today football scores football scores at football livescore

News »

Meryl Streep, Meg Ryan among readers at poetry tribute

April 25, 2017 – 7:34 am | One Comment

Meryl Streep, Meg Ryan among readers at poetry tribute
NEW YORK — At an all-star tribute to poetry on Wednesday, Meryl Streep was thinking about her family.
The Oscar-winning actress sang a …

Read the full story »
Book Reviews
Movie Reviews
Music Reviews
Short Stories

Quasimofo »

d5 Low-Level Magic User Kills Kobold King, wins Neoprene Ivanka Sex-Doll; Sangfroid, Poodleman, Nosferatu Zodd, Count Istvan Teleky, Son of Big Chief, Ebdanian Lambric, Kickapoo and Crockery Creek, The Okra Barons, and Glen Campbell

April 20, 2017 – 9:27 am | One Comment

d5 Low-Level Magic User Kills Kobold King, wins Neoprene Ivanka Sex-Doll; Sangfroid, Poodleman, Nosferatu Zodd, Count Istvan Teleky, Son of Big Chief, Ebdanian Lambric, Kickapoo and Crockery Creek, The Okra Barons, and Glen Campbell
by Quasimofo

“Sometimes in life, all a man wants is a good place to poop.”
–Comodus of Eljer (2nd century B.C.)–

The poet compares poets with junebugs to explain the world

People often ask me what it’s like as a poet
to view God’s naked truths laid bare.
Actually no, they don’t.
They’re too busy with gourmet microwave meals
and kinky sex to give a shit.
But it’s like being a junebug fluttering upwards
towards a bloated luminance hung next to flea market stars.
And finding only that which was better espied from afar.
Yeah, God and divine questions pursued too closely are a bug zapper.
Beauty is ugliness as well.
Maybe that’s what William Carlos Williams meant when he said poets are damned.

French Roast Blues 5:53 a.m.

Joan of Arc cries “Fuck all!” and burns.
There’s a bon-bon fire in my aorta.
Pierre names his daughter “Alsace-Lorraine”
and she is slut-shamed by Germans.
Their kids race escargo-carts deep inside the mineshafts where we google “Gnosticism”.
I slurp my 2% milk at the threshold of Parisian tongue
and a southern evangelical tallying key words in Gospels.
Father Time wears a Rolex yet issues me a kitchen timer–“Wa-Taa!”–Roundhouse Kick to the Pean!
I lay a sacrificial PlayStation 5 down upon the altar of secular humanism.
I find myself in a soft-lit lounge drifting to the
Keys of a traveling organist who knows more questions than answers…

Saint Harambe Matriculate
by alter-ego Alistair Keats Mankin, host of “Nocturnal Poetry Theatre”

It’s Sunday Morning in America, do you know where your urinal is?
If so, Facebook Live it, and begin your whizz.
A girlfriend toasts English muffins for a beau who breeds
French Bulldogs and gives tips to a Polish cousin saving
for a breakfast burrito hut.
This melting pot is smoking pot..
Mothers, leash your children and the explore no more frontiers!
We’ve got K-cups for your Keurig that will make whiskey and beer!
I don’t want a wooly mammoth insemination!
I want clones of Harambe spliced with giant bat wings!
Edmond walks around naked. He spent his food stamps on bird seed.
Come on Edmond–Clothes before Crows!
Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha X ? ………………………………..
We can mate man to the machine, irrigate, congregate, regulate, flagelate,
–and that’s how we matriculate!
There’s house-flippin’ and burger-flippin’ and gender-flippin’ and whelpkin-whippin’.
We become rich to make fun of the poor.
The American Dream gives way to a waking reality–still-born pregnant.
No chance to abort.. Don’t lose your rhyme-space continu-umph!
There’s a floating resort in the middle of Lake Michigan called “ShAtlantis”.
It’s made of trailer houses and comes with glass bottom johnboats.
Yes, and their Lamprey Pot Pies are WORLD RENOWN!!!
I’ve got a payment plan for a timeshare with the “Aluminum Package”
which includes a full body massage from Coach Jim Harbaugh.
I’m really looking forward to it.

Abandoned couch in a parking lot

Moored in a sea of asphalt,
A desert Bedouin sifts
It’s lost virginity handed back
With buffalo nickels,
Crumbs from hot pockets, tv dinners,
Dry-hump conceptions–
Seminal fluid Pollack
In charred bong water plush.
After so many asses, your etudes
Swallowed hole,
…Nothing was ever created

On Raoul Hausmann’s “The Spirit of our Times”

¿Run to mama, who’s your dada?
Weldon Woodhart graduated 22nd
In his class
At Oakmont High and after
A brief stint with Terminex
(and fill-in putty),
Went into carpentry where he
Could really use his head.
But his splintered thoughts
Got whittled down
By the modern world.
How could discipline
And will-power dwell
In an abstract mind that
Is rarely righty-tighty?
Man is a product of
His own     S u r v I v a l
Yeah yeah yeah..
He dated one of those
Objectified beauty girls
And she sprayed his face
With furniture wax–
Lit him up with a Zippo.

Passion at the Drop of a Bone

January 27, 2017 – 8:35 am | 4 Comments

Passion at the Drop of a Bone
by Meghan Tennison
Please, Arrest
my attention before i Faint
in your Holy presence
Cool down your hypnotic eye
i’m not ready for this
stormy abyss — Be Careful with …

Where Did It Go?

January 6, 2017 – 2:30 pm | One Comment

Where Did It Go?
by Jeff Dutko
Where did it go?
The salt of the city
that seasoned our conversations
and spiked our efforts with exuberance
This earthen city, now plain and dry
left with only …

Can’t Get Outside Myself

December 16, 2016 – 12:30 pm | One Comment

Can’t Get Outside Myself
by Dan Raphael
There’s a thunder-storm in my stomach, arctic midnight in my heart
a muscular wind wanting to push things out
but everythings too particulate to move consistently
swirling around …


December 15, 2016 – 9:27 am | One Comment

by Pat A Physics
All snow can grab your energy, your sound, your smell, your thoughts, your color, your movements, your observations and never give back a thing other than the …

Here & Then There

November 24, 2016 – 6:48 am | One Comment

Here & Then There
by Noah Gordon
From a built-in radio came the call:
“Please do not feed the sand-pipers
or the grazing mares.
Their bluffs are well-stocked
and maintained by professionals.”
I reached for her hand
and …


November 22, 2016 – 6:45 am | One Comment

by Frank Scarangello
She visits at 11:11
sometimes a.m. mostly p
A sudden haunting urges me
to look at a clock which must be digital.
Dropping by for just a moment
only at 11:11
the time, our …

Stow Away

November 20, 2016 – 6:39 am | One Comment

Stow Away
by Merl Bone
My memory tried
To erase you,
To wipe you out
Of every nook and cranny.
But, you are a stow away,
That swings on the cobwebs
Of my thoughts.

Of Ducks and Drakes

November 18, 2016 – 6:30 am | One Comment

Of Ducks and Drakes
by Kie Borsden
Such stones exist for simple pleasures,
sped across the surface of the sea—
hunted and claimed for their smooth finish
the years have laboured by calm and rage.
They …

An Astounding Perimeter

November 16, 2016 – 12:44 pm | One Comment

An Astounding Perimeter
by Richard King Perkins II
It’s not a dream
but a slightly bygone world
covered in frozen mist.
Sparrows alight on the small shoreline
of an astounding perimeter—
a sanctum whispering in white.
I study …

Berberian Sinfonia/ Sliced-and-Diced from Aphasia to [Inflectional Hints of] Eternity

November 10, 2016 – 5:07 am | One Comment

Algeria: Most Serious Threat of All?
by Cocteau
…les premieres elisions du jour nous furent telles que defaillances du language. –Chronique, St.-John Perse
She perfumed her breasts with rosewater. As certain.
As certain as …

The Hole Story

November 8, 2016 – 4:51 am | One Comment

The Hole Story
by Dan Raphael
”Every now and then I know it’s kinda hard to tell
but I’m still alive and well” — Johnny Winter …


November 2, 2016 – 9:28 am | One Comment

by Robinson Jeffers
The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder,
The wing trails like a banner in defeat,
No more to use the sky forever but live with …

Remarks and Responses; Mistranslations

October 22, 2016 – 5:59 pm | One Comment

Remarks and Responses; Mistranslations
by Thomas Pescatore
After all that was done. To make it right. Put out
in plain words. Carefully constructed.
Deliberate periods. Marked commas. Translated into
French. I sent in the email …

Plain Girl Pretty

October 1, 2016 – 7:01 am | One Comment

Plain Girl Pretty
by Donal Mahoney
Rose was a plain girl
from a small town.
She sang in the choir,
never missed Bible study,
left for the big city
after high school.
She worked nights
in a shanty diner
next …

The arch is smaller going east

September 30, 2016 – 5:55 am | One Comment

The arch is smaller going east
by Thomas Pescatore

St Louie from the opposite side

some bastard thing

the ground all

tore up

the river fortified

with food stand & drink


at the end of the chrome rainbow

a …


September 28, 2016 – 7:20 am | One Comment

by Marc Carver
There are a pair of pants on top of the small roof next to my toilet.
I know because I threw them there.
Sometimes people walk by
Talking about them
Like …

must be the devil

September 26, 2016 – 7:33 am | 2 Comments

Coefficient of relationship
By Halifax
must be the devil
that slices babies off
the cord that attaches
mother to their bellies
must be the devil
that cuts the kids free
from the carrot and stick
routine their family plays
must …

Carl and I

September 24, 2016 – 5:53 am | 2 Comments

Carl and I
by Travis Catsull
We were waiting for Carl
Or at least that’s what I called him
Carl arrived and told us we were all fired
Said he had to get back
As we …

3rd Through 6th Grade

September 22, 2016 – 8:52 am | One Comment

3rd Through 6th Grade
by Jones LM

Mrs. Swails was fat and mean.
Mrs. Hartman was thin and sweet.
Mrs. Powers, I can only recall her name.
Mrs. McFarland  was my sixth grade teacher.

She looked like Rita Hayworth.
She combed my hair for …


September 20, 2016 – 5:49 pm | One Comment

by James Diaz

There was something I meant to tell you
something it took me years to figure out
how the body can get lost in the spaces of the spirit
how your own …

Book Review of Encarnita’s Journey

September 19, 2016 – 5:49 am | One Comment

Encarnita’s Journey by Joan Lingard
Review by Ben Macnair
Alison and Busby
7 out of 10
Joan Lingard is one of those writers with a considerable body of work, who just gets on with …


September 17, 2016 – 6:04 am | 2 Comments

by Matthew Phillips
Passport photos and foil-flecked pinwheels, hot exhaust splashing breath
against taco vendors and a German Shepard (well-trained, I imagine)—three
spins of the clock, a half-full bottle …

Elegy for a Dead Labrador

September 15, 2016 – 7:33 am | 2 Comments

Elegy for a Dead Labrador
by Lars Gustafsson
Here there may be, in the midst of summer,
a few days when suddenly it’s fall.
Thrushes sing on a sharper note.
The rocks stand determined out …

I know a man

September 13, 2016 – 5:40 am | 2 Comments

I know a man
by Dirk Michener
I know a man who, when in the water, is afraid of fish touching his skin
I know a man who, when walking, always looks down …

Settler’s Creek

September 11, 2016 – 10:41 am | One Comment

Settler’s Creek
by K Harvey
You’d been gone four months by then,
but we brought you along anyway.
On my back, you rested
riding inside a wooden box.
The idea was to lay you gently
at the …

Bodies are piling up.

September 9, 2016 – 8:36 am | One Comment

Bodies are piling up
by Smokey Farris
Bodies are piling up.
Perhaps Dirk would have a mishap.
James may like to hack me up with
A chainsaw, in a game of
Pass the hot potato.
Nothing is …

The Fishermen at Guasti Park

September 7, 2016 – 5:05 am | One Comment

The Fishermen at Guasti Park
by Maurya Simon
In the first days of summer
the three elms, those slightly
opened fans, unfold
their shadows across the river.
Two dogs arrive exhausted,
tongues dripping, and settle
down near the …

Labor Day

September 5, 2016 – 7:50 am | One Comment

Labor Day
by Joseph Millar
Even the bosses are sleeping late
in the dusty light of September.
The parking lot’s empty and no one cares.
No one unloads a ladder, steps on the gas
or starts …

And We Are Hiding Now

September 4, 2016 – 7:54 am | One Comment

And We Are Hiding Now
by Natalie Crick
For some time they sat in the cornfield
And spoke like dull mice
About what would be done.
When the sun, a ruined fruit
Ripped the dilute garden …


September 2, 2016 – 6:31 am | One Comment

by Kie Borsden
While no minute can last forever,
(there is always one in each folded hour
to lend itself to me, and seamlessly
allow to be forgotten in the toll.
Where keystrokes force their …