Once Upon a Time by Luis Rivas

Once Upon a Time

we were born wrapped in barbed wire
with pain so barbarous and ordinary that its memory
has been repressed by all guilty participants

only to be adequately replaced with brilliant, original
and new pain; the bum on the corner of laguna ave
and echo park that covers himself up to his head

to dull the cold nights, to block the blinding light of pain
or as drunken guatemalans are murdered for holding knives
off union and 6th (while americans, the less-colorful

kind, are honored as patriots for carrying rifles)
and as i pass by, my car’s rack and pinion needing
repairing and/or replacing, and as i try to remember

if i have enough money on my debit card to buy
cat food, wondering if the vons is still open
while my brothers think seriously on joining

the military, or if i will be able to find parking on
sunset blvd, beautiful, tall girls having taken all the spaces
coming from far off places like wisconsin, michigan

alabama; and myself, finding it hard on deciding
to be upset or not about this, each method of coping valid
it has been said, and there is proof, that once

upon a time i used to write about drinking wild
turkey, sex, loading and unloading fedex trailers and a
fashionable, romantic and poetic embrace of apathy

now, as i speak to you and as you hear me
staring at my lips, weighing out the value and
judging the content, i do not mention my father

and the dry, grey doctors manipulative maltreatment
of his back pain, leg pain, sleeplessness, anxiety
prescribing him the newest and most-expensive

most-addictive, higher-profit-margin narcotics
and you will not know that his company is moving to
mexico for a higher-profit-margin wage trade-of

the irony being that the company is leaving
the united states and its underpaid mexican workforce
for a cheaper-still, underpaid foreign mexican workforce

and as you question the art or lack thereof
believing the lie that words are spoken, that poetry
is found in books, on pages, in history, in magazines

on websites; that it’s spoken, sung, said, read, mouthed
recited, regurgitated; i look onto you and the
disillusionment in your eyes is profound and beautiful

Luis Rivas will be a guest on The Mandala of Infinite Prose and Philosophy
w/ Frankie Metro on June 8th, 2011. You can catch that here: www.blogtalkradio.com/frankie-metro

and while you're there, be sure to check out the show: I can't curse but I can read a f u c k i n poem, hosted by yr faithful editors Newamba Flamingo and Frankie Metro.

Fine Minds Fucked Here for a Quarter

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2 poems from Eden

the preacher

with words like fists
landing blow after blow as he
yanked up her skirt

when he came
he would curse
then call on God

dismount
and call her

Eve

homework

is what he called it
the older boy who took her
to the back of the bus
tall dark and ugly
he schooled her that day
before (her) first
period

Eden Joshua is a NY native and has performed her poetry in such places as The Bowery Poetry Theatre, Nuyorican Poets Cafe, The Afrikan Poetry Theatre and Brooklyn Moon Cafe among others. She currently resides in East TN and is working on her first book of poetry.

you can find her here: http://www.facebook.com/edenjoshua

Vampire Palestinian Fetuses Sold on eBay, BBC Reports

Sandstorms cutting with electrical breeze
Totally parabolic
icy bones mocking a pale face, making
head covered prophesies and disco circumcisions
Totally Asymmetric
Stars shine through to a blind sky on desert cold nights
With 40 Bedouins tracking jackal footprints in the pomelo bush
Wiping their noses in citrus scents, waxing psychedelically
Their dry cactus skin
Cracking red from subliminal coma burn
Scimitar slip:
And there are sheep thieves on the getaway
Heading to border crossing, Shalom Junction
Flashpoint.
Electric fence: Call the guard
A million homos over the sandstone, socialized networking
IDF bomb drops on dried river beds
Calm
abandoned camp sites, hollowed out car shells
bullet-ridden mosque hiding in the Golan
Riding in the Golan
Druze side of the road
Relics of 67, Syrian tank penetrated armor, rocket drop return to Gaza
pocket full of falafel by the Wailing Wall
Breaking blues
Vampire Palestinian fetuses in apple jars, sold on eBay, BBC reports
Morphed monikers, shotgun funerals
Suicidal soliloquy.
Bastard child at the open air market hawking dates by kilo
His telekinetic eyes broadcasting hymnal SMS:
“I got a sperm bottle waiting for you.
I am a knife with serrated edges calling afternoon prayers.
I am a camel dick: smoke hash out of me…
I got ten Ukrainians drinking vodka in a caravan.
Every time you piss.
You solve the equation.
Just a little more.”

Yossarian Hunter's House

Love as a Verb

Three superfluous words
hang weightless objects
of affliction.

Breeds helpless logic
a cold lonely bed
cobwebbed kisses
and a numb pubic bone

Fractured by incessant
failed relationship statuses
girl you never learn.

This relentless
falling in love with poets
never to taste more
than words

a curse.

The light preceded
lonely darkness
and you can spread out
like a starfish

Waking up alone
to light seeping
through blinds

accompanied by squeals

from happy children
who won’t witness
another daddy substitute
passing through from
lustful night.

Kick around a ball
then leave before
they had a chance
to remember his name.

Rather save those words
peel away flesh
dance in the mirror
of self empowerment

Then choose that
which you fully
deserve.

Poetess Maria lives in Liverpool, where she howls at the moon and drinks Jameson whiskey, while writing tremendous prose and poetry. You can find a morsel of her work in the Clinical Brutal Anthology from Clinicality Press as well as other online & print publications.

Beloved Friend

Beloved Friend,

I am writing this mail to you with heavy tears In my eyes and great sorrow in my heart because my Doctor just announce to me that I will die in few months time because of extent damage of osephageal cancer. I have been suffering from this dreaded sickness for long, base on this development I want to will my money which is deposited in a security company to an individual who is willingly to build a charity home for orphanage and abandoned kids.

I am in search of a reliable person who will use the Money to build charity organization for the saints and the person will take 30% of the total sum. While 70% of the money will go to the charity and orphanage. I am from Sarawak Malaysia, my husband died 6 years ago as a result of car accident. i don't want a friend or someone i know to handle this project. I want the actualization of my dream to establish this charity home to come in reality even while am dead.

The total money in question is $3.5million dollars. I will provide you with other information's once you indicate your willingness.


Yours sincerely.
Mrs. Razak