Bravehost Poetry Review
All subsequent rights to the works included in this anthology remain with their respective authors.
Table of Contents Joshua Clark This x 6 Le Nozze di Diderot
6 7
Joe Bussiere ayalasilva 8 Hunger Name #6 22 DO YOU THINK I WILL MAKE GOOD BLUES MUSIC AFTER I SELL MY SOUL TO THE DEVIL 23 Nathan Masserang There are many phrases about piss. There are a few instances in which one can have multi-color piss.
24 25
Laura Theobald sitting in a chair
26
Keith Higginbotham Weather Nothing Magazine A Glass Couch Worry Treason School
27 28 29
Austin Islam think of all the grain alcohol
30
Lauren Snowden Untitled
31
Johnny Vulpine Untitled not give up on you
32 33
Adam Trawick dandelion
34
Justin Carter Let’s Shatter Illusions
35
Jordan Castro Whas Hannin Allergic
36 38
Maggie Lee Untitled
39
Matt Margo villanelle written to john cage’s suite for toy piano haiku
40 41
James Ganas lunar forever.png
42 43
Volodymyr Bilyk Hi Gimme There What
44 45
Dom Schwab I Have Had This Since Before I Was Born
46
Skyy Pamilton 1:48 PSYCHOTIA
47
Andrew Schneider holden caulfield is dead because i killed him summer solstice
48 50
Lauren Ott Untitled
51
Caleb Bouchard Here Imagined conversation from a party
52 53
Leilani Ĺ tajer To Delete Your Facebook Profile
54
The Road to Vienna
56
Wallace Barker She Judged Petals in Disarray
58
Colton Gibowicz Constance&Edna
59
Jeff Bucher waffle2 Why are my love poems
60 61
Calvero fuck you, jeff
62
Alex Manley Send Nots
67
Austin Kieler caves are pretty cool terrible colors monty carlo
68 69 70
Ashley Kay Petersen The Runner
71
James Hand OJ vs Milk Heaven with Charlie Chaplin
72 73
Sam Lasko returning home
74
Joshua Clark This x 6 for David Stears This day is a tongue paved with diamonds This journey is a dragon skeleton in freefall This place is a Cenobite dungeon This heart is a padlocked walnut This time is a sleeping hour pregnant with witches This life is a careless infant terraformer
Joshua Clark Le Nozze di Diderot I can’t stop thinking about the word “soon.” Or of the sandpaper quality of my chin on its less flattering days. Or of half-light through a piece of fabric draped over a leg. Often I’ll mishear and thus misinterpret lyrics, And when I look them up the objective reality seems to disappoint. Like when I heard “seals” for “sails,” Or “moon” for “ruins.” But this is a futile disappointment. The mistakes of my ear should merely enhance the reality Of a voice wrapped in a coral-encrusted piano. It should all inform the ether. Do my thoughts resonate across a multiverse? Does the flapping of my amygdalæ Cause a light drizzle in the Okeefenokee canopy? Or is it all just noise pushing and fighting for its place On God’s omnilinear fractal widescreen? Who commissioned the music of the spheres, and why? Does the poetry stop when I get happy again? Nashville Skyline, that perennial happy record, Feels cut-off and bowdlerized, like the vultures of Columbia Wanted Bob to get over enjoying life quick And get back to recording the heavy shit that sells. That backfired meaningfully: Self Portrait came next. Lately I’ve woke up still dreaming (taking a philosophy class at 8 A.M. does that) Of the sky coming down to meet the sea, And the sea responding in kind, And when they meet together they turn to honey And everyone forgets how to swim.
Joe Bussiere ayalasilva
Joe Bussiere Hunger Name #6 No one knows, I have to show a failure to meet me. I actually do not really think I begin to sing. I wanted to break all of its assets, before the hungry. Between the drug and practical experience of the earth or at the same time, trying to figure out in the region between the non-human interaction and the real world, or a little experience in the idea of the differences between the ideas in the minds of all over the world, people expect more than your own things, will be able to, and in reality they are talking to each other, however, be tested, to make their feelings, and all other’s rhythm and accent differences, or a predicate and thereness driving my tone and sound and visual differences or other examples do not understand imitate the idea why do not the first. The rape of another car, but can not attempt to blow up the Earth’s leaders. Did not bring my car exhibition, I did not clean themselves. In fact, I really do not, however, the mood does not mean that I began to sing this song. I have a boat but I want to break my all.
Joe Bussiere DO YOU THINK I WILL MAKE GOOD BLUES MUSIC AFTER I SELL MY SOUL TO THE DEVIL there is too much stuff for me to want so i dont want anymore but there is a problem with wanting because nobody knows what they need or really want they want to know what they want when we made eye contact i thought about contacts whatever you mean to me can be expressed in a poem that will mean nothing and everything i am not fat i am yor dream prestige is weird but people always talk weird it is ok to talk the way you talk dont let anyone put you down unless you suck its ok the way that you live dont do anything you dont need to do its ok what you need to do dont listen to me im drunk and i am yor dream its ok to sleep and have yor dream i am listening to everyone talk to me in my head and also i hear gods voice in my head tells me what not to do but not when i need to know what not to do the first time i came here i had a vision everyone else has visions too its normal the format is always right there is no wrong except when yor bleeding you should wake up and drink some water instead of bleed and let me be yor dream you should let me show you this dead bug i found its not gross i feel like i should put this on the internet to help people from eating people you shouldnt eat things that could love you mom i want to show you this dead bird i found in the backyard i want to go see the sunset and be drunk i dont want to be drunk anymore they know what they want when they are letting me be yor dream they know what they want when they are eating people people are literaly eating people theres a lot going on so can i borrow yor gun while you let me be yor dream i want to have a dream where i am seeing stuff and not wanting stuff and not not wanting stuff i want to see you on a mountain i want to call every hill a mountain i climb hills and say im climb mountains i want to be your mountain and be called your hill
Nathan Masserang There are many phrases about piss. I piss in my Wheaties to feel anachronistic and hackneyed.
I could say I feel pissed but I already feel hackneyed. ‘Who pissed in your Wheaties?’ someone says, and the hasty return, ‘no one.’
Nathan Masserang There are a few instances in which one can have multicolor piss. Several steady streams of piss produce a rainbow. No one can tell if that’s all one stream forking several times or if it’s a grouping of urethras side by side by side by side by side by side and the owners of all those pee-holes are all super sick.
Laura Theobald sitting in a chair
Keith Higginbotham Weather Nothing Magazine nothing names fountains leveling alchemies measure floated no tricked gamble you tilted mustard & under the floor street bluer hollow windows your open pound whispers velcro sink: currency your rambling protest train oiling engines trouble-free scripted or baggie: cringe motion delirious sun our shrug into fraying turnstiles this rooftop’s star the present an unhinge of running contortions & tongue up torn next focus in birds irony; scream stems oasis flapping tortured typographies body of a face his littered mouth
Keith Higginbotham A Glass Couch rioting by homeland modernists, handmade generations of consciousness structured favors untainted in excused radio solitary over: blackened auction, flakes structure, ground behind— the kindness philosophy, the progress of whiteness is enormous reassuring aboriginality, consuming the space village, cover the spilling nephews drained; store-ground baby flat of theft tiles identity of smoke targets framed in arrows; economy smokes up everything black spilling something in: flat paintings remember the immunity moral, the flora, a construction of absolutely nobody
Keith Higginbotham Worry Treason School song cardboard suspended borrowed descend about the damper & all fields running the weight to rest into change & linger liquid fashionable of parking & apology sent hinge remembered cicada dramas, dark the lithium simile that brought itself beauty on cost, chuck that horse in flight the need for lit where there are pictures of poison pipe of lost symmetry downturn of smashed suspended privilege leads on to remainders of starving steps the air itself brave on weight wings: the costume for door lighting forever light
Austin Islam think of all the grain alcohol think of all the grain alcohol that lies dormant in bottles in the world right now think of all the animals in cages, secreting eggs, making faces for the camera think of all the avalanches that have folded into themselves this time this year i tell you that i am glad you got the job at a ‘milk bar’ with flavored milks you tell me that you are nervous and you need to practice first for some reason i am watching a juggalo video subtitled ‘faygo up pussy’ seems unsanitary and dehumanizing, i thought ‘where’s the beef’ think of all the methane expelled by cows in bondage for your fajita platter think of all the oil pipelines that have yet to be built in our lifetimes think of all the corn syrup napping in cylindrical trucks on the highways you keep going online and offline in this ichat buddies list i can chat with your gmail account or your aim account if i want to think of all the impurities in our drinking water after the industrial revolution imagine if the libertarians had their way, would we all be poisoned and dead except those of us comfortable enough to protect ourselves and our families you said ‘when you feel like you want a drink, make a cup of tea instead’ already had seven cups since noon, my heart is racing, and i still want a drink the innate feeling that the marketability of my face will peak at age twenty-four
Lauren Snowden Untitled With a very small brush and a very steady hand, the Sun paints a freckle on your collarbone as my Eye traces the horizontal line along your abdomen where the Ocean creates a wavering cross-section. Hours later, the sun has toweled us dry as bone. I lean my face into your shoulder on the bus. My Tongue escapes my mouth and I find that you are the Salt of my earth.
Johnny Vulpine Untitled 'i am watching you and your clothes/ underneath the little light, hair, and hellos/ and i am watching you knit your nervous hair to do that to the human body to turn it into snow and things in the dark'
Johnny Vulpine not give up on you i feel like i wear all my lines too close to the bone and my insides go from me to you nervously then go up into your head and comb every last bit of awkward that i can find
Adam Trawick dandelion back in with his rug-lines to the head. instance floats like a sea upon coherent crests of the bourgeois and reel in flat weight victorians but take pause, for the dandelion is wood free.
Justin Carter Let’s Shatter Illusions Before we talk about birds we must talk about not birds. The air a big exploding bomb & the air a big opposite bomb. Place your left ear here, the instruction manual says. I stretch a wire across the ocean, flick one side. Put the red inside the blue & the blue inside the yellow & the yellow in the palm of the hand. The fear of touching our limbs together & explosion & wings. If you look directly into the sun, mother says, you will never see again but the birds fly toward it & we must trust the birds. The heart has six chambers: the atriums & the ventricles & the sparrows.
Jordan Castro Whas Hannin I will kill all of you with my bare hands and I won’t think twice about it because nobody means anything to me except myself and like five of my friends! Guns, knives, swords, bombs, grenades, numb chucks, flame throwers, knuckles! There is an endless war being fought right now and you are all invited to pick sides! Repeatedly on Facebook! Annoying, right? Meaningless existence, bitches! I don’t give a fuck and that’s allowed. * My favorite part of webcam videos is when the person turns the webcam off. Today while lying in bed with you I repeatedly thought “I feel more alone than ever” and “It’s me against the world” while feeling only a little sarcastic and stroking your hair and pretending that I wasn’t so sad. BUT I WAS! I WAS SAD! I WAS SO, SO SAD! AN INCREDIBLE SADNESS! LOVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! * I think I would be happy if I had a lot of money, a small group of friends who lived less than or equal to 45 minutes away from me, a lifetime supply of free drugs, and anything else that I wanted at any given moment all the time. I think if I had a lot of money, a small group of friends who lived less than or equal to 45 minutes away from me, a lifetime supply of free drugs, and anything else that I wanted at any given moment all the time I’d want to have a small amount of money, a large group of friends who lived far away from me, no drugs ever, and hardly anything I wanted at any given moment
all the time.
Does anyone else feel like the only true freedom a human can ever experience is the knowledge that at any given moment s/he can kill her/himself? Ok.
Jordan Castro Allergic got a lot of allergies been thinking about literature for maybe five hours
Maggie Lee Untitled the way it is is getting better with effort im scared that one little thought will make it hard to leave bed not leaving bed will ruin the way it is going to be i don't know what the thought could even be but i know i keep getting close to it thankfully theres mind control i used this type of mind control when i was younger but it was way less frightening and i only did it because i wanted to tell people i was strong-minded an example of the mildness of back then is not crying when mom said no a lot of people cried but i just pretended i never wanted what id asked for in the first place and soon enough id be doing something else now the problems are more unclear mom says do what you want but i dont know what i want those kinds of thoughts i get right up to those thoughts and my eyes squint and my thoughts turn blank as all dumbness denial of nothing, but denial sounds negative and i need this, so i have to think positively about it or not think about it at all
Matt Margo villanelle written to john cage’s suite for toy piano flashlight of night eerie error message explosion so bright maybe be might below above average flashlight of night rhythm to write bend without breakage explosion so bright color is white needing new bandage flashlight of night falter or fight nothing but baggage explosion so bright loosen if tight intense abstract image flashlight of night explosion so bright
Matt Margo haiku i am listening to ragtime jazz and wishing you were here with me
James Ganas lunar its 4 am and im on the roof of my friends apartment we are waiting here for the lunar eclipse that is apparently happening tonight i guess the clouds are too heavy to see the most exciting astrological event that will happen in my life between now and 2015 after this, idk, we might both go back to my apartment i think we are both going to go to my apartment and maybe both have a cigarette and i think we will talk about missing this astrological event until the sun hits the moon again
James Ganas forever.png
Volodymyr Bilyk Hi Hi. Means No. Maybe. Or May it be No. Sometimes it may be High, Just half had fallen. You know that sound. Pity "gh", always sane one. I think it is a kind of wonder. ‌ Religious, Guggling, Spiritually voiced The leg-hitting "Oi!" Free-fall near the surface. Ah, pity... ‌ To the fore As time passes by shame-some, sorrow-bit High time of hardness Shaped as a sacred hat. Tube, actually. (and sounds great) pretty High. Shaking near. In an interesting way. Maybe. Or not. Nit. Nit Nit Nit Nit. Not.
Volodymyr Bilyk Gimme There What Gimme There What Doo Doo... Doo Doo... Hungry. Gimme the gallon. Gimme the gram. There’s a need of some clay. There’s a need of some glow. What will be? What will be? Vica Versa And V2 Gallon gives equality Salt water and oil, Acid and mud For glorious hours of job Gram gives the grain Of the reason Ends rain of the beforehand mentioned Atoms - green and golden. They are Seeding great, Their rays are the divinest, But now it’s time for them to cum. Some tough and swelling, speckled Red, grey, green, blue The boulder of the shining Caving-in of light Embers emit Mottled, sticky Glow on cheeks The shame be there In Polka-dot. I got an Idea
Dom Schwab I Have Had This Since Before I Was Born I own every book Muumuu House has published I keep a list of all the marijuana strains I’ve smoked I have wanted to kiss every gay or bi man I have ever met I have almost every solo song Bjork wrote, sung, and recorded I want each and every revised and/or updated edition of Leaves of Grass I tried to collect all the Pokemon on Red Version and trade for the rest from Blue Version I wanted to take every class offered by the English Department and Philosophy Department I have a list of David Lynch’s feature films and television shows with those which I have seen crossed out I own every Special Edition DVD of Paul Thomas Anderson’s films and when The Master is released I will buy that too I own a six volume set of every play and prologue written by George Bernard Shaw and I have never read a single word he has written I own every studio album released by Aimee Mann, Bjork, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Fiona Apple, Lisa Hannigan, Radiohead, Rob Zombie, and White Zombie I feel disappointed when I know I will never be able to have sex with beautiful men who have died, who are alive but live elsewhere, who are alive but are “out of my league,” who will grow up never wanting me because I will by then be “old” in “gay years,” or who will grow up never knowing me because by then I will be dead
Skyy Pamilton 1:48 PSYCHOTIA so you know what it’s like to need someone to want you and your need and their want are oil and water on canvas on canvas or concrete your need and their want spread colors on snowy steps and tell you they existed your need and their want have everything laid out ahead two parallel paths on paved back roads two shotgun shells on a shelf from IKEA plants without seeds your need and their want have nothing to talk about at dinner have nothing to hook and eye to have nothing your need and their want are hungry beings left cold cuts to the chest and back hooked on the phone lines like fleetwood they are in chairs one seat apart Reaching your need and their want are crowded beings in a crowded room of broken glass
Andrew Schneider holden caulfield is dead because i killed him
Andrew Schneider summer solstice i am frantically digging up bones from a native american burial ground, looking for an excuse to be cursed. i am addicted to pulling out the sutures keeping my stomach firmly planted within my tired abdomen. i’m nervously chainsmoking cigarettes as i wait for my gas tank to fill up, and in the august rain, i burst into flames. so let the summer sun take me hostage and melt away my flesh. let the termites take refuge in my floorboards, and let the fireflies become my only source of illumination. let the moon collide with the earth, and let the man on the moon consider his own mortality as he hurdles toward the concrete.
Lauren Ott Untitled how many times can you forget to call your grandmother back or avoid getting up to pee until you are driving and it starts to rain and it will never stop raining
Caleb Bouchard Here Sitting in my room, thinking about what “poetry” is. The first word I think of is “confusion”: Confusing. Confused. There.
Caleb Bouchard Imagined conversation from a party No, don’t tell me your name. I’m too dehydrated for names right now. Alright, ready. Gah. That’s beautiful. I’ve never met an Evangeline before. You on Facebook?
Leilani Štajer To Delete Your Facebook Profile Sometimes I’m afraid that I’ll end up like a beggar on the streets just because I don’t like sucking up to get a good job and I don’t like pretending to be what I’m not. Sometimes I just want to stay at home and eat and sleep and watch stuff on the internet and not shower for days. I would also drink a lot of tea and coffee too and smoke a few cigarettes, maybe even have a beer or two. It’s so nice to just not exist for the world and not exist for yourself, with the only presence of you without the “who” which is kind of like dying for a short while and damn how it feels good. But then I get scared that maybe I’ll stop getting my scholarship and that all my relatives are gonna be dead
and I’ll end up with the bums on the street, drinking piss wine, annoying passers-by but then again I’d probably earn more than I do now and even their newspaper has a literary section, and I would finally be able to delete my Facebook profile.
Leilani Štajer The Road to Vienna We started our drive at 7:30 in the morning and it snowed a bit last night. It was a cold white day in Ljubljana’s streets and they were giving out hot tea to cyclists. The road was long and an emptiness my lungs accompanied the emptiness of the rocky road between an unfriendly nature. We stopped before the Austrian border and ran through the cold air to pee. There was a woman who wanted money from me but I was like “Hey granny, I can pee on your parking space if you’d like that instead.” Then I wanted to buy a coffee - you know the kind you buy at the gas station for a shiny euro coin. Well it wanted two shiny fuckers this time.
“Well fuck you I want my goddamn sweet yummy nectar of gods.” So I put two coins inside and gave it a disapproving look when grabbing the sugar and heading back to the car. But the sneaky bastard got its revenge because the coffee was already sweetened when I added sugar in it and the sweet sip burned like grandma’s chocolate tart she bakes for Christmas where just one bite sets your fucking throat on fire.
Wallace Barker She Judged Petals in Disarray Riven to her downy bed where lately lay her sleepy head locks across the pillow white dawn emerging out of night. The night before she met a man he offered up his able hand and took her round to city lights like others neither wrong nor right. So she slept that night alone asleep in dreams of pink sea foam idly wondered if he might call tho felt she did not care at all. It wasn’t that her heart was cold for lit with life she was reckless, bold but in her pyjamas lying there love seemed like some rocky pier. Where one might idle all alone ‘neath the nightlamps twinkle shone watch the waves with hope to happen await the return of a lost sea captain.
Colton Gibowicz Constance&Edna All the consonants and All the consonance in All the continents Could never, ever repair. All that continence and All that confidence was All but a consequence To Edna and all Edna’s despair. Her heart was young But her skin was aged Having constantly seen the end. Her heart was one But her skin was plagued Having constantly been the bend. All the consonants and All the consonance in All the continents Could never, ever repair. All that continence and All that confidence was All but a consequence To Edna and all Edna can’t repair. Her heart was young But her skin was aged Having constantly seen the end. Her heart was one But her skin was plagued Having constantly been the trend. Edna was constant And so was her end At least that’s what the stories say. Edna was constant And so was her end Til she released her vision on that gloried day.
Jeff Bucher waffle2 cold i am cold i am cool im not
Jeff Bucher Why are my love poems Why are my love poems So fucked up I should be writing about The lushness and smell of hair Or the curves of a body Instead I talk about The ugly The real The beauty
Calvero fuck you, jeff The bush right outside this McDonald’s window looks like a Jeff. Yeah… He def looks like a Jeff. I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to make that rhyme. The bush right outside this McDonald’s window looks like the kinda guy who would wait in line for like 10 whole minutes at McDonald’s and then when it was his turn to order he still wouldn’t know what the fuck he wanted. And then, if that wasn’t bad enough, he’d be all like, “Yeah, give me blah, blah, blah and blah…” instead of, “Yeah, hi. Can I please have blah, blah, blah and blah…”
You never say. “Give me…” when you’re ordering. You alway say, “Yeah, hi. Can I please have…” when you’re ordering. Learn some manners you dick. Learn some manners you douchey bush. I can picture myself waiting for the bus with the bush and with a really tall grizzly bear and then a breeze comes by and the bush rustles in the breeze and then the bears looks down at me with a look on his face saying, Ugh… Can you believe this fuckin’ guy right here? And then I just shake my head and look at the bear telling him Pfffttt… No. I, in fact, cannot believe this fuckin’ guy right here.
The bush right outside this McDonald’s window needs a haircut. This bush looks like it’s the kinda bush that would get a mullet haircut and then actually be dumb enough to think, Awww, yeahhhh… This looks good. I’m gonna get so much pussy ‘cause of this haircut. I’m gonna get so much bush ‘cause of this haircut. ………………………………… I’m not funny. I’m not funny and I never will be and I hate this rude, smug-asshole, mullet-loving bush for making me realize it. I look outside at the bush and I eye him with murderous disdain and then I ever so softly mutter, “Fuck you…”
to Jeff. I’m hating a bush. I’m hating a bush right now and it’s terrifying to me how easily we creatures who are draped in endless layers of flesh allow ourselves to hate, how naturally it boils in our blood, how effortlessly it just flows off of our tongues. I realize all this and then I ever so softly mutter, “Fuck you…” to Jeff again just in case he didn’t hear me the first time. Love doesn’t stand a chance because we as individuals are never given a chance. I’m just one more
bitter, fucked up, puckered up asshole trying to regain control of his humanity and the kicker is I only have an hour long lunch break in which to do so. I hear the clock tick and it sounds like a monkey knife fight and I can’t concentrate so I just give up and think, Maybe tomorrow‌ Fuck you, Jeff. And fuck you, too. Leave me alone.
Alex Manley Send Nots You died in may and I buried the last of you today, ripped open the body bag and embalmed you in my wallet. The bank’s open for services on sundays; I pulled a coffin out and slid you in, deposited you into the fire, and then when asked, yes, one more transaction. I stuck a trowel in and dug some of you back out. Crossed the street without caring and bought a 12inch veggie sub at subway with you, requiescat in pace, and a little bit of mayo, please.
Austin Kieler caves are pretty cool This cave is a pretty swell place to be. the ocean nearby makes me feel a small baby fish and I sometimes I wish I had gills and could swim in your ocean.
like
then I could breathe in your bodily fluids like your blood and semen and I can just breathe. right now it’s 6:01PM in the evening. It’s still light out and I’m stuck at work my boss wanted me to stay late and then he violated me spiritually. It was an eye opening process that really made me rethink my life goals.
Austin Kieler terrible colors You look terrible today. I imagine you smell of shit. The shit you look like today. It’s too bad I can’t smell any longer after you cut my face off and left me for dead in those fucking woods. I laid there in the flowers and thought about the vodka we drank together that night in Milan. My Mother cut out my heart in the middle of the night. I was sick and terrified of you and the bees Jesus can’t take care of me any longer he has to go back to work. Son of God help me recover and kill that murdering son of a bitch. You are dressed in the rainbow sweater I gave you for the Yule because we don’t celebrate Christmas. I miss my face that used to kiss you. Gasoline burns things in Paris. Fall down a hill with me in June. I will love you until I no longer Love you... Is such a thing even possible?
Austin Kieler monty carlo oh wretched past of monty carlo the real seal pup. your lifeless corpse will be sprinkled with rice then maybe you can go to heaven and eat the rice. then maybe you can eat your friends and family. oh monty carlo how dearly we will miss you the happy seal pup of yesteryear. the life is gone out of your eyes and now you are as dead as the interwebs. lifeless and meaningless memes will forever float through your body and fill depressed felines with fleeting feelings of faux fabulosity people will watch hours of bareback gay porn streaming direct from your rotting lower intestines. your stomach will contain torrent files that are downloaded to your toes and seeded to other parts of your body. your skin will begin to bleed from the cyber bullying within. oh monty carlo the real seal pup you no longer live but you have become the opposite of irl. one day you will get a virus and it will wipe the contents of the hard drive of your brain. oh monty carlo, oh monty. mr carlo. at least you have a 4g data plan.
Ashley Kay Petersen The Runner My eyes fix on the shape of you aheadyour body blackened by the night. I can’t be left behind with all the things you said because I won’t remember them. My head is swimming; you’re still moving, but I can’t keep eyes fixed on the shape of you ahead. I’m slow. I’m tired. I’m lost because you led me here, and every single foot I plant leaves me behind with all the things you said the other night. When we were in my bed. When we were wrapped around each other. Rant-ing helps me see the shape of you ahead but I don’t know what it means and instead perhaps I should keep running like you…let my eyes fix on the shape of you aheadbe left behind with all the things you said.
James Hand OJ vs Milk i spend my life picking between orange juice and milk and whether i should pour it in a glass or drink from the carton and whether i should drink it on the couch or the carpet floor and which part of the ceiling i should stare at and whether i should call you or stare blankly at my phone and whether you called me or i am imagining my phone vibrating but i never decide and i’m still at the fridge the metal handle feels cold on my hand and my hand freezes to the metal handle and i’m stuck staring through the milk and orange juice imagining what the ceiling looks like tricking myself into seeing shapes in the endless white telling myself you called
James Hand Heaven with Charlie Chaplin i want to play checkers in heaven with charlie chaplin while jodie foster massages our feet and we eat bananas i want the sun to tickle my face and the breeze to lift my body and magical leaves to float behind me like a disney movie i want to smoke dmt with juggalos and hit each other on the head with giant metal poles and scream wildly i want my feet to disappear so i can’t walk and will have an excuse to stay in bed forever and never go outside i want to be with you and not feel overwhelmed by inferiority and my heart to not wrestle with itself i want to lay on my carpet and stare at the endless white ceiling forever and have a lap dog come lie on my head i want to smash in my toes so the bones shatter into a dust and enter my bloodstream and flow through my whole body and puncture my heart so it will explode and touch you i want to sleep on a freeway on a strip of soiled carpet and feel the cars shake the earth and feel tiny compared to them i want to open my veins and let my heart pour out so it will get smaller and won’t make my lungs feel crushed i want to sit at a bus stop with you and wait forever for a rusted bus and we’ll tell funny stories about cats and old christmas presents i want to go out in public and not want to cry because everyone is staring at me like i’m an enemy to the state in a tom cruise movie i want to drift into a permanent sleep where all i do is dream and i can control my dreams and have you and be with you forever in blissful permanence and we’ll make cookie recipes and write love poems and sing randy newman songs together and smile forever
Sam Lasko returning home returning home above a waterfall, there is a trout dreaming of speeding bullets riding a stag under snow covered branches, there is a girl in the morning sunlight beside the river she is naked awakening in the talons of machinery, the trout breaks free from the sky, bounces off of the girl’s left breast, and then goes over the waterfall
Bravehost Poetry Review, active from June 2012 to July 2013, was an online literary journal whose name derived from the free web service by which the journal was hosted. In response to the contemporary emergence of literary journals hosted by such internet platforms as Blogspot, Tumblr, and Wordpress, thenanonymous editor Matt Margo decided to board the bandwagon with a more obscure, less utilized platform: Bravehost (also known as Bravenet or Bravesites). The idea was to further the point that it is not the medium that should matter, but instead, the content. This anthology contains both issues of the journal that were compiled before its demise and features some of today’s best and sharpest poetry, poetry worth sharing in any format.