here is what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone had to say about this pick-of-the-week tale: "We should all be so lucky to never know where we sit in others’ minds. Even unclothed, it could be better to still be strangers on a train, because reality may be uglier than how we’re seen in dreams."
Here's a bit to get you dreamin':
photo by Tyler Malone
The train rocked her to sleep, though she drifted in and out of consciousness. Her eyes popped open every five-ten minutes with each jerk of the train. Her mind half-registered the beggars, the vendors, the passengers, her father next to her... Suddenly, she was naked. She was standing in the middle of the field, one very much like her grandmother’s in some corner of Uttarakhand that she never wanted to visit. For a moment, she thought she was posing as Rose in Titanic, waiting for her Jack to wrap her in his arms from behind. But then a crow came and sat on her head, only to fly off in a moment. She was just a scarecrow. She could see the green farm, she could feel the bird claws, she could smell the drying crops, but she could not move. She was a scarecrow…
Wake up and get the rest of your read on here!
••• Open Mic •••
When Mad Swirl invited longtime Contributing Poet, Rob Dyer (aka David Parham) to join us as our feature, we knew we'd be in for a treat. Just how big of a treat this Louisiana poet would bring was what we didn't know. Turns out, it was a heapin' helpin' of some delicious poetry!
Thanks to ALL mad ones who came and appreciated our feature set and participated in our mic madness by sharing their words, their verses and their fine light with us. It truly 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 (and a picture show, thanks to Dan Rodriguez) of who was who…
Feature:
Rob Dyer/David Parham
Hosts:
Johnny O
MH Clay
Mad Cast:
Chris Zimmerly
David Crandall
Opalina Salas
BA
Maggie Smith
Merlin the Magical One
Cj Critt
Konnichiwa Zach Schrotter
Victory
Carlos Salas
Tony Hernandez
Yesterday's News
Bo Bowles
Mr DoDirtDaily
Kristine Jessup
Paul Junior
HUGE thanks to Swirve (Chris Curiel & 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 Christensen, owner of Absinthe Lounge, who has given 122 reasons to give him all the mad props and love that we do!
If you missed the madness, no worries, we captured the swirlin' scene via our Mad Swirl UStream Channel!
We look forward to ALL the m-adventures to come! Stay tuned for...
February: David Crandall
•••••••
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...
Payin’ Attention,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
“East Dallas follies. Yes, the tree was there.” (above) by featured artist Gerard Bendiks. To see more Mad works from Gerard, and our other contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we pondered the press of no-thing-ness; we raced to rescue a withered woman, seeking solace in bubbles and batteries; we gloried in self-righteous rage, damned the needs of our old age; we met a moat-muzzled toad, dosing in roses; we went from freedom of expression to commercial compression, from back yard to front; we revered a rat's lesson in death, turned to learn of love instead; we entered empty rooms, we turned old pages, in search of a word gone missing. We ever inquire of muse and mind for perfect words we hope to find; the life is in the looking, the rush is in the writing. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Something is Missing
It often disturbs me awake
Draws me room to room
Each window in sequence
Shades up, blinds open
Even out the front door
Nothing up or down the street;
As always the presence of
Absence is troublesome,
An uneasiness that wanders
Through my day, the way
The house seems emptier
My work more ironic and
The numbing days I get
Through knowing that more
Will follow, a progression
Without any real progress;
Something is missing, gone
With the people I knew
The years I felt whole and
Nothing quite replaces it,
An empty mailbox, silent
Phone, a simple word I keep
Looking up but never can find.
- J.K. Durick
(1 poem added 01.10.15)
editor’s note: Loneliness is doubly painful for a poet, obsessed with the search for the perfect word to describe what's missing... - mh
Poisoned Rat
We found him laying in a back lane
down The Melyn, six or seven of us
barely teenagers and fascinated.
An old English Professor, who always
smoked a ‘Sherlock Holmes’ pipe
whilst walking (And who normally
could not stand the sight of any of us!)
stopped to chat and have a gander.
As we slid a piece of cardboard under
him and lifted him off the cold, hard
concrete and took him over to some
long grass behind a nearby church
laying him down safe out of the way
of angry feet and whirring push-bikes.
He was the biggest specimen that I had
ever seen, (then or since!) about the size
of a size 10 boot and that’s without the tail.
Ancient face all scarred up but they were
all old, healed marks and apart from that
he looked perfect except he did not move
at all nor gnash his ferocious teeth at us.
Instead he just lay there upon his side,
breathing rapidly and watching us with
his shining, intense, clever ebony eye.
We all came back the next morning
but he was gone, body still there rigid
but the spirit had escaped and run far off.
We stole a shovel from a nearby garden
and buried him and Damien said a prayer
and with our little lesson in death over
we went looking for girls to try and learn
about something else just as important.
© 2014
- Paul Tristram
(1 poem added 01.09.15)
editor’s note: Runners in the rat race (some new, others spent) seeking to learn biological truths. - mh
Back-yard And Front-Yard
In the back-yard,
spontaneous and talent-wise
boundary, over boundary, single and others -
each and every lively act of the magical bat
enchanted the tumultuous crowd
to feel sporting in every winning or losing moment,
emotional in their heartfelt expression
and proud to be a part of inspirational history.
In the front-yard,
the same thrilling act is still on -
but quite synthetic and script wise,
well performed by a commercial rod
ensnaring the luxurious mind and foolish brain
to feel more hilarious,
to become ever-blind
and compelled to be a part of a story -
conceived and written by a non-sporting hand
- P.K. Deb
(1 poem added 01.08.15)
editor’s note: Don't like that story from a "non-sporting hand." I'll take the backyard scene every time. - mh
Obsessed
Need squats in my head
obscene and obese, a toad
among roses. Ghost greeds
oppress me most, buzz and fuzz
of untested doses, back road meds,
bee-rows moaning, led indeed.
Loads redder than incest
pose and preen, boast and gloat, muzzle
my mind in a moat.
- Mercedes Webb-Pullman
(added 01.07.15)
editor’s note: So come the consequences of "untested doses." It's a mess in that moat. - mh
Altruism
My daughter is boycotting
companies that lie to her
or steal from her.
On her hit list so far:
Comcast, Apple, Hertz, Commerce
Insurance, Walmart, Sorrento’s Pizza
and a local gas station.
I warned her
that she’s going to run out
of stores and services
by the time she’s my age.
Fuck ‘em, she said.
- Michael Estabrook
(1 poem added 01.06.15)
editor’s note: Ah, the search for truth in advertising; an endeavor for the idealist. - mh
bubbles and batteries
she shops like I imagine
with venom dripping from Prada
assertively filling her basket with dreams
with invisible powders and voodoo spells
aromas to erase the stench of the day
as if entering the malodorous haze of home
can mask her race to the exit zone
so I follow her down the aisles
the produce mocking her, daring her
canned goods, the symbolism aches to her
frozen desserts...she tears up
knowing how cold it is to be
as she lingers a bit too long before running
to her rescue in bath and beauty
where lilac bubbles flood her senses
but she checked out long ago, long before
longing took over her days, yet she knows
there's a price to pay before leaving
the candy...
ahhh, they strategically place the candy
on your way out...next to the batteries
bubbles and batteries
that's all she needs
- Rob Dyer
(3 poems added 01.05.15)
editor's note: The only antidote for a Prada bite. Run a bath now... (read two more from Rob on his page; a terrifying tale and a sobering slap - check'em out.) - mh
Longest day: Liberation meditation on no-thing-ness
clear night sky with no star or planet or moon
clear day sky without sun or cloud or blue
bare earth without stone or dust, root, bark, flower or seed
ocean without shore or waves, foam, salt or tide
strong music with out beat or note, measure or melody
wind without direction or motion, not inhaled nor exhaled
heart empty of systole and diastole , in and
out lungs always full and empty and still
legs stepping feet tread every step of full path
arms surround empyrean with minuscule hugs
voice of silence embraces matrix of echoes
even AUM fades away
- D. Russel Micnhimer
(added 01.04.15)
editor's note: This is the sound of one hand clapping; assets under management (AUM) hold no-thing to that of no-earth, no-heaven. Ponder this... - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Is it just a dream or do you need a read? It's sometimes hard to differentiate between the two worlds. And nothing speaks to that more than the latest addition to our short stories library, "Dreams That Trip" by Namitha Varma.
Here is what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone had to say about this pick-of-the-week tale: "We should all be so lucky to never know where we sit in others’ minds. Even unclothed, it could be better to still be strangers on a train, because reality may be uglier than how we’re seen in dreams."
Here's a bit to get you dreamin':
The train rocked her to sleep, though she drifted in and out of consciousness. Her eyes popped open every five-ten minutes with each jerk of the train. Her mind half-registered the beggars, the vendors, the passengers, her father next to her... Suddenly, she was naked. She was standing in the middle of the field, one very much like her grandmother’s in some corner of Uttarakhand that she never wanted to visit. For a moment, she thought she was posing as Rose in Titanic, waiting for her Jack to wrap her in his arms from behind. But then a crow came and sat on her head, only to fly off in a moment. She was just a scarecrow. She could see the green farm, she could feel the bird claws, she could smell the drying crops, but she could not move. She was a scarecrow…
Wake up and get the rest of your read on here!
••• Open Mic •••
When Mad Swirl invited longtime Contributing Poet, Rob Dyer (aka David Parham) to join us as our feature, we knew we'd be in for a treat. Just how big of a treat this Louisiana poet would bring was what we didn't know. Turns out, it was a heapin' helpin' of some delicious poetry!
Thanks to ALL mad ones who came and appreciated our feature set and participated in our mic madness by sharing their words, their verses and their fine light with us. It truly 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 (and a picture show, thanks to Dan Rodriguez) of who was who…
Feature:
Rob Dyer/David Parham
Hosts:
Johnny O
MH Clay
Mad Cast:
Chris Zimmerly
David Crandall
Opalina Salas
BA
Maggie Smith
Merlin the Magical One
Cj Critt
Konnichiwa Zach Schrotter
Victory
Carlos Salas
Tony Hernandez
Yesterday's News
Bo Bowles
Mr DoDirtDaily
Kristine Jessup
Paul Junior
HUGE thanks to Swirve (Chris Curiel & 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 Christensen, owner of Absinthe Lounge, who has given 122 reasons to give him all the mad props and love that we do!
If you missed the madness, no worries, we captured the swirlin' scene via our Mad Swirl UStream Channel!
We look forward to ALL the m-adventures to come! Stay tuned for...
February: David Crandall
•••••••
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...
Payin’ Attention,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
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