Three lies and two truths about the creative process and why I do it by Les Bohem

The world needs art in these dark times.

There is always a place for something of truth and beauty in the world.

I have something to say.

I used to do it so that girls would think I was cool,

Now I do it to pretend I’m not going to die.

Les Bohem has written a lot of movies and TV shows including Twenty Bucks, Daylight, Dante’s Peak, The Alamo and the mini-series, Taken which he wrote and executive produced with Steven Spielberg, and for which he won an Emmy award.   He’s had songs recorded by Emmylou Harris, Randy Travis, Freddy Fender, Steve Gillette, Johnette Napolitano (of Concrete Blonde), and Alvin (of the Chipmunks.)  His short novel, Flight 505, was published last year by UpperRubberBoot .   His new album, “Moved to Duarte,” was just released on Jack Rabbit Day Records to much critical acclaim and no sales whatsoever.

The Tattoo by Jay Passer

I got a bus tattooed to my arm.
it will take me to that hallowed place
off the track someday.

my nephew drew the picture.
I took it to the tattoo shop
and the guy said

nice.
then he dug in like they
do.

it cost $90
plus a $50 tip.
you best pay up when someone scars you for life.

Jay Passer’s work has appeared online and in print since 1988. He lives and works in San Francisco, the city of his birth. His latest chap, Flower Omelette, co-authored with Misti Rainwater-Lites, is available from Lulu.

Information by David Spicer

If I owned a supercomputer, I’d spit
on insurance companies, eat butter pecan
ice cream in a jazz joint, wear a bathing suit,
and snatch my ex-wife. But I don’t.
Damn, I’m not Proust, words giggle at me,
they’re rosebuds in my stolen bologna.
I’m bilingual, true, but jealousy abandoned
my tree-lined countryside. I’m an alien,
collect shoelaces and other baubles.
I wait for my British skydiving instructress
in the lobby of the triplex. I love her.
I behave in my postwar flashbacks because
her heart doesn’t sit on the bench.
We’re partners, want a child in a textbook marriage.
She’s my lifelong pinup.
We’re cowboys in bed, parachute near mountains.
Wildfires fascinate us.
I’m no groupie or buffoon. We’re married,
own a farmhouse in the stormy jungle.
She plays bagpipe, I veneer pistons
and kill reptiles. We own a million medals.
Put them in the fishbowl–it’s a real status symbol.
She’s my vocation, a tall silver-haired feather merchant,
my last resort for the clinches. Elaborate, you say.
Why should I?

David Spicer has had poems accepted by or published in The American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Reed Magazine, Circle Show, Slim Volume, Yellow Mama, Jersey Devil Press, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., The Kitchen Poet, and elsewhere. He is the author of one full-length collection and four chapbooks, is the former editor of raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books, and lives in Memphis, Tennessee.

Guru by Sanjeev Sethi

In aridity of existence
you ignited spark of
nuanced nothingness—
with grunts, informed
questioning, and
versatility of views.
Responding to your
cri de coeur
I asked, depressed?
You disconnected.

SANJEEV SETHI is the author of three books of poetry. His most recent collection is This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015). His poems are in venues around the world: Morphrog 14, Bindwind Magazine, 3:AM Magazine, Novelmasters, Rasputin, Tower Journal, Peacock Journal, Treehouse, Soul-Lit, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.

 

To a New Born by Jonathan Beale

‘I am not yet born; O hear me.
Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the
club-footed ghoul come near me.’ Louis MacNiece

Thoughts alone in darkness.
The question is, why are, we here, you’d think
Why are we here what have we done, to be here
What will we do, and why, or why not, – If the Dane spoke true.
What will we do – in this growth of complexities, is thus.
That the cells grow divide and multiply like divers cutting the air.
Becoming one in a beauty of self and the Eid

This is “the” to come
Another linage
To: A name an epithet to grow into
To become: a day, date, and time.
The people you share this earth with
Will grow and grow and grow grey
As soon as growth becomes whole.

To you -Life is before you –
Open, the empty vessel
That will fill every time
The infinite moment
With life’s experience
Joy and want

The wind will pass
Around you
Learn to bend and not break
Root yourself
In the truth and you will find
And only you can grow to
Complete yourself.

Jonathan Beale has 500 plus poems published in Penwood Review, Poetic Diversity, Ink Sweat & Tears, Down in the Dirt, Mad Swirl, Pyrokinection, Ygdrasil, Van Gogh’s Ear, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Jawline Review, Bluepepper, Jellyfish Whispers, The Outsider, and Yellow Mama. His first collection of poetry ‘The Destinations of Raxiera’ is published by Hammer & Anvil. http://www.amazon.co.uk/Destinations-Raxiera-Jonathan-Beale-ebook/dp/B018F6GWQ6/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1452199641&sr=1-1&keywords=jonathan+beale He studied philosophy at Birkbeck College London and lives in Surrey England.

Matching Market Stall Fleece Jackets With Wolves & Native American Indians Printed On Them by Paul Tristram

They walk about the City Centre in the afternoons
getting in the road of every other decent cunt
who’s just trying to get to Cash Converter’s
and back to the Dealer’s door
without the entire world caving in, again.
Holding Argos sovereign-ringed hands,
sharing Poundland bags of ‘Haribo Mixes’
‘No, you have the heart one, my petal’
Move out of the way or I’ll punch you
right in the back of the fucking head, numpty!
Carrying bottles of Pepsi Max
around the place like it’s a pint of ale?
Filling McDonalds right up to the door
when you’re rushing in to get upstairs
with the beer-shits half hanging out of you.
(No one eats in there anyway…
except ‘Those People’, gangs of teenagers
who look too young to get into bars yet
and small children with stupid fucking parents!)
And bus queues… don’t even get me started…
Jesus Christ… Give Me Fucking Strength!!!
They’re always at the front and as slow as mildew,
they get there early with plenty of time to spare,
so they can index finger read the TV guide out loud
to their better half (Ha!) like it’s a fucking love sonnet.
Taking the piss is an understatement,
they were born and fucking bred to do it!
I’d pack up and move out to the Country,
but, I’ve already tried that, there’s nothing there,
except one pub to get ‘Barred For Life’ from
and lots of scenery until you’re fucking sick of it!

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096 ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036 And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326415204 You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

After Jesse James Faked His Death by Melanie Browne

He couldn’t stay
in his beloved
Missourah,
and so he hitched
a ride to Texas
(Pronounced Tay-Hoss)
and was promptly hired
by EDS and rose up
the ranks of
that company and
dined with
Ross Perot
and various members
of the Bush Family.
He was wildly
entertaining
at company picnics!
(insert weapon onomatopoeia here)
and bought a house
on turtle creek.
he stuck a
“don’t mess with Texas”
sticker on his
white Pick-Up
(Texas don’t sell any other color)
and he got used to
beef barbeque,
but still Jesse missed
his Missourah
and his mother,
and he had sworn off
shooting fed’rals
and cut back
on the whiskey
and so ol jesse-
he settled for
football,
and tailgatin’,
bud light beer
and he married
a former cheerleader
and just like
that the wild
fell away
like all
good things

Melanie Browne is a poet and fiction writer living in Texas. She has poetry at Madswirl, Bad Acid Poetry, In Between Hangovers and the now defunct Dead Snakes. She spends too much time looking at ghost photos on EBay, reading Wikipedia articles on old west Outlaws, and cataloging her fears for future generations.

Being Human by Anoucheka Gangabissoon

I claim not to be attached to life
But then
Each time something negative happens
I feel, bursting in me
Thousands and thousands
Of stars!
Ready to explode the world over
Ready to lament at their death
Ready to vent off their frustration!

Why, this life, have I learnt,
Matters not
Of my motto
Have I made
To live as would a traveler
Enjoying myself as much as I can
While keeping in check with the codes and the laws

But then, I am also human
It becomes normal
To feel, to cry, to wish
To bite my lips
To swallow my gulps
To bear the wrenching of my heart
To exclaim in agony
To crease my forehead
And to pray for things to be as I want them to!

Being human
Implicates being made of fragility
Being human
Why, thankfully, I still have rails to grope on to
While I do walk my path!

Greetings from Mauritius. I am Anoucheka Gangabissoon, a Primary School Educator and a poet/author. My works have appeared both in print and in online blogs/anthologies.

4 reasons that I walk for three hours every day and 4 reasons why writing is a lot like walking for three hours every day by Les Bohem

4 reasons that I walk for three hours every day

1. Because otherwise, I might have to sit and think.
2. And if you sit and think, you think about dying.
3. And if you think about dying, then it might all seem pointless.
4.  And if it all seems pointless then what would be the point in going for a walk.

4 reasons that writing is like walking three hours every day

1. Because keeping busy is keeping busy.
2. And if you’re keeping busy, then you’re not thinking about dying,
3. Because if you think about dying, then it might all seem pointless.
4. And if it all seems pointless then what would be the point in writing something like this?

If you give Jesus a cookie, will he stop crying?

Les Bohem has written a lot of movies and TV shows including Twenty Bucks, Daylight, Dante’s Peak, The Alamo and the mini-series, Taken which he wrote and executive produced with Steven Spielberg, and for which he won an Emmy award.   He’s had songs recorded by Emmylou Harris, Randy Travis, Freddy Fender, Steve Gillette, Johnette Napolitano (of Concrete Blonde), and Alvin (of the Chipmunks.)  His short novel, Flight 505, was published last year by UpperRubberBoot .   His new album, “Moved to Duarte,” was just released on Jack Rabbit Day Records to much critical acclaim and no sales whatsoever.

Segments by Stefanie Bennett

The coat-hanger! he said, watch the coathanger!
Garments become it: become you.
The way you dangle your jacket. Drape
Your coiffure. Just you watch
Those conclusions.

The hat-rack! she said, watch the hatrack!
If it’s vacant the bandana accuses.
If not, what is it you hide? Is it distasteful?
There’s a quality here. Either way
Watch the two-sided coin.

The casket! they said, watch the casket!
Is it expensive? Is it humbling? Your
Manners seal the self. Watch
The splinters. Go! die directly on a Sunday.
Watch them love you for it –.

Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry, a novel & a libretto… tutored at The Institute of Modern Languages & worked with Arts Action for Peace. Of mixed ancestry [Irish/Italian/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was bourn in Queenslans, Australia. Her latest poetry title is “The Vanishing.”