Sunday, November 29, 2020

"I'll Just Die If I Don't Get This Recipe" Painting By Rhiannon Yandell

Rockford, Illinois, is a great arts community. I've been proud to be part of it for 35 years now. Recently a "new artist" came to my attention. Her name is Rhiannon Yandell. The piece I'm posting here was from a show titled PROPAGANDA at the 317 Art Collective, and because of the subject matter is a departure from her signature style at Linear Chaos, which she describes as "Linear Chaos is abstract artwork using layers of line and color as an expression of the seemingly opposing ideas of structure and chaos coming together in life as well as on the canvas." If I didn't love this piece so much it would almost seem unfair to post it here as indicative of her style. I'll also post a few of her abstract pieces so you can get a true idea of her talent. 

"I'll Just Die If I Don't Get This Recipe" by Rhiannon Yandell. The title is a reference to the movie The Stepford Wives, and also a call back to 1950's propaganda that encouraged women to eat more sugar in order to control their weight. 

                  "I'll Just Die If I Don't Get This Recipe" by Rhiannon Yandell

I'd really like to encourage you to check out her abstract pieces at Linear Chaos because they are quite superb, and perfect for complimenting your design palette no matter the motif. She's also an artist I admire very much and hope to be able to collaborate with combining her visual sensibilities with some written word. 

                                                      "PSL Sucks" by Rhiannon Yandell

                                                   "Astral Prison" by Rhiannon Yandell

From a design perspective her work really just adds so much to a room. And her themes are so diverse and employ so many different color schemes that you're sure to find something perfect for whatever mood and theme you're trying to convey. So, please check out her website. And support your local artists. 

Wednesday, June 26, 2019

John Wiley

John Wiley writes about this poem: Most of my poetry is escapist, but "Murder/Suicide" is autobiographical (see link below if you're interested). I'm bipolar, as is most of my family. My brother was the odd one out with major depressive disorder. I'm way too close to this to know if the poem is any good, but it was good to write it.

Murder/Suicide                                                                   John Wiley

I. Friday, 9:50pm - The Phone Call

   Major Depressive Disorder 
+ Rx antidepressants
+ alcohol
+ unfaithful wife
+ firearms
= . . .

II. Saturday - My Kitchen

Walking around and around
my kitchen, 800 miles
away from yours, which is still
surrounded by crime scene tape. 

Did you think about it
or did you just do it?
Should we have one funeral
for you and your wife,
or tow?  Christ.

Murder for love, suicide for remorse?

Or were you just telling us all to fuck off?

III. Sunday - More Details

Infidelity, discovery, reconciliation,
twelve years, rediscovery:
she never stopped.
Just laid better cover.

Shit, shit, shit.

IV. Monday - The Airport

There are so many of us in the airport;
if you put us all together,
we must be going everywhere.

V. Tuesday - Your Kitchen - Eight Bullets

One bullet through one bar stool,
and into another one.
One in the floor.
One through the refrigerator door,
and into the meat drawer.

(Not Present:
Wife: two bullets in the chest,
one bullet in the back,
one in the head.
You: one in the head.
She on one side 
of the kitchen island,
you on the other.)

I walk around and around
your kitchen island,
where your glasses sit 
next to a list I don’t read,
putting my fingers in the bullet holes.

VI. Wednesday - The Mortuary - Funeral Plans

Cremation for everybody.
Your grown children and your wife’s family
arrange her service at the church
you both attended every Sunday.

Our sisters and I arrange yours;
same church, different day.

VII. The Obituary

Our sisters want to say you loved your family.
Should we write that?
Why do I want to protect you?

We decide to put off writing for a while.

VIII. Memories

We ate at the same table for eighteen years.
We slept in the same room,
played with the same toys.
We liked some of the same girls.
We were each others’ best man.

If you haunt me tonight,
will I recognize you?
Or will I see your ghost and say,
I don’t know you.
Wrong house.”?

Because I don’t recognize anything.
Not one thing.

IX.  (. . .)

X. Dreams

I’m walking around and around
your kitchen island
putting my fingers in the bullet holes
while every other memory of you
bleeds out.


XI.  The Funeral

(I have enough money
to either fly out for the funeral,
or to scatter your ashes.
I choose ashes.)

Our sisters tell me:
Your pastor says you were saved
because you accepted Christ,
but won’t bless your ashes
and talks a lot about hell.

Fuck him.

XII.  On the Way to Scatter Your Ashes

There are so many of us in the airport;
if you put all of me together,
I must be going everywhere.

XIII.  The Police Report

Battering ram, S.W.A.T. team 
through the front door.
They clear the house.
There’s just you and her.

Information was collected and woven
into a more complete picture.
She took her boyfriend to the airport
and came back to end your marriage.

Well.  Emotional violence can be
just as fatal as any other variety.
Even-steven now?
How the hell should I know?

XIV.  How the Hell Should I Know?

Understanding, forgiveness;
are they the same thing?
If you have one,
do you automatically get the other?

How much understanding
does it take to have forgiveness?
Will I ever know?
Will I ever know anything?

XV.  I Always End Up Here

In my head, I’ll always be
walking around and around
your kitchen island
putting my fingers
in the bullet holes.

Maybe I can touch you that way.
I’ll look through those holes
trying to see you forever.

I miss you.
I love you. 

I’m sorry.

Saturday, June 15, 2019

Three Poems By Robin Ray

Robin Ray, formerly from Trinidad & Tobago, resides in Port Townsend, WA. If being a gay, mixed race immigrant wasn't enough, he also discovered he was saddled with autism, PTSD, and bipolar disorder. A self-taught musician, novelist, screenwriter and poet, his works have appeared at Neologism Poetry Journal, Red Fez, Aphelion, Scarlet Leaf Review, Flash Fiction World, Spark, and elsewhere.

Sax and Violence

and for once
the heartbeat of a sax
is conceptualism
bebop’s golden reach
blue notes dangling
like chrysalis in the air
i feel my muscles hypertrophy

they call abstraction a sin
who’s who?
invest time in an invention
that subverts gravity
pulverizes matter
boxes its ear
sends it whimpering back
through the pines
could be time well spent

careful with those
acciaccaturas, bird
might behead somebody someday
maybe even me.

Tesla Had a Twin

the words between words are words
am   was is   rejoice!
one minus x = nightmare city
toss the ring   skirt the boss
ring the bones   nothing’s lost
cassiopeia bondaged again
500 tons of cocaine in her cleavage
wickedness blinds the deaf

the words between words are warring
troop stamp tramp sloop stomp
mace spear knave sword slave
he who breathes life into horror
drinks pain
electricity grinds its axe again
one plus x = sweet retirement
ante up
it’s all over.

Chloƫ is All Grown Up

she belongs to the nice
the 5th wave of opportune
the mystic ambrosia
accidentally cut bleeds ambivalence
naturally tanned
drunk off laughter
gracile in her touch
gloomy in ignominy
the opposite of love is transparency
bidding war / lottery / slot tournament
prize: her hand
results: no winner
perhaps just the bridge from which
her lonely heart was flung.

Monday, April 15, 2019

Surrealist Poems By Gregory Wallace

Gregory Wallace is a poet and artist living in northern California. He is author of The Return of the Cyclades. His work has appeared in Black Scat Review, BlazeVox, Danse Macabre, Sonic Boom, Clockwise Cat & Five 2 One. He has a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature and a Master of Arts in Creative Writing.


women gatherers chloroform tulips cold unfolding
sleeping earth a sphinx behind night blood
like dust dolls around velocities
honeysuckle verified drift charcoal
urges shake sleep pillars watering sunken lines
raised surges trolley clinical the anti-now
shadow flows in universal horse cinder
microscopic to illuminate mist flame
cloud flower forbidden and
pale car curved your woman from glass direction
sometimes finger assassinate the sleeping police
nymphs enchanter on chestnuts
banner to lands with thermostatic clouds
princess child happily exposed snow space ashes
light birds of Night touch earth shadows
carbon crocodiles lances between distended rusting


Your glittering tree sack embroidered spring soldiers
pumpkin carpeted herring
emerald crowns with another women
hummingbirds passed angel whiteness from scepter in admirable tombstone
the frog hands in curve from curled secrets
diagonally pink her kisses trailing tinted pilots
snow eyes of gently noises glittering
boat wooden for Valhalla in eyes against slow red sunbeam helmet
on sky gas with aluminum wing
spectral lizard above anthracite blooms
wild armor legislation closed and angels canoe
across forest mist and procession by midnight sea
small emplacements under pink skeletons
glistering trees as cold breath of breached powder sunset
birth forbidden stones and small soul sets sleeping golden with glittering watering
Your silver secret serves small insect suit
shady stars wanders plastic edge
eye sunken with cinder or throat
the coffin of body is key tobacco
another fragile shake on princess painted child
cold early clouds places gold window on fleshy television
imperishable pebbles past cunning avenues
red moon sings of green nymphs brightness
phantom pauses leaning paper banner of replaced in sun bodies


Steel for crow in earth
as girl blooms wind soul sets sail
between Tassels of magician when sailor poisoned on her travels
kills is crowns and the
hammering pulls honeysuckle across armor tinted pump
pink water colored vapor
earth in silver always rain
April sun past on rainbow/
poplars glide red and chasing fireworks
beneath guest islands gently snowing the body sleep
what are poppies crow ...
winged memory and midday noises to fell ghost swords
chimney in ghost shake under police echo
curved animal around grass and swabbed herring
sleep propped cornflakes on frozen zigzag
smiling chloroform replaced restless outcry in meadows multiform
restless microscopic fish perfumes
the touch from skirts hope for another perfumed flags
she kisses small birds every evening
feathers make cheeks her slow rising flame
mermaid milk in bare eyelids
lighted crystal comets and your animal hats snow off crows


Borneo filled forest clouds beyond pillowed bodies
savage in grave with small curled tube
sentinels release curved for all pillars scalded
public following ring women and emerald sea garlands
or beautiful drift birds with small boulevards and icy procession
then night like glass snow by golden pilots
watering flames of animals radiant
gatherers of tombstone ardent with constellations
his coat unfolding clouds reborn
intimate frog pushing lily in palm pipes
loud umbrella offerings silent thunder angel
curlew glides against the steel cat
ashes warming lizard boxes with crows
my monoxides girls burnt the gently painted sea
a pink shop shudders in flames over cactus  
foam finger adorned phosphorescent lines
carbon shines like aluminum skeletons painted by sherbets
trolley in quivering noises
enchanter ambled rays of fireplace arches
labeled tyrannical cloud white as sack ember


Flaming steps spot shining rooster
lion pool not already listening to cluster
horizon on background of lozenges
multiplication table bit  the creamy mountain
and can you hear rain?
elevating gasoline would singe fluttering situation
rafters drizzle heron sweeten
air dangers as bluebird springs light woods
distracted poets just compare charming flamingos
every deadly hummingbird devoted giddiness with climbing
in what different owls labors is raining inward
plural street arrive advance that very resolution
screams little seeds and come the smaller end
and more sexy in the speed of falcons
sometimes they linger in stone problems
rain descends in tubes that looks to the blotter
choice of trouble is circle of eternally thickened stamp
attentive polygon avoided curls from head behind you hair
bright skull listens to morning eggshell
a terrible cypresses bent on spectators brought cheese

Desdemona shining interior located rectilinear future