Poetry

By A.M. Byerly

 

My life’s been full of tragedy,

Going through the motions, empty me.

A day can change an entire path,

A new life brings a lost one back, you brought me back.

 

I spent years tripping over myself,

Hung all my hopes high on a shelf,

Gave up on ever being enough,

No more reason to deserve love, I’m not enough.

 

I never knew until I saw your face,

That so much pain could be erased,

And all my hope could be restored,

My reason to live and so much more than I asked for.

 

The day you appeared my world rearranged,

I gave you life and you gave me the same,

I’ll keep on going when the road is long,

It’s all for you, even this song.

Mark Lanegan

Mark Lanegan

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Ms. Rose

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Poetry

Residual

By: William R. Soldan

 

This tattered perch tames

what was once a restless spring,

while plumbed are the depths

of memory.

 

A child’s shaggy hair,

tangled back in the freeway breeze

as he tangles toward the unfamiliar:

tilted houses on dead end streets

and blurring rest-stop vacancies.

 

And now,

in this autumn,

as days gone still

still echo on the wall,

such remnants of the here and gone

reach out,

search for purchase in the space between

 

a latchkey kid

and part-time reverie.

By: William R. Soldan

 

The centuries are conspirators against the sanity and majesty of the soul.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Self-Reliance”

 

Laboring to leave a mark

among masses,

alighting on the fact that

the genius of the dead is

not the genius of today.

 

The codes by which,

and the casts in which we live,

an assemblage

of stagnant associations

and murmured assents.

 

The external—

all that fortifies the mold—

holds no answer to

Who am I?

but instead diverts,

unhinges thoughts

better realized in the coolness

of solitude.

 

This conspiracy works

to pin down and disallow

all but the most palatable projections

 

I no longer refrain

from lending myself

to this immediacy,

to not simply adopt

from the worn furrows

of the past;

to trust the first

unapologetic perception

rather than the lazy embrace

of habit,

of things written

but so seldom considered.

King Buzzo

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Off!

Veteran Punks get Off! on ‘Wasted Years’

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Poetry

By William R. Soldan

 

…Somewhere on my journey I saw everything

Where the songs do grow

And the flowers can sing.”

—Swervedriver, “Ejector Seat Reservation”

 

Heading down Cedar

toward the city and

setting sun,

the sky’s a dichotomy of

gilded jet-streams and

creeping

violet

night

 

*

Flowing

below the marquee

of an abandoned theater

we collide

with an electric

neon glow

that I imagine would seem

otherworldly

reflected in a rain puddle

 

if only

it had rained

 

*

Inside,

perched in the corner

near a graffitied

cigarette machine,

we wonder if he’ll

be here:

 

an old friend from

some years back

 

There, she says,

at the bar

 

*

He sees us,

at first perhaps just shadows,

but we resolve in his vision,

and recognition

shapes his face

 

We engage in the ritual

of those who

had once shared a

similar descent,

and I’m fascinated by the

degree to which

some things change

and some things

stay the same

 

*

The show starts

and the crowd thickens

 

I catch a glimpse

of a leather-clad cat

looking like he stepped

straight outta

Superfly

 

And suddenly I wish

I could grow

an afro

 

I hurry to the head

and there decide

I dig this place,

all its

in-your-faceness:

 

layers of spray paint

on the walls—check

stall w/ no door—check

toilet clogged with . . .

—check

 

my kind of joint

 

*

Outside,

Congregated in the cold night,

our old friend says the show

was like melted tires on the moon

 

and I say,

Yeah,

that’s about right

 

*

so after seven years

we’ve reconvened

and after several hours

again take leave

 

the same

but different

 

*

Past our normal hour

we decide to take

the long way home

 

as the moon waxes

beyond the glass

and we muse on life’s

cyclical nature

 

cherishing

who we were

 

and who

we are.

Killer Be Killed. Left to right: Max Cavalera, Troy Saunders, Dave Elitch and Greg Puciato .

Modern Prog Supergroup Killer Be Killed Ready Debut

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Rage

By Mike Binder

break?

break.

calm, calm.

rage!

 

fifty percent of me

doesnt know what the other half is thinking.

i know its not the time to rhyme,

but the reason in me has started drinking.

its impossible to tell the difference

between reality and what i make myself hear.

is this what im really feeling, babe?

or is this what my other me makes it be?

 

break?

break.

calm, calm.

rage!

 

chopped up into syllables

a sentence becomes only what we can read.

reading between the lines is fine,

cuz sometimes that space is all that we need.

a circle is a circle cuz it never stops rounding,

but the end is what we are all searching for.

these symbols in a row will bind you.

but what they mean can define you, confine you.

 

break?

(break it into little pieces).

break.

(bomb down until it ceases).

calm, calm.

(pent up in this cage…

until all you can feel is my)

rage!

 

break me into shards,

and then piece me together.

break me and im apart.

i done binged and now i shall purge.

calm i feel as i write this.

calm im locked up in this cage.

rage.

 

break?

(break it into little pieces).

break.

(bomb down until it ceases).

calm, calm.

(pent up in this cage…

until you can feel all my)

rage!