THE OCTOPUS REVIEW, vol 1 Summer Solstice 2017

Friends,

Here it is, my first attempt at sharing other peoples' work in the space I've occupied alone for so long.

I don't know why I love poetry, but I do and I won't apologize. Dylan Thomas and Jim Morrison kept me sane in high school; Ginsberg, Cummings, Jeffers, Whitman, et al kept me company amid the fraternity/sorority gazes at college; Plath and Sexton kept me real in those unsurvivable 20s; and now I devour every contemporary anthology like it's a HowTo manual for doing neon telekinetic tricks for the unsuspecting public.
With the internet comes the visibility of …just about everything, including poetry. I am blown away everyday by how many of us are writers, and really good, insightful ones at that. I always thought my love of poetry made me special, and that someday I would not just be a poet, but be THE poet of the century. Well…
….I'm pretty assured of my mediocrity at this point, and instead of mourning my own voice, I want to celebrate the many voices reporting on this world w/ their very own tone/pattern/intensity.

So please enjoy:

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This spiral-of-consciousness by Tim Anderson

SLIDESHOW MUSIC

Scar tissue is not always visible.

I was whistling, 

walking the double yellows

down the road to perdition.

At the crossroad

I strolled into the bar

only to find dead ends. 

The waitress strolls up and

sits a bottle of scotch down ,

asking if I would like the

combo platter. 

Served hot she says, 

two whores

a needle

a pipe

with a side of grim.....

sunny side up.

I embrace the shame of life,

the desperation,

the slow desperation

that forces coughed laughter,

buried 

in  the shadow

of neon candle light,

wistful at the depravity 

of Gods lack of a

comprehensive dental plan.

The tighter you hold hands

 with the devil

the closer you feel heaven.

Till you have died

and come back

you can’t truly feel alive.

                                                          

I’m a buy here pay here.          

you work you ride.                             

muthafucker

rent to own

sumofabitch. 

Dreaming 

 next to an ocean,

tossing beans in a pot,

trying not to confuse it

with my ole friend

 Voodoo Karma.

What a day

not to be face up on a gurney,

watching fluorescent lights

rush by,

while being told to

stay awake.

No denying

peace thru acceptance.

I’m busy

tap dancing thru the graveyard

kissing headstones

alone in my thoughts,

sitting on the curb 

of the 7/11

eating hot dogs 

drinking Busch beer

watching cars pull in

and out.

Content with the idea

their thoughts 

are not mine.

**********************

This quandary-of-consciousness by Nate Maxson

Observations Of The Psychic Nosebleed (en media res) 

A continent-sized ice rink,

From orbit it would look like a mirror

Our preservation

Like the pyramids

My parents got divorced in a snowstorm

To clarify,

This backwards reaching riddle

It’s like walking through a tunnel and finding aquarium-cool glass at the end

Blue light piercing the deep swim

Which side you’re on is the second most obvious question that comes to you then

But take notice 

The Minotaur is blind, goggling white eyed and tapping his horns on the labyrinth walls

Wide open

The process,

As a child the big unbeing growls behind you

Its breath the wind on your sails

And then one day you’re set to drift

Where are you?

It’s too bright here

Where is that lingering night-taste of honeysuckle floating in a plastic blue swimming pool?

I was promised

A last swim

I think,

Someday it will begin

To sing me back towards it again           

***************

This stream-of-synesthesia by Tony Moonchild Egler

The Day Breaks

What sound does the Morning make when you do not want to wake?

Is it a drone, or a sigh? A whimper or a cry?  

The Sun is no help. 

It’s light whispers around the curtain and shouts at the floor until it is a cry for help.

I hear the Cats playing at being quiet.

But it always becomes a ruckus romp that demands an eye to open and a shout to bellow.

The Rain tries to sooth with gentle patter on the window and roof.

Until the wind and lightning crescendo in symphonic rage of tempests full and loud.

My Mind drifts in and out of consciousness trying to shut out the world.

Unable to find comfort in the loud pillow as my stubble sandpapers on it’s wooden surface.

Mumbling mental Mantras, calm is restored as sleep’s song plays gently in my frontal lobe.

The brutal clock ever waiting for it’s moment rejoices with it’s demanding call to arms “THE BATTLE HAS BEGUN.”

Stumbling from Bed my feet hit the floor and I am up and ready.

All is quiet  now as the past rain drips, drips in the dim light that shines on slumbering cats at peace now.

****************

This stream-of-clarity by Jill McKee

I thought I was wandering lost for too long. 

Not ever knowing where and when to be whatever it is that is me. 

Surely, I cannot stay in this skin always. Skin is easier to shed then soul. 

My soul is bursting to get out. The taking years are over. 

Let my spirit pour out for all who seek. 

Just don't leave me dry.

***************

If your eyes are getting tired from reading, feast your ears on 14-yr-old Shaya SLAMMING IT here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rPJXNaYB9rY

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These jabs-of-consciousness by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Skiffle

starting a skiffle band

I strolled down the avenues running a spoon

over a washboard I had found at a garage sale

for nothing 

and the sound was intolerable 

many residents running out to tell me so

how they did not want to join my band

and that I would never amount to anything 

as I played along to their many words of encouragement 

so many singers that no stage 

could ever hold 

us.

Mao Say Tongues

cringe

and your shoulders tighten

you become closer to yourself 

eschew facial reconstruction on principle 

cast spoiled ballots into the waiting 

bone-sex sea

Mao say tongues 

that have yet to be cut out

of willful mouths

this is what I share with you, 

forgoing the handshake 

where fingers meet:

badasses don’t die 

they live on in their work,

confronting the thunder 

of things

with a timeless stalwart

grin.

***************

And finally this clang-of-consciousness collaboration by Lois B., Viktor B., Christopher P., Jessica B. and Hashim P. [aka The Tea House Poets]

I

Rhymeless skies and patient face,

Rhymeless face and patient skies…

Eyeless face and Haitian pies,

Headless lace and shouldered cries,

Breadless case and moldy ties.

Eggless waste and muffled sighs

Telomerase and zipless flies

(when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie),

formless grace and your disguise…snail’s pace for Sons that rise…time and space will recognize…rats who race don’t win the prize.

Tethered wind and watered eye,

Ineffectual chase and disenchanted spies,

Feckless chase and hapless spies,

Hapless chase and spangled guise.

The helplessness they felt their feet / move to food, make of need / the rats who race and win the prize / O graceless chase and spinning wheels / O corner of your copia / O mangled guise and given pause.

II

Fum Fo Fee Fie.

Dyslexic giants now untie!

3alarmfireandthebillygoatskinheadspacemanhoodwink, wink, wink, nudge, nudge, O slimeless guys! O toil! O trudge!

Omunkyspunkandfudgeforthwunkytrademymonkeyforaclunkycarthatsjunkybeerthatsskunkymunkymunkymunky…

tethered, grinned, and soldered I.

Weathered, spinned, and moldered dry.

Walk, don’t run, don’t make me cry!

I’ve got tuna in my eye!

III

Eye to eye and sly and shy

Fuzzy Wuzzy was a guy!

Tethered poems cannot fly!

Loose the panties, don’t stay dry!

Kiss the earth, and ass, and sky!

She had testes! Why God, why?!

IV

Moons and goons and pizza pie, meohmeoheohmy!!!!!

This, the whirls that make me cry…how to make this poem die?

Great Cthulu in the sky, dropping things from way up high…Angry shoggoth can’t wipe his eye, for he’s blended with Cthulu pie!

(Meanwhile Christopher is away, meticulously crafting a telomerase poem)

And the Swedish Chef is somewhere, ridiculously crafting a tiramisu poem!

Hashim Todd Pease has gotta go, g’bye, g’bye!

Urrgrie ferrggen herring pie, Swedish meatballs, let ‘em fly!

Bye bye Hashim, bye and bye.

V

Lest Isaac’s chance of return is high, tomorrow night we’ll all say “hi.”

(Hugs, no petting, at least, I’ll try)

Gushy fountains of my eyes!

We’re adorable, don’t deny!

Now like N Sync says, “Bye Bye Bye”

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Well…on that note….

We'll revert back to The Octopus Diary next week with more Adventures in Spirituality. But I want to do this again in the Fall (Autumn) so please get your submissions ready.