cutting bones – morgan leathem weiss

bone

They cut bones
while their lover saws coconuts.

Lining them up against the brick wall,
there is nothing for the sun to bleach.

Tinny, tenacious shrieks
pierce the air and emit an aria.

Metallic, it leaves a poor taste on the tongue,
the kind of putrid fur no scraper can peel.

The sound of bones primordial
against a backdrop of bold, fuzzy shells

hangs over human heads,
calculating, ruminating, no other than a bored specter.

One person struggles to find meaning,
but is left with the other cradling the saw.

Trapped within the jungle’s fury,
even the bones are not themselves.

ghost january

Morgan Leathem Weiss is a writer and folklorist from the Midwest. Her poetry has appeared in The Raven’s Perch, Really Serious Literature, Ghost City Review and is forthcoming in Clockwise Cat, while her essays have been featured in Jadaliyya and Folklore Thursday. When she is not interviewing archaeologists, she enjoys podcasts, experimental film, and exploring ruins. She splits her time between Oaxaca, Chicago, and the forests of Connecticut.

Photo: @zellersamuel

where the color gets out – ghost #4

where the color

That person is a tight furrowing.
We are doctors of light, cauterizing
the wounds where the color gets out.
There are people who want to eat
your color. My last partner said,
half-eaten is eaten, & she was disbarred.

Having your color eaten by night wolves
is a subsequent inevitability: a sentient
outpouring of colorlessness. Everything wants
to eat. It’s gone before I look around.

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Photo: Nick Sarro

struck horse – ron burch

Struck Horse

Coal-black mare. Solitary in the darkened field, its crooked, broad teeth grasping green strands. Gray clouds heaped upon one another, a thunder inside, one strike, two strikes, the mare on its front knees, slow-motioning as it tilted on its side, thick muscles shaking as the large body smacked the wet earth, mouth open, singed, a thin drift of smoke rising from the trembling haunches, tongue out, eyes wide.

A lone farmer ran through the field toward it, yelling its name. His green hat flew off in the rushing wind that embraced him with arms of rain.

The farmer dropped knees-down, wrapping his long arms around the mare’s head, its eyes all white. Spittle dribbled out of its agonized mouth.

“Please,” he pleaded, “don’t die.”

The horse rested in his arms, breaths like unanswered questions. The eyes returned to their normal state, the eyes of the mare meeting the eyes of the farmer, firmer breaths as the farmer’s hands stroked the dark horse head, until the mare asked, “What the hell just happened?”

The farmer, astonished, stuttering, “You, you, you were struck by lightning.”

The horse, whose name was Mare, leaned back its large head, the nostrils flaring, “Did you just talk to me?’

The farmer, more astonished, “You talked to me first.”

“Holy fuck,” replied Mare. “I guess I did.”

Once the miraculous had been accepted by the farmer, his immediate thought was, naturally, commerce. With this in mind, the farmer approached the mare who declined his offer of public performance.

“I wouldn’t like that at all,” she said.

“It’s no different than the conversation we’re having now,” the farmer protested. “You just have it with other people.”

The mare neighed in response, saying, “Other people may not be as kind as the farmer.” The farmer laughed.

“Nonsense,” he said, “I’ll be with you the whole time.”

Using his phone, the farmer recorded a short video of he and the mare discussing the weather while standing in the farmer’s north pasture. The video lasted less than 30 seconds and the mare completed three complete sentences and expounded on what she believed tomorrow’s weather was going to be like – crappy again. The uploaded video went viral, making the major social media sites, with ongoing arguments from the viewing community as to whether it was really a talking horse or not.

To confirm, the farmer and the mare were invited to one of the national televised morning shows, followed the same day by visits to two late-night shows. One of the late-night shows had on what they were calling a “Talking Horse Expert,” some guy dressed like a country rube with a straw hat and a pitchfork, a joke until Mare unmasked the man as someone knowing nothing about contemporary farming. The actor dropped his pitchfork realizing that the horse was actually talking.

Mare’s fame exploded. Her likeness was put on coffee mugs, t-shirts, plates, and hundreds of other trinkets. Even her own calendar. Crowds greeted her at the events she attended whether it be the opening of the local county fair to television shows. She was even asked to do the play-by-play for the national horse-racing derby, which she turned down, citing that she believed that humans racing horses for money was wrong. The derby representative, a stern, pasty old man who was a local politician, complained to the farmer, who apologized but felt the same way.

She didn’t understand why she had to do a dog-food commercial. “I don’t even eat dog food,” she said. “Do you?”

The farmer shook his head and said that it was just for the money. Mare complained that too many humans only cared about money. The guy holding the boom said she didn’t know any better because she was only a stupid horse. Mare cantered over to the boom operator, backing him up against the wall and said that if it wasn’t for humans and their slaughter of innocent animals to feed their overweight, smelly bodies, that this world would be a much better place.

You could hear the hum of the background lights.

They finished the shoot but the atmosphere was tense. As the farmer led out the mare, she said to him, “I’m only telling the truth.”

The farmer nodded his head. “I know.”

Later, that night, someone leaked a shaky video of Mare’s comments from the commercial. The comments were excoriating, and the farmer didn’t see the need to tell the mare about it. This was bad press and perhaps, the farmer considered, that they had made enough money to live happily for a number of years.

In the living room of the farm house, where Mare was now living, he told her it’s time to retire.

“Thank god,” she replied and nuzzled his neck as she once did when she was much smaller.

They still had one more talk show to do and decided together that it would a great way to say goodbye. The farmer would say that the mare woke up silent again, and she would merely stand there while the camera pushed in on her face.

Minutes before she was to go on live television, the farmer couldn’t find her in her assigned dressing room. He asked a couple of the people backstage if they’d seen a horse but nothing. He heard a shot – he knew it was a shot – he was a hunter, he knew. He ran toward the direction and out an emergency exit. A white car pulled away. She was on the ground behind the building, crumpled across two parking spaces, her body broken on the cement dividers, her mouth bound with white rope, her blood, from a gunshot, pooled around her mane. He held her still head in his arms and even as the grief broke across him, he refused it, so it would feed him for a long time, never letting him forget.

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Ron Burch’s fiction has been published in numerous literary journals including Mississippi Review, New World Writing, PANK, and been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His novel, Bliss Inc., was published by BlazeVOX Books. He lives in Los Angeles. 

Photo: Erin Dolson

new balloon – ghost #13

0000000 balloon

this is a death.

this the sound of a Boeing 747 knocking on your frontal cortex.

this is a purging of two-thousand and eighteen years of stop, of start over, let go, go home, be kind, deliver us from evil, love thy neighbor, tip your waiter, right side of the road, left side strong side.

this is a painter taking white #FFFFFF over everything except of course for

you.

 

this is my open palm telling you it’s okay.

 

you are okay.

 

you made a mess of yourself.

dirty laundry hanging from the dull blades of your ceiling fan.

dust lining the windows of your room.

 

start over.

 

press gently in reverse into the footprints you’ve left in the snow.

 

start over.

 

don’t give up.

 

give in.

 

suck in the sun, the sky, the dilapidated cars chugging down nowhere road so quick

and blow it out into a new balloon.

 

slipknot the string around your open facing wrist

and push off of the ground

into the sky which no one has actually been able yet

to measure.

 

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Photo: Laurn Carrasco Morón

revolution #10 – the french destroyer bambara

0000 beat

found poetry from Beatles articles

deep inside / orchestral formality / please / please / please / please / only Northern fans / Janice the stripper / we can’t read music / snapped up / leave please / East Ham Granada / hand one to bruce / 4:30 am / throat sweets keep up going / standing on a telegram / number ten / in a ballroom / soaking wet with heat / the royalties haven’t come in yet / holy of holies / Liverpool black market / you could have boiled an egg / left alone on the doorstep / ice cold / my wings are broken and so is my hair / persistent termites / cliff-top / cliff-side theatre / arranged to meet elsewhere / mind you said Paul / it’s all in the mind you know / backing Johnny Gentle / boys / someone bought George another Pepsi-Cola / you become naked / the son of a painter / Best was sick / we need a suntan after working under arclights for so long / on holiday / there was a plane strike / Brian was / up the Eiffel Tower / the Miracles / we took pictures / with our love / the Queen Mother said later / try to realize / complete audience silence / very small / not a scream / eerie phenomenon / hair brushed to / last number / a glossy sheen / last number / last number

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Photo: Isai Ramos

midwestern meditation – adrian s. potter

Stephen Radford

Having never been to heaven, I can’t conceive of hell. But when I consider it, I see yellow crops crowding a flat expanse and everything tinged with ochre – even our incendiary expectations. During our road trip, we solve the riddle of boredom by inventorying the silos, smokestacks, and silence that populates the prairie skyline. Everything we say sounds like an echo of something we said earlier. But in your eyes, I witness truth: brown of soil, green of grass, gold of grain, gray of tornadoes. Still, I dream of foreclosed fields and dying cowtowns, and yours the only living soul, a specter in reverse.

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Adrian S. Potter writes poetry and short fiction. He is the author of the fiction chapbook Survival Notes (Červená Barva Press, 2008) and winner of the 2010 Southern Illinois Writers Guild Poetry Contest. Some publication credits include North American Review, Obsidian and Kansas City Voices. He blogs, sometimes, at http://adrianspotter.com/.

Photo: Stephen Radford

they are under my comforter of stars – promise clutter

redwoods
there will be an October surely,
my love,
suspended in fog
spiced with bark
& trapped beneath a canopy of mules
blocking the heavens from knowing
which way the wind blows
i do not catch in the chill
nothing here brings me to you
i see love in the gold glint on green
in the heat of the day
at night, the dogs hear
my mournful howls
i am not for you
as the redwoods are
i shed my leaves
before the first frost
i think you are the only one
to have ever seen the moon,
my love,
with candied cheek awe
trimming back eyelashes
exposing lakes of arcane calm
it is silent in comptche
we shuffle across dirt paths
i grab our elbows
to make us stargaze
they too are under
these lights
when you shine on them
won’t you send my love?
i grew accustomed to living without you,
my love,
here where the candlewax waves
crash against the stones
& the crow’s caw pierces my heart
my heart that aches for you
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three poems – sam albala

girl and plane

half awake dreams

sam poem.jpg

dairy does that

I keep eating ice cream thinking it might save me.

                                                        from what?

who knows.

                                         the end of the world maybe.

fear of the end of the world.

                                                        dairy does that.

especially when you’re lactose intolerant.

 

 

middle finger to the patriarchy 

everyone loves a woman in distress.

                                 well tell everyone to fuck off.

 

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Sam Albala is a poet nestled in the mountains of Colorado. She has a horizon habit and can often be found gobbling up the sky line while babbling about road trips, tea, and anatomical hearts, all with her mouth full of light. To see not-real-life horizons find @keepmindscreative on Instagram. To read more composed words, visit samanthaalbala.contently.com

Photo: Danny Trujillo

the ghost in the machine – programmed poems by s. cearley

S. Cearley’s statement on the work:

The poetry generation started in graduate school when I worked on an expert system project to write short stories called The BRUTUS project, which was mostly the work of Dr Selmer Bringsjord. Some years later I took some of the basic ideas and stripped them down further to generate concrete poetry. I stripped them down in the sense that the generation is much, much, much simpler when I did not have to worry about a plot and the structure necessary. Currently my programs use a large selection of text files culled from Project Gutenberg, and the text is stripped, the computer identifies words as parts of speech (sometimes incorrectly, sometimes the error is because the same word can be different parts of speech), and reconstructs sentences. From this I edit the output into a poem. Separately, in the graphical works I use elements of vector graphics to create a framework of boundaries for the text. The more I strip out of the text generation code, the more complex the linework (what I call the final framework to place the text in) becomes. I could combine both of these into one single program but then I would not be able to edit the text, and I still insert myself into this ghostly, inner spaceage creation. Once both are complete, the text is pushed into the boundaries of the linework, and the computer generates a title based on the text used in the poem.
In this process there is the machine brain, a ghost in the machine. It doesn’t understand what it is doing, and yet it still manages to apparate as an intelligence without body, splashing text across the screen as if it were truly there. Then I get to further modify that creative work. I am not so much an editor but a glitch made flesh – in glitch art, the computer is exploited to create seemingly random artefacts that give an aesthetic appeal. In this interaction, I do it to the computer. I glitch its output into something more interesting. (If the computer text generation was working ideally, it would churn out a typical human’s capability of poetry. Greeting card poems. So I affect the computer’s abilities, and I affect the computer’s output).

 

also some misapprehensions
“also some misapprehensions”
Eight kept houses of Nevada
“Eight kept houses of Nevada”
guns and bows and greyhound
“guns and bows and greyhound”
he never wearied of one church
“he never wearied of one church”
see under Subluxations
“see under Subluxations”

ghost january

S. Cearley can be found at futureanachronism.com, and on Twitter at @scearley.

south broadway ghost society – raising funds for first print journal

00 ghosts

Friends,

I am starting a gofundme to raise money for the first ever print journal to be distributed by the literary and arts collective I run, South Broadway Ghost Society, and I am asking your help by pledging anything you can to help, big or small.

In the last four months since inception, South Broadway Ghost Society has grown immensely. We’ve already featured hundreds of writers, poets, artists and photographers, many of which right of of Denver, on our online journal, our curated Instagram and on social media at large. We’ve hosted four very eclectic events thus far: a reading at Mutiny Information Cafe, an open mic for letters at the Corner Beet, an intimate poetry/music mashup at Green Lady Gardens and most recently, an art gallery/live music/poetry event out of Thought/Forms Gallery near the Arts District on Santa Fe.

Ghost Society has 100% of my heart in it. I’ve made a commitment to myself to dedicate at least ten years to this project, wherein I intend to continue hosting events and I am very excited to announce, start an annual print journal which I aim to have distributed as largely as possible. Outside of obvious avenues of distribution like local and chain bookstores, I also want to get the journal into metaphysical stores and would love to have tables at events such as the Denver Zine Fest, DiNK and the Curiosities & Oddities Expo. The magazine will be fully illustrated with art and photography featured against works of writing from every genre; poetry, non-fiction, essays, fiction, recipes, spells, whatever finds its way to us.

I am asking for your help to make that happen. Our goal of $999 would make it possible to have the foundation to build up from there, to pay artists who are accepted into the print journal and get going on distribution this October. Thank you for considering investing in this project which means the world to me.

Even if you can’t donate, you can help a lot just by sharing the gofundme page. You can find that page HERE.

Much Love,

Brice Maiurro
Founder/Editor-In-Chief, South Broadway Ghost Society

*Anyone who contributes $50 or more will receive a numbered first printing copy of the journal when it is available in October of 2019 mailed to you, or available for pickup at any of our events. Please include your address in the comments or email your physical address with the subject “Print Journal 50” to soboghosts@gmail.com.

Thank you.