Tag Archives: Poetry

Never permanent vacation



in the swimming pool


In the gutter

Pine-straws are getting


Bobbing up and down

In the suction

Of the little White Square

Carved in the middle

Is a hole

the width of a grown-man’s finger.

It’s gross.

But I’m Interested.

Dead bugs

A few worth rescuing.

My eyes are red

and burning

from all the chemicals.


Questionably clean


Black lines

Ending in T’s.

Eyes wide open.

I’m just skimming by

Passing you in one Breath.

Chemicals turn my

hair golden.

The island on my leg

Is seeping through my new

Found  pigment.

I used to ignore the Sun.

Tuner Annex.

Doors locked

Head floating

Keys Questionable.

An old motel

Renovated and transformed

Into art-student

Slum Land.

An afternoon Vacation

At least two hours long

And 7 feet deep.


A man comes everyday

To check on the Chemicals.

Making sure

the Bleach and Chlorine

are killing the Parasites.

Gold sometimes varnishes

And turns to green.

It doesn’t matter.

I’m gliding through the Navy Blue

And the Heat.

My Face is Melting Off.

Black Lines Running

And Ending in Smears.

Coconut Oil and concrete.

Chemicals and Water.

Never Permanent.



– Anastasia Frangoulis



God it’s sexual, opening a beer when you swore you wouldn’t drink tonight,
taking the first deep gulp, the foam backing up in the long amber neck

of the Pacifico bottle as you set it on the counter, the head spilling over
so you bend to fit your mouth against the cold lip

and drink, because what you are, aren’t you, is a drinker—maybe not a lush,
not an alcoholic, not yet anyway, but don’t you want

a glass of something most nights, don’t you need the gesture
of reaching for it, raising it high and swallowing down and savoring

the sweetness, or the scalding, knowing you’re going to give yourself to it
like a lover, whether or not he fills up the leaky balloon of your heart—

don’t you believe in trying to fill it, no matter what the odds,
don’t you believe it still might happen, aren’t you that kind of woman?

‘Tell Me’ – Kim Addonizio



I am prone to shadows

Martin Corless Smith


Red Shifting

-Aleksandr Skidan


12th Street


At the Shoe Store


Orange Slices


– Kim Addonizio, What Is This Thing Called Love?


An Ode to Kim

All words are by the amazing poet Kim Addonizio.. enjoy.





The music of fear bolts

in my window off the edges

of the Williamsburg Bridge that hangs in the night

shouldering the F Train as it crashes past

Delancey Street, the occasional passenger framed

in yellow windows of light.

The trash can covers bang.

It is the man who lives

in the doorway downstairs, waving

the copy of ‘Ivanhoe’ I threw out today.

The music repeats and repeats

Judd sleeps, his shoulder turned

from sirens and firetrucks.

By the digital blue of the clock at 3:33

I scout my body for cancer and sins.

The red lights splash across the bed.

I am a whole band of radio stations

playing simultaneously

as the shrieks from the Pitt Street Chicken Factory

fill the room.

I contain multitudes.

Dear God, bless me, keep me safe, save me.

An ambulance answers from the street.

I go to the kitchen

turn on the light,

stare out the window at the

Williamsburg Bridge refusing to sleep

like people who will not be photographed.

I name a fear for each light on the span:

Dogs and crawling things

no money and cancer

going blind wasting time

the shower scene from Psycho

and cancer and losing papers

and then there are nights

Judd’s out on his bike–

the odds, I fear the odds.

It’s incredible odds we’re against–

a wonder we’re still alive.

Brain tumors and burst appendix

all the cells I destroyed taking drugs.

Recombinant DNA and turning

into my mother.

Men with see through black socks

‘I want to fuck you’ in red lipstick

scrawled across my wall

subway halls

tanks advancing Ronald Reagen and Idaho.

Yes. I fear Idaho.

Ivanhoe, a man bellows from the street

I lift my head.

The trash cans crash.

I imagine him waving the lid at the sun that slowly lights the sky.

The garbage trucks advance

a rooster crows

then Ivanhoe, the F Train

the storefront rolltops rush.

The machinery of morning cranks itself up

steady and certain as the silver in Judd’s hair.

-Donna Masini


Found 87:

Today when I was en route, I came across a box of discarded books. The pale green cover and lavender font caught my eye. I found myself staring into the cardboard-box, and  at the Vintage Book of Contemporary American Poetry. Beneath it lay: The Writers Eye, the Stop, Look & Write series – Effective Writing Through Pictures. I don’t typically take things I find on the sidewalk, I just walk on by, but something about today was different. I stopped and looked, and  couldn’t resist… Now let me share a treat from the found books with you..

These two tales I tell of myself and the life I led

To its destruction, one dark, one bright: one gathered from

A few gleaming moments-a slice or two of the cake

From where it was perfectly marbled-the other one

Rising from an under-song of despair. In neither

Case is the truth of the story-or the story of

The possibility that either one could be true

Or false at all-of any interest. What matters

Is what they might be good for: the story of a lost

Joy, as a sad anchor to drop below the surface

Of where we keep on going; the other version of

What was, the tale of a hell escaped, easily sounds

Like a noisy breath of wind filling my patched old sails.

The Tales of the Sea

John Hollander