Thursday, February 22, 2018

Tiana Lavrova Poetry

Tiana Lavrova is an eighteen year old who has an interest in all things art and science: including sculpture, product design, printmaking, free verse poetry, and the mental health and psychological sciences. She is also the author of two forthcoming chapbooks: dancing girl press and Grey Borders Books in 2018.

Hallucinatory Feral Animals by Tiana Lavrova

Antlered, manned ocelots moaning under
a cross-contaminated, gobbing moon
a cedar crop encrusted like dried lime-juice,
rousing stir-fried, partridge mandibles.
They cherish you.
The concoction of ontological hypertension
naturopathy, sizzles the night sweating fire pit;
Neptunian mildew is the sunken-eye of the micro-island
beaconing a synesthesic Galatians reading televised in your nutritious hair lock's cell-less
That aphrodisiacal ocelot, ensnared by the terabyte hands of an algebraic Redeemer,
huffs, echoing a perseverative Bible:
Fingerchord notorchords fossilize Christ's tomb!
and the sun, in its pre-operational stage, cracks up.

Poet Tiana Lavrova

The Unfaithful by Tiana Lavrova

natch the

Chainsaw of psychopharmacological Pentecostals
autistic thinking knots: luminary oncology
“magical thinking”


thought disorder, delusions of control, scrupulosity into a Perfect Form Holy Book! (bark of bibliophile cerebellum)
the least omniexisting televangelist
An archangel of meta universes
there's this endangered quantum religious delusion hyper-lusting —
To the Kraepelinian refrigerator parents who authored a metaplasmic dictionary
— ENTER the glacial outhouse thru the trunk of herbological tailgate parties!

Continents of zoo-phobic arteries joggling tears: micro bacteria that tussle the light of His
mind, and vibraphone bread sticks erecting
the tepee of partitive beings whose cerebrums
motion the plate of crabs necking thru

Applewood telepathic cadavers

“May I Soufflé Your Omni-Directional Raw Data?”

— they preach, kneeling. AMEN.

Sunday, February 11, 2018

Poetry By Michael H. Brownstein

Michael H. Brownstein work has nine poetry chapbooks including A Period of Trees (Snark Press, 2004), Firestorm: A Rendering of Torah (Camel Saloon Press, 2012), and The Possibility of Sky and Hell (White Knuckle Press, 2013).  He is the editor of First Poems  from Viet Nam (2011).

Don't badger the enemy when he walks onto the Reign of Terror.
Step back to observe.
Watch his hands, his eyes, his knees. Especially his knees. 
They are the most confusing part of a human
cracking, breaking, sometimes falling to the wayside.
Check the field for potholes and traps, locust burns and devil's claw--
all things that thirst for fractures, blood or light.
Make sure you don't attach yourself to things that cling to flesh.
Only then should you enter the Brickyard of Sapphires.
Glitter is everything.
Don't let its sun get in your head. 

You have the perfect everything,
But which am I?
Not the city snow
Gray and full of air.
Not the river
Thick with waste,
A lack of breath.
Not dawn’s first sunbeam
Over the lake.
Not rolling driftwood
Over the waves. Not 
The old herring gulls
Waiting for that foolish fish
To rise to the surface
And study the commotion.


I have learned to be silent around her,
not because silence is gold,
but because noise is not.
A twitterbird lands in the jagged tree out back,
bends its neck into a break in the branch--
a wash of color across its feathers.
We walk the dirt worn track, she singing 
under her breath, lap after lap: 
the twitterbird left behind.
The season a month old, no snow, the grass
yellowing, a shock of bronzed evergreens,
a darkening of light, a shadow of bark.

Saturday, February 10, 2018

Two Mermaids and My Robot Heart By Jenny Mathews

Next Friday my partner at Zombie Logic Press, Jenny Mathews, is participating in a black velvet art show I'm very excited about. It's called The Dark Arts Velvet Showcase. I don't think I'll be giving away trade secrets if I say she's doing a couple of mermaids on black velvet. I asked her if she could do minotaurs jousting on top of conversion vans, but she said no. Oh well, I tried. 

This is a mermaid Jenny did that was for a publick show in Beloit, Wisconsin. 

I'm not sure what this piece was for. 

This is a painting of my heart after eight hours of surgery. A lot of people wanted to get a print of this painting, so Jeremy made it available at Cake Prints 

I promise I'll post some pics from the The Dark Arts show next weekend



1. Bah Humbug Post Inferno Winter Solstice Celebrations

Urban legend says I’m probably the septuagenarian
lovechild of Hollywood gossip columnist Hedda
Hopper, maybe back then’s next-door neighbor
Luella Parsons, whose sometime buck-naked
strutting musta got the attention one of the husbands
living the life on Beverly Hills’ halcyon Maple Drive.

30 years after my star-crossed birth, Leonardo diCaprio
appeared – yep alakazam Da Vinci after eventually
getting his GED from nearby John Marshall High
or if you prefer a Beverly High classmate’s primo
insider sources to Wikipedia, Hamilton High  School
-- finally arose to become a numero uno movie idol.

And now Leo’s s top of the environmental activist
firmament, trying to save our planet plus its lions.
Accepting 2016’s Best Actor Academy Award,
he stated, We need to support …the indigenous people…
billions of underprivileged who’d be most affected  by
[climate change]…drown out by the politics of greed.

Just today* the Los Angeles Times, which no longer
formally employs tattle-tale babblers but thrives on getting
the story up online fast if not always fit to print, headlines,
Skirball fire, One might ask if anyone’s helping those without
homes as much as elephant seals, pampered pets or kids?

Bonus haiku

Leonardos Da Vinci And DiCaprio

freeze frame fictions -- death
cross monk, graveyard cowboy – they
survive forever

2.  As We Rich Plunge Into Hanukkah and Christmas Gorges*

Not so wise Homo sapiens discard a third of the food that we grow.

In poor countries, most waste is on the farm or on its way to market.
But in wealthy countries about 40 percent’s thrown out by consumers.

Plus cutting back on loss’d go along way to reduce greenhouse gases.
A compost site in Staten Island, New York in 2014Jake Naughton/The New York Times

3. Recycle Me Holiday?                                   

Each summer & winter, hither & yon block after block
I spy white plastic bags

you know the kind which emits toxic fumes when burning,
choking swimming animals, or around forever in landfills

with four hundred million spoiling the Atlantic alone for mammals
(porpoises etc.) to mistake as yummy sea nettles or jellyfish

before they just suffocate. Which isn’t the only obscenity getting us going:
inside every waste dump sits thick as a brick decrepit Yellow Pages

no one’s opened since my unlovable Harvard housemate Al Gore I played 8-ball
with invented the Internet  --- we’d be better off if  the directory still were a huggable tree.

5. 2017 Holiday Greeting Card

-- sign at Burning Man

                   Girl, me, son, nephew circa 2005


i. Winter Approaching

Reservation on the res,
Lakota open table
for crime, meth
-- no jobs except
drugs and casinos.

Wind River froze
lungs spit blood, down
to earth ungrounded, I’d live
longer in Bangladesh
than South Dakota.

ii.Ivanka’s Winterfell

Q: Are you a socialist, capitalist or what?
A: I am an individualist --Weiwei

Trumpian version of Game of Thrones,
Cersei and brood speak fluent Chinese
which along with their elegant clothes line
(manufactured by Asian near-slave labor)
make this highly effective entrepreneur-mama --
some combination of dragon slayer, panda hugger,
golden goddess, witch -- an item of inspiration
among the youth who’d like to hang out with her
in historically our earth’s most powerful civilization.

Macintosh HD:Users:gerardsarnat:Desktop:poetry:Post Ice King mag subs.5.1.16set:IvankaWinterLine.jpeg

8. Hogwild On Approaching Three Score And Ten Plus One

December gloom Redondo Beach evening, bifocals half on, septuagenarian
catches a glimpse from the condo window of a son plus his prized
girlfriend toasting each other. I reimagine when we and a sleuth of Cub
Scouts puked our guts out on the boat ride from San Pedro Harbor
before Troop 17’s navy blue shorts plus gold-topped socks topped off
by snazzy chartreuse neckerchiefs disembarked and were set free
to set foot on then roam unexplored boar domains of Catalina Island…

Afternoon on wilderness high plateau, we’re startled by a hawk’s moral fervor
dive-bombing to devour a newborn hare. Slinking back to the pup-tent alone
at dusk, lost among miasmas of wild bore forest floor mazes, unglued,
I’m reflected in a black lagoon chocked full of doomed horseshoe crabs.
I gather them up in a makeshift butterfly net, carry to roast in a rip-roaring
campfire which anticipates tonight’s shooting star show and looks
forward to what’s promised during Christmas vaca Iron Horse pyrotechnics.


9. Hawaiʻi Vacationland’s Chanu-Christmas Eve

Taking advantage of gifts of winter solstice convergence,
a Jewish husband + Catholic spouse -- by Talmudic law
this technically surrendered their kids to the Christians --
for the most part respectfully, respectively veto ham
& duck leaving turkey as the default component of the family
holiday compromise, also including Chanukah bushes +
unkosher gobbler, as key to the job preparing his first feast.

Given we’re away from the snow, everything seems to go
particularly swimmingly following her directions to “drain
& rinse well, paper towels to pat dry, rub with extra pure
olive oil then paprika, coriander, garlic powder + pepper,
cover with foil, place in pre-heated oven for 45 minutes,
reduce to 350 degrees, lodge the thermometer got in Hilo
deep in the flesh of the thigh; I’ll remove the bird after Mass.”  

That is, went pretty smoothly except there are no tiny spigots
Hubby expected in the rental house’s hidden littlest glass jar
he finds deep in a bottom drawer. Which turns out to be red
hot Hungarian smoky paprika , not a regular type of seasoning
his daughter’d put near her child on the Pacific kitchen island.
Dad dumps the former all over the fowl; instead of using the pot
on top of the counter, I dig up recycled disposable aluminum foil.

Which’s groovy till it becomes clear there’s a hole in the pan’s
bottom letting torrents of blood & guts left in the carcass ooze
through like Puna lava along with fat that catches fire but isn’t
noticed till smoke alarms go off. Middle son pretty much takes over
until my hysterical wife stares at a hanging oven thermometer (NOT
the appropriate dishwasher-safe tissue kind) full of juice tucked
above our dinner’s leg as hook & ladder lights flash, sirens blare.

Gerard Sarnat is the author of four critically acclaimed collections. HOMELESS CHRONICLES from Abraham to Burning Man (2010), Disputes (2012), 17s (2014) and Melting The Ice King (2016) are available at select bookstores and on Amazon. In 2015 work from Ice King was accepted by over seventy magazines, including Gargoyle and Lowestoft Chronicle and The American Journal of Poetry, and featured in Songs of Eretz Poetry Review, Avocet: A Journal of Nature Poems, LEVELER, NY, StepAway, Bywords and Floor Plan. Since then new sets of work have been featured in a range of periodicals including Dark Run, Scarlet Leaf, Good Men Project and Anti-Heroin Chic. Mount Analogue selected Sarnat’s sequence, KADDISH FOR THE COUNTRY, for distribution as a pamphlet in Seattle on Inauguration Day 2017 as well as the next morning as part of the Washington DC and nationwide Women’s Marches. Gerry has read at universities including Stanford. For Huffington Post reviews, reading dates, publications, interviews and more, click other tabs on Gerard Sarnat is currently working on a possible new sequence tentatively titled, Prisoner Poetry. Gerard has been nominated for a 2016 Pushcart Prize.

A virginal poet at the tender age of sixty-four, Sarnat first wrote about caring for the homeless and happenings in the lands of Abraham and Burning Man from the Judean Desert of his heritage to the Black Rock Desert’s annual pagan arts festival. Gerry has built and staffed clinics for the marginalized and been a CEO of healthcare organizations and a Stanford Medical School professor. Married since 1969, he and his wife have three kids and four grandsons, the last born shortly after they returned home from Desert Trip. -From Gerard Sarnat Bio

Sunday, February 4, 2018

Poetry By Donny Barilla

Bio:  Donny Barilla, born in Dallas, Texas, weaves around common themes, such as:  mythology, nature, human intimacy, and theology.  Writing on a daily basis, he engages in the beautiful landscapes that surround him in his home of Pennsylvania.   He currently works on his next book and has published in numerous journals and magazines.

Autumn Compromise

I rest by the sacred sycamore.
Leaves collect by my feet, legs.
Looking to the thin gauze of the sky,
I think of her,
slowly I place my cheek upon her breast.
I feed well into the hush of Winter.

Remembering Youth

The sky stretched as marble columns.

Into the wet grassy deep, I fell upon the riverbank

where we touched as children, suspended above ourselves

and withering of thirst.

I gave her the ointments of my youth.

From the weary distance, I heard the crows

wrestle forth with 'caw' and eager screech.

As in these memories, the sky still hung gray.

I could taste the milks of her breasts as they never were before.

The crocuses flushed and spread the sweet pollens

gripping upon a drift, I stood so still, the river dust

pasted the color yellow.

Onto the path, leading home, I felt the retreat of groin

and the wilting palms of my hands.

Clammed shut and gnarled as the drifting tree branch

I wept for her absence, distant stream, sky.

The Fountain

The coin slipped through the silk water,
slithered to the granite basin, bottom
where silent voices still murmured.


I sat for a distance, a journey.
I waited for the song to begin.
I faded within the wrapped warmth of my jacket.


Heavy breath fell upon my ears
and the sting of my reddened cheeks.

Her lips were full as blossoms
dancing into the breath of Springs nudity.


We met here.  Soaked in the treasures of heat and white sun.
Trimming my way to the sulk

of her heavy breasts.  I heard a moan of trickling water.
I spoke so soft to the flickering light.

Evening Roams

On the oldest of wooden porches
I sat on the wicker chair.

The fat of the sky bloomed
as the deepest blue hues fed the slender horizon.

Softly, a wild breeze tempered my thinning hair.
I spoke to the girth of moon, alive within its circles.

Tugged into the grip of the evening,
I spoke so loudly, the air around us fractured.

I sat silent and softly quiet.
A gentle rain tickled the grassy earth.

The steam from the tea rose as the foggy
mist of nights charm.

I fell upon the slouch of the envious sofa.
I grew damp by the press of misty night.