Tag Archives: prose poetry

3 Poems by John Rodzvilla

John Rodzvilla is the Electroinc-Publisher-in-Residence at Emerson College and the digital consultant to Ploughshares magazine.


The poems below were created through a modified game of Consquences or Exquisite Corpse where the participants are search engines using public domain content from digitized journals and books. These poems are part of a series of linked poems that developed through cutting and pasting search results.


9- arm of the master switch

Arm of the master switch. This bank consists of 10 pairs of insulated contacts. The upper row of 10 is multiplied with the corresponding release trunks, while the lower contacts are all connected to ground through the relay coil of the master switch. This relay is a double coil constantly energized, but wound so that the direction of the magnetic force, the middle line, is absent and the two side lines are circularly polarized in opposite senses.  Commonly it is thought that Justice and Injustice have but a single signification, inasmuch as the ideas implied therein do not differ vastly from one another. Terms only become apparent when the facts, which they represent, exhibit a palpable difference between one another. ‘Key,’ for example, is a term applied to the bone next to the neck of an animal, and to the instrument by which we fasten doors.


16-  the manifested voice

The manifested voice or the “Manifested Self-Existent One,” as by the active partic[ip]le, “She who contemplates” the voices or cries of men. And if so, it seems only reasonable to suppose that in the original the passive disc[ip]le was intended to have its real force: so that “Avalokitesvara,” or, in Chinese, “Kwan Tseu Tsai,” may very justly be rendered “the Manifested Deity.” This rendering is in absolute agreement with what is related concerning the peculiar attributes of this Bodhisattva, viz., that on being invoked by suppliants he manifests himself to deliver them. Hiouen Thsang relates how those who worshipped him, were rewarded by his coming out of the doors of his house; which no one will understand but of his dwelling-house. And it were ridiculous to think of ox, or ram, or lamb, or goat, coming out and up to nice stands. A large area planted to corn and later to be planted to peas. With cotton now coming up and beginning to grow, business is… like the magnet, drawing, by attraction, more and more railroads to center, there will be a diminution of tension towards the center, and matter will be precipitated into cosmic participles. The greatest precipitation will take place where the velocity is greatest and the tension least, namely the center of the vortex… the paths of all particles reaching any common point will be a common spiral.


18- common spiral

Like the common spiral shells of the sea-shore. Each individual consists of a central stem, round which a distinct leaf or wing is wound in the form of a screw or continuous spiral. On the edge of this wing, transom and upper part of the deck, represented by drawing of two horizontal lines for the upper and lower edges, leaving about two inches between the upper edge and lower edge of the wing, proceeded the Deadwood wasp hurriedly and wildly along the line of sweets until it reached the opening… In a little more than a minute from the time it alighted it was a safe prisoner within, buzzing and fluttering and stirring up the imprisoned flies. It made frantic efforts to escape–tried to climb the smooth surface, ever falling back till exhausted and powerless to move. And comprehending the situation, Deadwood Dick slowly backed his way out of the saloon, his revolvers still covering the crowd. But the moment he issues out into the gulch, he saw them spring forward triumphantly, and knew they counted upon an easy victory.


John Rodzvilla

Tagged , , , ,

2 Poems by Ricky Garni

Ricky Garni is a writer and fair weather cyclist. On Tuesday it was balmy and he rode to there.




Looking at a painting of a lovely lady in a tulip dress playing the harp
seems odd when I am listening to someone miles away playing the harp;
even odder when I see someone playing the harp on television, and I turn
down the volume so I can listen to the music once it moves from the harp
to the trumpet with its bully music power played by someone named Tulio;
back, of course, once I turn it down and an angel appears on television
holding a trumpet-colored harp – or you know – harmonica
of gold




In COWBOY TOMMY, Tommy’s grandpa builds a dog house for Tommy’s dog, Rover. It occurs to me that it is a good thing to build a dog house. It is also a good thing to have a dog. They say that you live longer if you own a dog. But if you must name a dog, don’t name it Rover, unless it likes to rove. If your dog likes to rove, it will rove. And if a dog roves, don’t build it a dog house. If you do, the dog will walk out of the dog house, look at the name “Rover” and it won’t matter because dogs cannot read. However, if you paint the word “Rover” over the threshold of the dog house, people will read the word “Rover” and laugh at you and they will laugh at you a lot and if people laugh at you, you don’t live as long and you live even less long if you own a dog and it roves away and you still have a dog house that says “Rover” on it. But if your dog doesn’t rove, and the dog likes to stay, build it a dog house, where it can be warm and dry and comfortable at night. Your dog will be happy. He will live a long life and so will you. You will love each other and have good times. And you can name your dog Still, or Cease, or Frozen, or Happy.



Ricky Garni

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

Some Gin Ingredients by Stephen Lindow



From China? Eye of Licorice you come. A taste bud like a mermaid is mere opinion. When you’re away from me—it’s Xanadu. You are stag, a leader of somersault for the co-efficient of wishful thinking. Your ways lack a roof east towards miscellany. Glisten if you are conscious of light sleeping in plants. I’m going to draw just enough breath for honesty: a wildcat soon vomits my silhouette on a snowbank. I am unbeheadable. Carving knife sweeter than sloth gains among poison ivy ajar.




Sweet Achille’s tendon! Iris Root from Mongolia! Fixative short-circuiting the nasal, you crawl up a burning staircase littered with snakes without registering 1/16th of death’s arrow collection. In an interlude b/w the sound of chopping firewood, I wish ghosts were more serious than I thought. Your hamstring is improperganda [sic]for oxtail ragout. Do not attempt in your swim across Horse Neck Straits: Goldilocks? Delicious armpits in silkiness grows the anvil and puts

us in a heart to aim by. A museum is founded for lightning.




Dastardly hemoglobin of Cubeb Berries from Java! You allow us to speak fluent fluent, disagreeing by example—or not. While whistling demonic soundtracks from a tool shed, astronauts return half as strong as they were when they left. Irony fizzles like the isotopes in forgiveness. You have us stripe ourselves in coral snake colors. When you steal from my breath: a rabid knucklehead in arrears threatens the aftermath of all this. For people twelve and older, ask your doctor.




Rasia Bark from Indo-China I cannot come clean with you. The time signature of your ingredient is 35% of your vagina. Fate finds a way to butt in the front of the line before vanity thinks cut in. Linguistic osmosis is a long list of tigers ready for our adoption whose many teeth will come to fit you. Did you walk to work or bring your lunch? Remain unto you the inconsiderate opinions of those who have done nothing to become bitter in their expectations of your talent. Double-navel rabbit

under the backlight cotillion.


Stephen Lindow

Tagged , , , , , ,

A Poem by Noah Nguyen

Elizabeth of Bathory, did her bet slip past me?

Thrice the pity I can’t escape Vice city; I might lift my head and see I’m too bright and righteous for it to fit me. Stay with me, alright Kitty? Vice City, it invites gritty spice, tricky oddities, pretty commodities at high velocity mobbing from me. For everyone we rob persnickety quick with a flick of the wrists these cards split. Shifting easily, the gift of a sleazy, tipsy and queasy job is art that riffs after a whiff pleasing me. A shift increases ellipses: seeing sharks quick feeds me and the mob, get it? Slipped that one pun under the gun with ease, ellipses, dun, dun, dun. Come undone for fun with a loose tongue for lucid grooving elucidation moving emotional animation from the notion of escalation in revealing what’s unexpected from feelings repressed and recollected.

To heal I’m stealing and inspecting what’s real and repressed. Scoping close, opening with questions, hoping prose can keep it clothed with discretion. A hymnal of interjection and after introspection, fuck discretion! My prose rips chodes and tips rocks, hopes to rip clothes off, show a state of flowing with grace blowing straight to the top. A jape I can’t stop. Out of my control wrath scrubs, every shout my soul in a bathtub not consoled by a backrub but baiting with terror, made to be the carrier of scarier bare souls of werewolves sharing their despair. Beware they’re all out there.

Bright flares of nightmares tightly ensnare me, waiting to get me mating with Elizabeth of Bathory. No riddle bit that’s a tragedy. The original mistress of abysmal hatchets and maidens made and raised to sacrifice, hack and have as an adapted masticated habit. Massively craggy they were grabbed and dragged, drained into bathtubs. A missive of evil bliss for Elizabeth isn’t past me. Mistress of Bathory is right there in every nightmare, cleverly bright eyes that dare to divide my senses and compare intense quarry, share her hunt and bare me her cunt, unfair fall out when she calls me out so blunt. Run there and it’s an all-out brunt of guilt wilting and jilting back from burly rage, earlier days. Sucks to be so fucked by such a squirrelly fray, karma warmly warning me ‘It’s on ya’ see!’ No escaping ancient crimes, played back from time remaining in rhymes.

This wasn’t a colder prattle mission, it’s an older battle vision, some soldier had it with his division. A further disturber is the legal fee for a deserter herded before medieval Queen Bathory’s regal scene. A distressed entrance fee was the recipe for every henchman in her legacy. Greater gleams, this fader always has his means so later in the scene: Ahead of me, the crowd rallies. Instead I’m about the alley. Dead-set, I’m scouting sadly a poor scalli for the next tragedy. Her head and mouth are ensnared, no shout. Thickly bagged and quickly dragged, brought to the sickly brig to be fragged and fridged. It’s just too bad what we all did. The screams echo hourly. This scene is mean but it’s the Queen’s salary. A bad explanation and it’s tragic the magic wasn’t bacchanalian like Aleister Crowley. How was this allowed to fit? What decision made this battle vision all over like a cattle’s mission following the herd? What disturbed soldier fit in with what history had often forgotten what was written in, unpardonned from victory’s margins?

Slack entailed blackmail. Pain doesn’t rain flack, it hails! Clever talent challenged, better to remain out of jail. Trained to tail without folding over, a scout soldier went over plenty of enemy lines and back so he could sack a hoodrat. His checkered track record was a vast direct stack of wrecks of attacking where enemies least expect. He understood what fits to be happening within a kidnapping quicker than Jack the Ripper’s lasting crass flings. Alas, my vast soul charts through asshole arts the deep past and rolls to start. Ill and tired I desire to be still but I will listen to victims sickened, shrill cries undisguised behind my eyes. Wanting to be free, taunting sprees haunting me, ontological breeze mincing my psychology, rinsing diabolically. The best of my head is invested in the restless undead, bonus japes can only escape after their onuses are abated. So I don’t play with prayers, I just spray it. Unwinding flack crimes in every backrhyme, reminding me vast of the shine, the slack is mine. My best contention is to invest in redemption and right there is where bright flares of nightmares ensnare me.

Harm came their way and so I’m farming karma today and alarming you in warnings everyway. It isn’t a convenient genius to be gritty when what I mean is spent in every scene, sent in dreams and set to ream. I might luck out abit you see, but Christfuck it’s shitty the bright lust so pretty. Distilling my instinct so I’m willing to be distinct and ill. Clever still, never had my fill because urgently bad weather is currency for my till. I think being reborn to reform and free the scorn lately is a shady play for the creator who made me. Wonder if he was under haze or just rushed and so I got stuck? Maybe. It’s all just crazy but uplifts me in terse bursts from being a baby more cursed and weaned on the horrorverse’s pierced titties. Nutrition in visions slips in every fireburst. It’s the price I have to lift by degrees. So it’s thrice the pity I can’t escape Vice City. I might lift my head and see I’m too bright and righteous for it to fit me.

Tagged , , , ,