YOLANDA COULAZ

Yolanda Coulaz is a poet and photographer, and owner/editor of Purple Sage Press (when she’s not working at her “day job”). She also teaches poetry workshops to middle and high school students throughout Long Island. Her poetry has won a number of awards and has been widely published. Her signature poem “Cool, Cotton Comfort” won first place in the Mattia Family 8th International Poetry Competition. In April 2004 she coordinated, hosted and was a feature reader at “Poets for Pets”, a fundraiser for Loving Touch Animal Rescue, and has published the anthology For Loving Precious Beast to help benefit their cause. Her first book of poetry Spirits and Oxygen was released in October 2003. Google her name on the internet, and find out more. (Photo provided by Yolanda Coulaz)

COOL, COTTON COMFORT

I wore him like a tight pair of jeans,
and he looked damn good on me.
It was almost obscene,
that tight pair of jeans.

He didn’t fit,
and I was proud of it
and the way they’d stare
at that man I’d wear.
It was almost obscene,
that pair of jeans.

Well, I’m older today,
and I’ve got a man that fits
like a pair of sweats, heather grey,
and he looks damn good on me.
And that tight pair of jeans?
Well, I threw him away.

from:
Spirits and Oxygen
Copyright © 2003
by Yolanda Coulaz
Purple Sage Press

CITY GIRL

She reads cheap paperbacks
and bibles and takes them
at their word, wears black
and lives on caffeine,
cigarettes and stress.

Her nails are nubs;
cuticles ragged and raw;
hair, Midnight #36.

Her skin is pale
in sky scraper shadows,
and she is lean
for lack of transportation.

She eats soft pretzels
soaked in humidity,
seasoned with salt
and carbon monoxide,
searches for something
in subways and taverns,
and she doesn’t read
the funnies anymore.

from:
Spirits and Oxygen
Copyright © 2003
by Yolanda Coulaz
Purple Sage Press

EFRAYIM LEVENSON

EFRAYIM LEVENSON'S new chapbook, Dances With Tears, will be available for general sale March 20. (Photo by Hobobob)



JONES
by Efrayim Levenson

The record climb
the record fall
Don't look now
There go your balls!

The next ball up
can't come too fast
Yolanda Vega
won't save your ass

La-la-la-la
la-la-la-la
la-la-la-la-la-la-la

BURDEN OF A MAN

Adrift in time
at peace with space
the love in this place
sledge-hammered into his head
shatters all levels
of dissonant rhythms
He cannot sing what it reveals
The chorus in his disturbed quietude
is slapped across his face
left, then right, then left again

"Please let me breathe", he gasps,
"just for a moment to regain my composure
in the maze. Perhaps the auto-tracking
on the VCR in my mind will accomplish
something soon. A swirl of nausea reels me
as I dance between the city people during a
brief furlough from the numbers game,
the calculator's click-clack not far away."

If only for a little rain
to soak his disposition
in the rhythmic splashings
of his long walk home
Perhaps tonight he can write this poem
if only the day would end

"If only the day would end", he thinks,
"I could lay down with you
to feel my rhythm in your pulse,
look into your eyes that always lure me in.
I love the song your trigger finger sings."

Good morning!
Back into the fitful grind
to ride the rails once again
rattle shake squeal of brake
back to the rustle of purple paper
the CPU click again, again,
again the stiff roar from the humorless
Only a few know the size of the real picture
Is the clock friend or foe?
All he knows is smallness in the world
but they keep knocking on his door for answers

"Just a little comfort with you in my arms
quiets the incessant buzz. Hold me down
while there's yet time for peace."

For soon the morning light rages
with the burden of a man
in search of a place to stand
So many discordant pieces to assemble
for the walk up the battlefield's hill
where the images are never concrete
His final rest lies at the top
He feels the pull of a new day
while he awaits the rattling shatter
of the vice that flattens his head
Pound the drum
Scrape the string clean
Shield yourselves from his burden's burst
Have a good laugh at the clown's expense
You'll feel sorry when it's too late
Tick, tick, tick, adrift in accelerated fading time again
Wake up!
We're not done with you yet.
Your egg isn't scrambled enough
The shots fired are just your synapse snap

Relax.
It'll be fine in the morning.

Efrayim

LADY PENUMBRA

Born in Germany, emigrated to US as a child, grew up in Mass, went thru something like hell, came out on the other side, represents creative people from the Gulad behind bars. maybe someday there will be something more detailed ...

THE PRIEST


I walked down the alley
where the priest held a gun to my head
of course god loves you
he said
and so do I
he bent down to kiss me
and then he pulled the trigger

by "Lady Penumbra" c. 2007

RAVENOUS (MORE!)

This entire town feeds off this prison

parasites like leeches off dead fish

MORE!

screams the town

gimme MORE!

I want more prisoners!

A woman observes

"Oh, he’s been here a long time

since before Joey was born"

Joey is now in college

MORE!

screams the prison

gimme MORE!

I want more time!

Seventy prisons in this state

sustain the corporations

that sustain the body politic

MORE!

screams the gov’nor

gimme MORE!

I want more prisons!

the rich black soil gives up its farms

trades them for new facilities

and soaks up the blood of the men

MORE!

screams the earth

gimme MORE!

I want more blood!

two-thousand aimless men

shuffle under the weight of their burdens
hopeless and defeated
more!

struggle the men to whisper

by "Lady Penumbra" c. 2007

DAVID ELSASASER

David Elsasser has been a co-host of the weekly, monday, Saturn Reading, at Nightingale Bar for, five years. He has featured at many venues. He is also a photographer who particularly enjoys taking pictures of other spoken word artists performing.

LAST CALL!

she half shouts, half purrs in our ears. We each feel like it was our individual ear. Maybe that’s the sign of a really good bartender. Or maybe it’s magic. Maybe we all hear important messages through one great generational ear somewhere. Personally I suspect it’s the one hanging on a neon-sign on Varick St. An oracle hidden in plain sight. But I get funny ideas.

The bar-keep needs us to know she’s on our side. She’d give us the universe. Only time is growing short. Oh, it’s not up yet. There’s still time for one more good go-round. One great draft of life. But we have nowhere near as much future as we once did. You know, back in those bygone days when we believed in forever. Our forever. No one could tell us different. Though of course they tried. It was hopeless. But then they knew that.

Now there’s only a finger-thickness of tape left on the feeder spool. We hear Kate starting to warm up in the back room. The barkeep senses us growing sullen. She pulls off her beer-soaked sweatshirt and liberates her pony-tail from her trucker-cap strap. She wriggles out of her jeans and jumps up on the bar, shaking her long hair free.

She is wearing only the g-string she stores in a shot glass behind the bar for emergencies. The Rolling Stones come on the Juke Box. She smiles eternal bliss at us, holding the large print version of the bar menu before her. I can’t get no. A no, no, no. Her gyrations follow the beat. She is wall-to-wall message, and we all read the writing. It’s all good now. But what a decision we each face.

All possibility gapes before us, on the menu. It’s like the sign outside this establishment reads: The Bar Set High. So what to go for? How far can you leap? Her dance goes on. And on. She is Artemis, Isis, Mary, promising our resurgence. One and then another, and then another of us start singing with the music. Only everyone is singing a different song. Each sings the song they hear. His or her own song. While we sing we study our choices.

We harmonize surprising well. We sound like The Beach Boys, or the Supremes, the Beatles or Billie Holiday. It all depends who’s listening.

We sing and contemplate: For starters, there’s the Pleasure Punch Cocktail, I second that emotion, there’s the Major Life-Swing Margarita, looking for my, lost shaker of salt, the Inner-Seeking Micro Brew, ripple in still water, when there is no pebble tossed, nor wind to blow, and the Wistful Manhattan, slow down, you’re moving too fast, I’d like to make the morning last. I should stop right now, because maybe none of these are for you. There’s many, many other choices. You go over it yourself. I know what I want.

Oh, and by the way, I had a conversation with the bartender earlier. She says forever isn’t all that wonderful: You get so tired of yourself. Not to mention the endlessness of human destruction. There are furrows on her graceful forehead.

Now she washes glasses as we speak. This is the part she likes, she says: hanging out, mixing, watching our breath come and go. She takes our orders. We all move along.

David Elsasaser – 2/07

BODIES

In protest of the Chinese Government’s South Street Seaport exhibit

Thank you silent men
your shed skins illustrate
globalization dissolves difference
but something’s more sinister
than Cheshire smiles suggest.
Sorry I won’t see your
body politic revelations.
You’re too sanguine for me
sinews of cooperation
flexed in laminated ease –
you two high-fiving,
is it good governance
or good riddance you salute?
You thumbing a ride
is it to melting pot
or glue pot you go?

Air of executed men
I fear your gallows giddiness.
What pitiful plea bargains
your hides bought.
Murderers in the flesh, maybe
but you, your meditative stare
recalls Falun Gong. And you,
breathless shout forever sealed
did you sound freedom’s call?
You with tireless climbing step
you look Tibetan.
Cares gone with epidermis
you all look lighter
if suspiciously good humored.
So what portent
your ghoulish second coming?
Is it less mayhem you signal
or just a clever scheme
to stash the bodies?

David Elsasser - 5/06

JACK TRICARICO

Doing art of any kind has always been a necessity for me, just as writing became at age 35 when I first attempted to write poetry.
After five years I put together my first chap book entitled "Captain Omega" which I only saved a few poems from. Today I've written three more and am currently working on another. Balancing my time between painting, writing, and practicing T'ai Chi is a daily effort that has been very rewarding for me through the years.

Jack Tricarico
January 6, 2007

WELCOME THE ALIEN:

Small, frail, East Indian woman
Wheeling her baby carriage
On a tenement sidewalk
Sandwiched between the caved-in stare
Of a Hell's Angel
And my hungrier one
For far away atmospheres
Evident in her delicate, moonwalk step
Oh, poor mother. Oh, poor baby
Everyone eats a little of everyone
In New York City
What we don't eat is our imponderables
That which we can't situate
Or encapsulate or subordinate
Or exasperate or expatriat
Or expropriate or exuviate
Doomsday viruses, interplanetary terrorist
Symptoms of madness that haven't been named
The air produces things
Something starts like a bad rumor
Wherever we lie down
Unity erases us
Divided we still have a face
Small, frail, East Indian woman
Don't walk like the other side
Of a shadow on the other side
Of a wall. Each pore of your skin
Is the door to a laughing abyss
We're in America, you know

Jack Tricarico

A BLIND GIRL'S HANDS AND MINE

Like tendrils
Moving beneath
Clear water
Her hands form
An enclosed sovereignty
In a sunken dimension
That encircles the words
Of men
Like the word "God"
Which she kneads
With soft fists
And the word "myth"
Which she spools
On her thumbs
And the word "fact"
Which she smears
In her palms
And the word "guilt"
Which she clasps
On her wrists
And the word "love"
Which she lifts
With her cup
While the men
Who do not notice
Recede in the chatter
Of their meandering discourse
That fails to unnerve
The impervious waitress
Who waits for our order
Like dust in a vacuum
Compared to my own
The blind girl's hands
Are like the shape of breath
And mine like the hands
Of accomplished assassins
Still
They can paint clouds
With a tar brush
And with fingers embraced
They exchange their regrets
For whatever was left
Undone, unattempted
Or never imagined
From the earliest dawn Of the world
Surrounding the contours Of things
That have the color
Of twilight
And the established composure
Of the blind girl's hands

Jack Tricarico

FREDERICK VAUGHN

FREDERICK VAUGHN is a poet and playwright living in Norwich, CT. His plays TEAL BLUE, SILENCE, BRIAN AND BRIAN, and THE PAY OFF have played Off Off
Broadway at Theatre Studio Inc. He wrote and starred in two soap operas on Manhattan Neighborhood Network, ROEBLING'S WORLD and THE NEXT TOMORROW. MNN has also aired some of his musicals, MUNICH, OY, THE BIG TIME, and WHO'S DELUDED NOW? In Connecticut, Vaughn is mostly known for writing skits for The Second Step Players in their fight against the stigma of being mentally ill (Photo from Frederick Vaughn).

Hercules Rewritten

by Frederick Vaughn

I told Hercules my epic poem

But he says that it's too preachy

And I write about Cupid

And Hercules was hurt that

I wrote about another god

And I make a sacrifice

But Hercules wasn't impressed

So I wrote a one-act play

For each of his twelve labors

But Hercules didn't care for my style

So I thoughtFuck Hercules

If he doesn't like my epic

There are other heroes around

But twelve labors

That's good enough for a comic book

MIDDLE NAME

His middle name is Hussein
That will hurt him
My middle name is Emory
Will that hurt me

When he was six
Some say he went to a Muslim school
When I was six
I went to Kindergarten
I hated nap time
But I loved cookies and punch

When I listen to the news
I think
God, these people are stupid
But they sell me Viagra

But not enough Viagra
The company just laid off several employees
I wonder what the CEO's middle name is

by Frederick Vaughn

THE SAXOPHONE SONG


I walk down the street in New York
There I see a black man with a saxophone
But he isn't playing his saxophone
He is surrounded by seven cops
A black lady cop tells him
That he can't play his saxophone
He doesn't have a license
"Do you have a lincense?
Because you can't play your saxophone without a license
You don't have a license do you?
Now you can't play your saxophone
You have no license"

And I saw the black man
And the seven cops
And I thought
"Why does it take seven cops to stop one black man
From playing his saxophone?
Are they afraid of what song he plays?"
I bet it would have been The Theme from The Godfather
Or maybe New York, New York
Maybe he was going to spend the quarters
He would have made in tips
And buy subversive literature
Or a Doris Day CD

Seven cops
I bet if he was robbed
He couldn't find one

by Frederick Vaughn

"FAMILY AFFAIR"

SAVONNAH Born and raised in Newark New Jersey, Savonna lives, breathes and writes truth with painful, unabashed explicitness. Her poems are a reflection of her tortured past, agonizing present and uncertain future, and her style is best described as the result of a love triangle between Nina Simone, Edgar Alan Poe, and Frida Kahlo. Savonna will take you on a wild ride through her existence in her autobiographical, poetical journals (Photos from Savonnah).

THE MUSE

I have fallen, eyes open, from building rooftops.
Dropped myself from movie theatre balconies and cliffs with jagged rocks and sticks waiting to embrace me, lace me, and drape me in splotched spots, red polka dots that boast surgical arrays and display my imperfections.
Despaired, I have murdered my children in their sweet sleep then turned the blade on my own wrists, tiny slits precisely sliced while submerging in warm tub water.
Assorted pain medications, swallowed without hesitation, were taken with spiritual libations, as a sort of melancholic celebration for the poisoned encapsulations...and...
...as I’ patiently await the end, await the end, await the end, I’d begin to cry.
Tormented, I always awake from this daydreamed state my tear stained face showing traces of scrambled random thoughts fraught with ideations of suicidal, homicidal guilt that wilts and withers my psyche, my soul and body, as a rain forest flower transplanted in the desert.
And whether I survive is based on lies and the elements, dependant on others to make sense my purpose, it’s no wonder I can’t get a grip and slip fixatedly on what people say to me, how their reactions dictate what my day will be and tactless cracks predict what is to become of me.
I sink and give in to depressions every twist and bend and try over and over again to find an end, to find an end, to find an end, to my wasted existence.
Hints and glimmers of solutions present themselves as intrusions because the final truth is; I am used to this confusion I’m set in. It is a comfortable old friend. It secures my insecurities and constantly reminds me of where I’m from. So, so what if I succumb under it’s oppressive thumb, the point is not to run. The point is to face it, and it let it take you to the muse. Even if she’s a confused bitch and wishes mal-intent and purposely invents obstacles and optical illusions for her sheer enjoyment.
You loose yourself for a minute but there is wealth and power in it, fuck that happy ending shit, deaths my detriment for un-repentance.
And the sentence I receive leaves grief for the bereaved but I still feel the need to please that aching that sadness has taken me too. I can think of no others because this muse has governed me thus far. Apart from informed sane decisions, this circle is what I choose to live in, and
I can’t find the ending, and I can’t find the ending....



LAZY FAT BITCH


The lazy fat bitch wishes, as she sits with a mouth full of grits and a sink full of dishes, that her hips were 24 inches, and that her lips weren’t interested in wrapping themselves around chicken bones, blueberry scones, ice cream cones, or some other form of oral pacification.
The lazy fat bitch prays for days of diarrhea delirium just so she can fit in some size 18 jeans, without collapsing her spleen and while she drifts off to sleep she hopes and dreams that one day, say Pfizer or Merck will work out all her trouble in a magic bottle.
When she wakes, the floor creaks and shakes under her enormous weight and she states “Today is God damned day! Fuck ice cream!” She screams, and loads a pile of eggs, toast, home fries, and steak on her plate.
The diet starts now, I don’t care how, I’m going to loose 50 pounds by the end of this month. Jenny Craig, Weight Watchers, Nutri System, Carb Blockers, Curves, Pilates, Bally’s and herbal hot toddies.
The month comes to an end and her belly, her best friend, is still as rotund robust as can be.
So the lazy fat bitch just sits with a mouthful of grits and a sink full of dishes and wishes for a Mercedes.

NAIM OMARI has appeared locally at community churches and school sponsored events. He performs poetry open mics at any venue from New York to Washington DC and all stops in between. Naim Omari is a writer, a dancer, a football player, an award winning wrestler, and a model. All before his 12th birthday!

THE DEMON

I am afraid to move.
I lie still on hard black pavement. If I move a muscle, It will see me.
I watch It glide across the street, slowly, with a black hood and no face.
It is night. Or it is a black day. Which one I can’t tell. There is no sun or moon.
It sees me. I am frozen. Paralyzed by fear. It feeds off the adrenaline that flows through my body, and It uses it against my will. I have no control. I can feel It smiling at me. A smile that pulsates from It’s core and burns into my mind. At that moment, I know my life is over and I’m not afraid. Then blackness.

I lie still on soft blue sheets. I am dripping with sweat. Still paralyzed. Panting. My eyes focus. The black railing of my bed glimmers in the new sun light. I move slowly out of my bed. I stretch. My arms are foreign. The floor is cold. The shower is hot. I try to wash It and It’s smile away. I am not hungry, but I am told to eat. My body does not feel like my own. I hear someone call me. No one is there. I walk to school, but I am not alone. I wonder why kids shy away from me. I don’t care. Someone says I’m different. I don’t care. I don’t care about anything. The day is over. I wasn’t even there. I walk into my house. There is garbage every where. Glass from broken dishes and cups are all over the floor.
The tables are smashed. The sofas are ripped to shreds. My family is gone. I open the door to my bedroom. It sits on my bed smiling Its inner smile. I hear a siren. Then blackness.

I lie still. Frozen. I am dripping with sweat. My eyes focus. I slowly get out of my bed. My body is not my own. I am not hungry. Someone calls my name. There is no one there. I walk to school. But I am not alone. Someone says I’m different. I don’t care.....

NIGEL JOAQUIN is a 14 year old model, poet, martial artist, football player, wrestler, chef and Shakespearean enthusist. Now if he would just clean his room....

I'M NOT AN AFRICAN AMERICAN


I am not an African American.
I am not an African.
I am not an African in America.
I am an American.
In America.
If I were to go to Somalia, Kenya, Liberia, Nigeria or any other part of the “Mother land”, they would not call me brother.
They go to school with me. I tell them we are all the same.
They tell me I came by boat and they came by plane.
They tell me they can trace their roots and their family name.
I asked my mother where we got our start.
The farthest she could go was Chief Troublefield on one side and on the other, old master Clark.
I don’t know which ship we were on. Africa is not my home.
They sold me to master Clark for some trinkets and shiny things.
That’s why there’s an X after Malcolm’s name.
But even the Shabazz tribe has no meaning.
My ancestors died here in America on trees swinging.
We built this country, I am this nation.
I don’t need any tribalization.
I am not an African. I am not an African.
I am not an African American.