amphibi.us

it’s been 40 yrs since
philip jones griffiths
shot the peeling
napalm head because
the boy had asked him to
(even when he couldn’t)
because he prayed
for a nuremberg trial
but now
nixon and griffiths are dead
and only the other
ever gets tried
for crimes against humanity
and that image of agony
would never be published
but perhaps you’ve seen
the charred, tagged limb
touch the shrouded head
or his metaphoric
brothel scene
a rape
our leaders
still call freedom
vietnam never ended
only the names get changed

© Paul Harrison, 2010

[Pieces also by this Author]

My friend had a dream that his teeth
fell out, sprinkling into his lap
like overgrown dandruff flakes
every time he moved his lips. From then on
he was tender with his girlfriend when they kissed

Lately there has been a resurgence of people
finding water stain marks and impressions of
the Virgin Mary in odd places. I wonder why
there aren’t more images of say
Carrot Top or Aunt Jemima,
seems we need to diversify

I dreamed I rode slides at a water park
with an African American copy clerk from work,
he is very knowledgeable about toner colors, but once
a box of cartridges fell on him in the store room, knocking
his front teeth out. He wore a hat on every ride, and his
porcelain fixtures, planted like tulips bulbs, fooled even a certified
orthodontist waiting in line.

When I come to
I must shake the dust and leaves
from my flannel and jeans,
I wonder if I am the best friend or the stock extra
in this teen slasher sequel

© Jason Joyce, 2010

When the shift bell tolls in the mines of night,
the seekers after dreams forgotten
rise from their work, bind their grimy rucksacks,
shoulder such burdens as they have unearthed–
Some great, doubtless precious;
some hollow, likely empty;
some only shards, but you never know-
and begin the long climb to the scales.

© Mark Reep, 2010

Quintessence is the fifth and highest essence
that permeates all nature and is the substance
that the heavenly bodies are composed of. Impotence

is the state of no sex in heaven. Or if there is
sex in heaven, it will technically have to be masturbation,
because everyone is one and the same in heaven.

Hell is having nothing to read but your own
poems. A psychiatrist is someone with a hanging
psychiatric shingle outside his door. A prostitute

is someone who sucks dick for a living.
A dangling participle is a relative clause
in an ambiguous sentence, or it’s a life sentence

in a man with erectile dysfunction. For example:
“Jerry Remy hit an RBI single off Haas’s leg,
which rolled into right field.” You would think

the leg rolled into right field. You would think
getting to first base with a girl would give you
a boner as hard as a baseball bat. All we know

is that Remy got to first base and someone
scored. Whoever it was, he must have been very
happy. He probably got an erection. He probably got

a raise in pay and self-esteem, and he probably
had an erector set when he was a kid. My mother
never bought me an erector set. And my father never

learned to speak English very well. He thought
a home run was something you did when your mother
forgot to pick you up after your baseball game.

© Paul Hostovsky, 2010

[Pieces also by this Author]

I have shot
the neighbors
dead in their car

because they run
over my garden
when turning
into their driveway,

they have torn up
the tulips and
spit out the
white stones
encasing them
for no excuse,

flicking cigarette
butts from
their middle finger,
where now my driveway
is looking more
like an ashtray,
than a place
to park a car,

they party cake
and make all
sorts of noise
till 2am
shooting off bb guns
at tin beer cans

that pit-bull
dog of theirs
barks and barks
yanking on his chain
around a dead tree,
that one day
will snap,

I regret the old lady
that previously
lived there,
her fresh aroma
apple pies
cooling in the
windowsill, where
lazy yellow daisies
sat soaking a sun,
had suddenly died
and peace
left with her,
after they moved in,
so
without warning,
I took them out,
when the morning
dew was still fresh
on their windshield,

that baneful dog,
a mother, her fire-
cracker son
and father still
in the house,
messing with his
shoelace

the police
are looking for me
as hounds from hell,
I keep them
five inches
from my heel,
but they don’t
know that its
easier to die
running fear,
than drown a tranquil
jail cell

and no one
will ever know
tulips ever
existed inside
the mind
of a
broken house

feeding on
leftover beer.

© Anthony Liccione, 2010