Monday, January 27, 2014

stir - fry blues / speed kills / the door / Translations of Catfish poems: Nevuary & Pluck into Tagalog


Anggo Genorga was born and raised in Manila.

I don’t see much difference between the Philippines and UAE (United Arab Emirates) except you can get down and dirty way easier in Manila. Here in Dubai, a Filipino expat like me should keep my shit together unless I’m ready to face deportation or taste a few lashings. Other than that, it’s cool. Business as usual.  
About writing, I was introduced to poetry by mistake – I initially thought song lyrics ( without chords ) in the song book collection of my elder brother as poetry. I gradually found my way to the Beats, Charles Bukowski and Miguel Pinero. Nowadays, I find time to write poetry at work since i can't seem to focus at home.

Some of my poems are featured in Chrysalis Magazine, Empty Mirrors, Mad Swirl, Quirk Magazine and the recently released Bukowski Anthology from Silver Birch Press. I'm currently writing a script on a documentary about the Philippine rap metal scene in the mid 90’s.  
You can check my other writings at deviationcummeditation.wordpress.com

from deviation cum meditation


stir - fry blues

cookin' ma brain
on what seems to be
a very promising chemical
only to be eaten by
several hungry ghosts
that lurks in the
back of my head.



speed kills

speed kills,   say it again brother.

speed kills,   again.

speed kills,   and again.

speed kills,   raise your voice so they can also hear you.

speed kills,   repeat it like a broken record.

speed kills,   now say that in front of a mirror until you believe it.

speed kills,   and now say it as if you’re speaking in tongues.

speed kills,   say it like some kind of an idiot.

speed kills,   now get down on your knees and eat your shit.



the door

Paranoia is a heightened sense of awareness.
- John Lennon

our mainman jose
jumped right out
the window as soon
as he heard the loud
bang on the door.
his kid screaming
his wife hitting
the policeman with a
frying pan on the shoulders.
we were aghast with horror,
stiff, scared shitless.
i was dumb founded and
still have smokes not
inhaled yet that went
circles inside my mouth.
r was violently resisting
arrest and was cursing
while jan was trying to
climb the stairs and flee;
another policeman hit him
on the leg while another
slam the wife down the floor
their kid was on the side crying
papa! mama! papa! mama!
and soon we got our hands up
against the wall and one of us,
i don’t remember who, whispered
that the lord will take care of us now
and we still can’t believe what just
happened and i looked at the door as
jan asked me to take another hit and
long and hard i did, deadening this fucking
scene that was playing nonstop in my head
ever since we arrived in mang jose’s place.





Catfish McDaris & Anggo Genorga

Nevuary      (in Tagalog)

Sagad hanggang buto ang kasamaan
Ng Putangina inilagay nya ang sanggol
Sa microwave at pusa sa basurahan
Kung meron mang dapat makapatay,
Yuon ay ang siraulong tarantado na
Si Refugio na kapatid ni Rosalita
Suot ang sombrero ni Santa, inilabas
Ni Refugio ang blow torch na nasa bag
Niya pati na rin ang 357 at martilyo
Kakalabas nya lang sa oblo
Sa isang kulungang di kalayuan
Ayos nman ang bata pagkakita nya
Ang pusa nawalan lang ng buntot
Tatakas sana ang Putangina sa likod
Ng bahay pero nahagip s’ya ng martilyo,
Isinakay ni Refugio sa kotse ang kanyang
Pamangkin, kapatid na babae at pusa
Binalot ng sigaw ang buong kasambahayan
Habang sinusunog ng blow torch ang nag sisiga –
Sigaan at di kalaunan lumabas si Refugio
Si Putangina nakarolyo sa isang carpet
Sinabihan ni Refugio na pahanginan ang bahay
“ Kelan sya babalik ? “ Tanong ni Rosalita
Ngumiti ang kanyang kapatid at hinalikan
S’ya sa pisngi at sumagot, “ Nevuary “.



Apog          (Pluck in Tagalog)

Apog

Wala naman siguro masama kung sakaling bisitahin ko si Maya, tropa na rin naman kami sa Facebook. Nang makuha ko ang lugar kung saan siya nakatira, bumiyahe ako agad sakay ng Greyhound at todo iwas na mabasa tuwing iihi ako sa maliit na butas ng masikip na banyo ng tren. Pagdating ng tren, umiskor ako ng isang bucket ng manok sa Popeye’s. Nang andun na ako sa kanila, isang mala egoy na Adolf Hitler ang sumagot sa doorbell at ayaw akong papasukin kung di ko siya bibigyan ng hita’t leeg ng manok na nabili ko. Napangiti ako ng masilayan ko ang reyna ng tula at inabutan ko siya ng pritong okra na may hot sauce. Pinag masdan niya ako mula ulo hanggang paa, may dating ang kanyang mga mata. “ Siguro matindi ka sa mga babae.”sabi niya. “ Ayos lang” sabi ko. Hinubad niya ang pang ibaba niya, “ subukan nga natin kung gaano ka kagaling demonyo ka.” Napa ungol at napa halinghing s’ya sa pagkasubsob ko sa kanya at sa takot ko, akala ko mapapatay ko siya. Napasipol siya at napasabunot sa buhok ko. Nakaraos na siya sa tingin ko. “ Walanghiya. Ang lakas din ng loob mo para sa isang kalbo.” Dinunggol ko yung etits ko sa mukha nya, “ Sumusubo ka ba ? “, tanong ko. “ Matanda na ako para maging puta mo, lumayas ka na nga dito, iwan mo yang manok. “ Nag – bus na ako pabalik. May magandang blondie na hawig kay Grace Kelly sa banding likod. Naglaro kami ng doctor – doktoran hanggang Chicago.


Nevuary


Motherfucker was pure evil mean
he put her baby in the microwave
& her cat down the garbage disposal

If anyone deserved killing, it was
this sick demented cocksucker,
Rosalita called Refugio her hermano

Refugio wore a Santa’s cap, out of his
bag, he took a blow torch, a chrome
plated 357 & a sledgehammer

He just graduated from a nickel in
a notorious dungeon below the border,
he examined the situation the baby
was okay, the cat lost its tail

Motherfucker tried to run out the
back door, but the thrown hammer
was a fraction faster, Refugio took his
niece, sister & cat & put them in his car

Screams filled the neighborhood as
the blowtorch scorched the wannabe
badass, Refugio soon came out with
Motherfucker rolled in a carpet

Refugio told her to air out the house,
Rosalita asked, “When will he be back?”
her brother smiled & kissed her cheek
& replied, “Nevuary.”



Pluck

After making friends with Maya on facebook I figured she wouldn’t mind a visit. I found out where she lived and jumped on a southbound Greyhound. The worst part was avoiding peeing on myself in the skinny bathroom while hitting potholes. When the dog arrived, I stopped at Popeye’s and got us a bucket of crispy chicken and the fixings. I rang her doorbell and a man that resembled a black Adolf Hitler answered, he wouldn’t let me enter until I gave him a thigh and neck bone from the fowl. When I saw the queen of poetry I smiled and gave her some fried okra with a packet of hot sauce. She looked me over from head to toe, her eyes seemed magnetic. Finally she spoke. “I’ll bet you’re pure hell on the ladies.” I said, “I do alright.” She removed her drawers and said, “Let’s see what you can do you silver-tongued devil.” I plunged in all the way to my ears, she started moaning and groaning and carrying on. I got a bit frightened, I thought I was going to fucking kill her. She started whistling and pulling my hair out by the roots. I figured she had enough. “Goddamn. You sure got a lot of pluck for a naked neck rooster scalawag.” I put my crotch in her face and asked, “Do you fetch bone?” “I’m too old to be your bitch, now give me the rest of that chicken and get the hell out of here.” I hit the bricks back to the bus station. There was a beautiful blonde that looked like Grace Kelly in the back row and we played doctor under a blanket all the way Chicago.

Translations by Anggo Genorga.   Nevuary appeared in 1/25  Pluck appeared in Danse Macabre

Friday, January 24, 2014

insomnia


Sophie Chouinard hails from Toronto, Canada. Even though her French-Canadian heart loves the igloos and caribous, her body would rather perpetually sunbathe on a white sanded beach while doing Tequila shots with a hot cabana boy.


insomnia

tap tap tap
against my brain stem
tap tap tap
(penny)
the nausea the rage
the desires knock and thrust
filling the space where
sleep should fall
- englues
(oh look! the shamwow guy!)
thighs rubbing, mind
overheating; the c(l)ock teases
stretching (retching) the night
tap tap tap
(englues? englues what?)
i keep the tv on to pretend i am not alone

Friday, January 17, 2014

Soured


Craig Scott


SOURED


You should know I've soured
on cowboys, interracial sex
and Las Vegas weekends.

I wish I was blonde.
I promise to only buy teeth whitening toothpaste.
I want to burn this leopard print toga.

You put too much salt on the spamburgers.
Stop staring at the hibiscus.

If you hand me a pencil
I will write our future.

Every devilish detail.

Gas Station Egg Rolls / I Wanted to Talk to Her About Horses


James Babbs

I continue to write and publish poems and the occasional short story from my secret bunker somewhere in the hinterlands of Illinois.  I’ve been working on a novel for longer than I can remember and that could be part of the problem.  I wish I would’ve learned to play the guitar but at least I don’t know how to sing.  I guess I’ll just have to stick to writing until I get it right because at my age, what else am I going to do?


Gas Station Egg Rolls

coming home to the silence again
pushing against the walls
feels like I’ve been gone for years
but it’s only been a few hours
I pull mustard from the fridge
and open my first beer
before I sit down and start eating
the gas station egg rolls
the last three from beneath the warmer
probably sitting there since lunch time
but I was hungry
because I skipped breakfast this morning
and they’re not bad
still a little warm
when I slide them from the paper
I dip them in mustard
and wash them down with beer
laughing out loud
recalling something she once said
looking through the window
and seeing the way the sun
falls across the grass


I Wanted to Talk to Her About Horses

I saw her behind me
looking at the frozen waffles
before I pulled my cart to one side
so she would have room to get past
while I looked over the bread
not sure if I wanted white or wheat
or maybe some kind of wraps instead
when she walked by
I realized I knew her
speaking her name
and she smiled at me
I asked her
how she was doing
and she told me
everything was going okay
she asked me
if I was still writing
and I told her yes
sometimes
did she still have horses
and she smiled again
before mentioning their names
I wasn’t sure
how long it had been
since the last time I’d seen her
but I wanted to talk to her about horses
I wanted to ask her
how often she rode them
what it felt like sitting on their backs
with the wind in her face
and I wanted to ask her
if she wanted to get some coffee
or was she interested
in meeting me somewhere later
and maybe having a couple of drinks
but she said she had to get going
because things were really hectic
but it was nice seeing me again
maybe I should’ve ran after her
maybe I should’ve stopped her
and told her how I felt
but I didn’t
I just stood there for a moment
staring at the empty space
before dropping the wheat bread into my cart
and heading for the checkout


DOG : DEAD


Bryn Fortey currently has a short story in THE ALCHEMY PRESS BOOK OF PULP HEROES 2, Edited by Mike Chinn. The Alchemy Press, a small British independent publisher, is planning a collection of his work, mainly short stories but with some poetry, this year, but it is still in the planning stage.

DOG   :   DEAD

I tried to get through to you then
     The vibes were mellow
     A fleece-lined optimism warmed me
     It seemed a groovy thing to do
But you were never home, God, always out
And no answerphone for messages

But the days faded and so did the dreams
Kaftan discarded, vibes decommissioned 
No need to chat with Omnipotent Beings
So I stopped calling
     Until now
     Today
Since I saw a dog, dead, in the gutter

A scrawny stray: alone, unwanted, killed
Red trail marking where he had dragged himself
To the roadside, to die

     Blood of the dog
                     the lamb
                     the Son of Man
The whole world hurtled into a single moment
Personified by this one unimportant death

So I'm calling again, God
To tell you there is nothing here for you to glory in
But you're still not answering
Still not listening

I begin to doubt you even exist

The Corporate Family


Eric Suhem lives in California and enjoys the qualities of his vegetable juicer. He can be found in the orange hallway (www.orangehallway.com)


The Corporate Family

The sewing machines whirred strongly and constantly in the factory division of Clothco Inc., hemming fabrics for the company’s signature line of baby clothes. “We’re all one big family here,” said division manager Ryan loudly to his buddy the HR manager, as they walked along the sewing line. “That’s the way it should be, like a row of obedient children,” he added, smiling at the workers’ heads that were turned downward. On the far wall, a gigantic mural of a jovial baby loomed overhead watchfully.
“I like your work, Enid,” leered Ryan to one of the workers, giving her a pat on the behind as she returned to her sewing workstation, hurrying along to avoid his groping hands.
“She’s a mousy one,” laughed the HR manager.
“Make sure your beany’s on tight, Enid, you know it’s part of our corporate family dress code, now run along,” added Ryan, watching Enid’s timid, quiet countenance recede down the hall. All of the sewing machine workers were required to wear wired beanies on their heads, as a unique technology had been developed, in which the workers’ suppressed rage could be harnessed through the wires into an energy force that would power the factory’s sewing machines. The power supplied would depend on the intensity of the rage.
Ryan returned to his desk and monitored the rage level of the sewing machines. Enid’s level had reached that of nuclear Armageddon, according to the screen. “The meekest, quietest ones have the biggest volcano of pent-up rage,” thought Ryan as he smiled at the monitor. While Enid’s rage level usually caused no real damage to be incurred by the durable Singer internals, this time her sewing machine started smoking, Enid’s transmitted impulses of anger quickly shattering Ryan’s monitor screen in explosive shards of glass, killing Ryan instantly.
Ryan’s secretary Gwen walked into his office to find him slumped over, blood dripping from his mouth, still clutching his ball-point pen. Being an efficient employee, Gwen felt conflicted about what to do next, since Ryan’s report about corporate family morale needed to be completed as soon as possible. Thinking proactively, Gwen quickly snatched the report out from under Ryan’s bleeding mouth, and went to her desk to complete it, using some Liquid Paper to remove the blood stains. After completing the report, with Enid’s help, and forwarding it to the approvals department on time, Gwen noticed Ryan, who was still slumped over at his desk, blood dripping into his ‘Out Box’. She instructed the maintenance man to wheel Ryan, sprawled on his squeaky-wheeled ergonomically compliant office chair, to the basement, though the maintenance man felt that this was not part of his job description. Gwen made sure to attach a name tag to Ryan’s shirt before he was wheeled away, as she knew that organizational skills were an important component of an efficient office.
A week later, in a company-wide meeting, the HR manager announced, “I see we have another body in the basement. As you know, we are one big family at Clothco Inc., and when a member of our employee family moves into the afterlife, we outfit for rebirth, insuring enduring loyalty. Instead of wearing a suit in the coffin, we insist that a ‘Clothco Inc’ Funeral Diaper be worn! All employees will look quite snappy in that Funeral Diaper! It’s the next step in eternal corporate casual attire!” Gwen and Enid looked up at the jolly baby on the large mural, smiling ominously. After the meeting, the maintenance man had to attach the diaper to the corpse, again thinking this wasn’t part of his job description, and bury Ryan’s body near the parking lot.
Later that week, Enid and Gwen, now feeling like sisters in the corporate family, got together for lunch, and discussed what was to be done about the HR manager.


Exoteric Splendor / Planet Profit



A.J. Huffman has published seven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses.  She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and the winner of the 2012 Promise of Light Haiku Contest.  Her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation.  She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.  www.kindofahurricanepress.com

Exoteric Splendor

Stretching light
like skin
over a frame
of intellectual space.
[Pause].
Breathe the web.
Bing.
Flow . . . ing.
Weave . . . ing.
Stretch . . . ing.
Exquisiteness constrained
by nothing short of fate.
And a passing
occasional wink.



Planet Profit

2 men discuss conspiracy
theories in a tiny 2-top
booth in the corner of a coffee stop.  Dive
into delusional(?) rants about cover-ups
and covert missions to Mars.  I try
not to listen as they lean in
and whisper about UFO landings and lost
alien DNA.  Report
that should be accessible by public
records requests, but aren’t
because they don’t
exist (for anyone without the proper
clearance).  I chuckle
at myself for wanting to believe right along
with them, but can’t because I understand
that we live in a world that does not comprehend
the term secret.  Marketable or not
are the real money words.  I resist
the urge to explain that,
if found, any alien would be paraded across
every quasi-news show in America,
wrapped in a flag, waving
a bible, and eating/promoting the latest
brand of Doritos (inspired by his homeland)
while we lined up
to buy it all.



Thursday, January 16, 2014

What I Learn En Route To Another Epiphany / Tanks Fur / The Poem I Was Meant To Write / Blowing On The Incense Embers Of My Fingernails / Some Are Saying


Ron Androla

What I Learn En Route To Another Epiphany

 JFK autopsy photographs in a documentary
Light up our living room. We shuffle like heavily-sedated
Kids, again. Fat, opiate toads pull thru dry grass & thick
Mud. The echo from the future of Vietnam. Eyes on the
Surface of Mars. Between time crescendos, we inhale remains
From bronze charcoal & the discovery of honey. Language
Leaps from throats with lizard-tongue words, oh, we
Must thrust sound out of our wet tube because goddamnit
There's an internal need to communicate with mutants.
JFK addresses the United Nations to declare the obliteration
Of weapons & war, & the Moon hears his yesterday.
Blows the right side of his head off to fresh, mutilated meat.
Nixon clinks scotch with the murderers. The first president
Bush is a facelift of smiles. It's a well-orchestrated, plotted,
Brain-adjustment on Amerika's culture. We know shit what
Happens via our gullet of news coverage, fed shit, filled with
Shit, left with shit. The man who led the Warren Commission
Into Kennedy's assassination had been fired by JFK because
Of The Bay Of Pigs fiasco. This man is dead. I doubt
Amerika as if half my head had taken an exploding bullet
Medication. Humans are adjustable. Reality is adjustable.
History is adjustable. Truth is adjustable. God is adjustable.
Leaking from a contaminated poem, a forming picture of
Hell.

*

Tanks Fur


Tanks fur
Loaded potatoes

Lobbed across a murky
Restaurant under

The Sea. Tanks
Fur jelly tension

Light bulbs burn air,
Stick to my thumbs.

Tanks purr
Nightmare cats

Oh they creep
Upon loose snare

Sensitivity. Static
Electricity rubs

Their vocal, visual
Vault. Fault echoes

Snap
Marrow like a crisp

Pea pod. Tanks fur
The fur of the Moon

The fur of the Moon
Light. Thanks for

Tremendous
Mistakes. Pepper

Spray fur tanks,
Precognitive fury tanks.

*

The Poem I Was Meant To Write



I'm sweating under a thick, insulated
Shirt jacket & a black wool cap. I'm
Always in this same situation, vacuum

Handle in my hand, sweating. The roaring
Floor spins, sucking, in weak, gray light,
Bright electricity & bits of stone. Dumb

Ass sweat & a very dry mouth, again
& again, dumb as a rock
Ass. After a grandchild sleepover,

After tumbling, petal-tossing cats hiss,
After the old, mammoth dog groans, his
Slobber crystallizes; vacuum. Lift ancient

Rugs like serrated eons, pull granite coffee
Table out per cliff, extend plastic wand to kiss
Edges of fluffy feline flowers, clumped canine hair,

Cellular dust from us.
Sure, we're snug behind newly-installed,
Radiated, window glass, blessed by a brash,

Young furnace, especially
Wearing extra articles,
November clothes. Ass, head-drenched,

Situated in a dumb,
Domestic, balding
Position. Then to

Hesitate, to write,
To lock-jaw limp, breathless
Poems with lush, pulsing life air;

Or to smother this poetically
Dumb, mad, sweeping ass
Admission with an inappropriate title.

*

Blowing On The Incense Embers Of My Fingernails


Dragon
Blood, I burn cones so the furnace sucks
Smoke to kiss up thru our old registers

To kiss away cat piss & cellar mold
To kiss age & ash from my face
To kiss deep & long into the odor of existence

We paint a kitchen wall sunflower yellow,
Love it, but my son comes in, laughs,
“Looks like a hippie wall now!” I don't

See the connection, but whatever, I respond,
We like the yellow. What the hell does
That have to do with hippies? I have to question.

Doug laughs. Nothin', dad, nothin',
Forget what I sd. Months have passed.
I cut off most of my thin, gray ponytail.

The kitchen wall is sunflower yellow
While the whole house smells of
Dragon

Blood. This is not the Nation
I was born in, it's an
Entirely new world now.

I don't
Like
It. Where's the necessary, essential poetry

Of mind evolution, societal
Revolution turning culture, screaming
Mad fury for justice? Peace &

Love are dead. Flip the coin
Of light, the Sun, upside
Eternal tails, scorching radiation, war.

Damned, destroyed, mangled under black
Televisions, sand soaked blood red, caped
In tattered, ripped flags, boys, green bricks

Burst to black dust clouds
In night-vision binoculars. Turbaned
Skulls begin to rain from the heavens.

They are the
Bones of our
Freedom. To kiss

Who remains
The
Sky, hell, yes.

*

Some Are Saying


Some are saying we are yr children
Some are saying we are amerikan citizens
Some are saying we are the 99%
Some are saying we are exercising our rights
Some are saying we are constitutionalists
Some are saying we are playing a rigged game
Some are saying we are now living in a police state
Some are saying we aren't focused we're drugged
Some are saying we are dreaming dead dreams
Some are saying we are hypnotized zombies
Some are saying we are doomed to silence
Some are saying we are societal fringe dissent
Some are saying we are sodomizing billionaires
Some are saying we are disrespecting our military
Some are saying we are costing cities millions
Some are saying we are colliding with the beast
Some are saying we are forcing our views
Some are saying we are breaking laws
Some are saying we are representative of anger
Some are saying we are leftist nuts in the clouds
Some are saying we are dangerous seeds
Some are saying we are not saying anything
Some are saying we are chanting in the streets
Some are saying we are shit to the soul
Some are saying we are amerika's last chance
Some are saying we are bothersome but avoidable
Some are saying we are innocent fools & vagrants
Some are saying we are not dancing & laughing anymore