With bone-burning anticipation, I ingest you.
Not in sips or tastes, no,
I would drown in you if allowed,
submerged beneath the skin
in a womb of contented sighs.
I jealously covet every drop,
but the warmth on my lips is fleeting
leaving the kiss too soon,
mouth emptier than before.
I cannot resolve the dull cast,
the bland taste of food without you,
and life seems to stop.
Dear Readers and Writers,
It is with a heavy heart that we bid farewell to Jonathan Greene as our Poetry Editor (and, frankly, Managing Editor, most of the time he was with us). We are sad to see him go and we know we will not be the same without him.
Jonathan, you will be sorely missed.
There have been some issues at LL, lately. I don’t intend to use these newsletters as a place to discuss personal information, so I’ll just say here that there were some personal tragedies and major life changes that left us very short-staffed.
Many of you filled out the New Writer Form and haven’t heard back. This will soon be remedied, and to make sure it stays remedied, we’ll be bringing on New Editors (along with a New Poetry Editor, of course). Please bear with us while we work through the restructuring necessary to forge ahead with Literally Literary. …
When I was a kid, I’d visit my aunts, uncles, and cousins in the country during the summer. When I say country, I’m talking the deep south, Mississippi, dirt roads (or gravel if you were posh), pet goats, 3-wheelers with front racks to stabilize a rifle and a deer rack in back, Piggly Wiggly stores, etc. — Redneck USA.
I was the city cousin, considered sophisticated and worldly (as much as those terms could possibly apply as a kid), a minor curiosity.
When I was around fifteen years old, I met this kid, Edgar. I think he was about the same age as me. He may have been a second or third cousin, who the hell knows down there, but suddenly I was at the mercy of a country person without a close familiar blood-relative to buffer it. …
It’s been apparent to most of you that Poetry Under Cover has been just barely active for a while now.
I first want to apologize for that. I know some of you have waited and waited on a submission to be published or just being added as a Writer in the first place. It’s not because we don’t care. Marika and I have loved this place, but we’ve both been saddled with other responsibilities to the point that we’re not doing our readers or writers any justice here.
With much love and many many fond memories, I’m shutting down activity here. I’m not deleting anything, and I’m not saying PUC won’t come back to life at some point, but, for now, we’ll not be processing submissions or adding new writers. …
Mickey sat slumped in a dark corner with Hep-C and a brown-bagged bottle of screw-top wine.
He’s a casualty.
Oh, he still has a kid’s show — or the pale bloodless specter of one anyway. It’s more a hellish sort of eternal servitude, his image re-engineered, again and again, to satisfy whatever alphabetically-defined generation currently pushes the most money across greed-stained hands. He doesn’t much recognize his own face in the mirror these days.
The once-grand profile of his ears still occasionally casts a shadow faintly laced with the glee of innocently appreciative children. …
The following are brief summaries of the more common santonious drivera subspecies you may encounter in the field:
santonious drivera micropenus — This impressively large brute spends his days snorting and rearing, generally behaving loudly and aggressively toward the rest of the herd in an attempt to assert dominance. Once micropenus is visually inspected under sedation, however, it is easily observed that the reproductive organs are small and underdeveloped, almost vestigial.
It is believed that the aggressive behavior of this subspecies is related to the more difficult time it has securing a mate compared to the males of other subspecies with more typical reproductive organs. The terrible cacophony generated by these beasts rarely ever results in physical action by micropenus, however, as the subspecies seems to be quite cowardly when a challenge is returned. …
She smiles at my gestures,
giving me room to be me
running through words, looking for lost syllables
to name her, but always falling short.
I smile at her assumptions,
giving her room to be her
speaking her heart and telling me “don’t be mad,”
followed by words leaving me anything but.
“I don’t like the way you’ve been treated,”
she tells me softly
assuring my worth, wrapped in her words and arms.
I am more than a winter’s distraction.
“I want to be the story you fall in love with,”
I tell her, dizzy,
air absent lungs, breath stolen by her quiet sigh. …
He stared at the screen, feeling a strange sort of distress. How many times can one use amazing or wonderful or any number of limited terms before it all starts to sound profoundly stupid?
She was wonderful, truly enough, amazing, too, and every time he used those words for her it was with no hyperbole whatsoever, but what was the word, phrase, or sentence, that actually described the aching pressure building up inside his chest from the need to express it? …
My guts a rumbling kettle
even Pepto couldn’t settle,
I’m afraid I’m gonna shart.
I’d be petting random kittens
I’d go shopping for some mittens,
If I didn’t have to fart.
I’m afraid to move a muscle
or clench enough to hustle
to the bathroom, it’s too far.
I’d be floating like a feather
if not for this buttcheek tether
If I didn’t have to fart.
Here I go — explosive blow.
In relief my face aglow.
My condolences, toilet bowl.
A clean seat?
I’d be bursting with emotion,
yes, I’d frolic in slow motion
while I listen to Mozart.
I’d even hug a hipster
play a game or two of Twister,
If I didn’t have to fart.