I haven’t showered.
It’s too warm in here
and I’m
a little sweaty.
There are so many things
to do
today, but your
words
ask me to stay
put.
One more cup of coffee
and three more
poems
and then
I’ll take a shower.
As the steak lies
growing cold
in a pool
of blood and pepper
as sauce
aside a green
salad punctuated
with fresh tomato
and avocado.
As the raccoon lies
sprawled, mouth hung
open in a violent grin, body
boiling over with maggots
causing the runner
in morning’s night
to startle, trip
and fall
upon the asphalt,
spraining an ankle.
As the slick
tight
slit parts to welcome
his cock.
So I am.
So I am.
So I am.
Without further ado, and in no particular order except that which the alphabet gives us:
Poetry:
justin.barrett
Michael Berton
J. Bradley
Emily Brink
Janet Butler
Harry Calhoun
Thomas Cannon
Kelly Davio
Janann Dawkins
William Doreski
Danny Fahey
Father Luke
Glenda Fralin
Joseph Goosey
Michael Henson
Mark Kessel
David Kowalczyk
Carol Parris Krauss
Cathy Piper-Lally
Brian Maurer
J.R. MacLean
Colin McGuire
David McLean
Clayton Michaels
Chris Miller
Bob Minnery
Carl Palmer
J.R. Pearson
Joseph Reich
Noel Sloboda
Alex Stolis
Elizabeth Switaj
Joseph Vega
Trent Watkins
Fiction:
Meghan Adams
Jason Jones
Donald Mangum
Chris Miller
Photography:
Aimee Alvarez
justin.barrett
Isabella Chiang
Mike Coombes
Samantha Doll
Brian Maurer
Special Art Feature:
Jocelyne Desforges
The journal will be out on January 1st to celebrate the second anniversary of LiteraryMary.com. No doubt you may recognize some of these names. Others, I’m sure, will become familiar to you in the future as competition was fierce. Pre-ordering information will be available soon.
LiteraryMary, journal of the beautiful, unusual and eclectic, will be publishing our first ever print issue in January of 2009, in celebration of the second anniversary of our steadily growing website of the same name. We are very excited about what this year’s journal has to offer. There will be a wide range of Fiction and Poetry featuring many talented authors. There will also be a mix of photography and art work. Our submission period is currently closed but will re-open in June. Look for prices, pre-order information and example links coming soon.
LiteraryMary Writing Forums is not your mother’s workshopping website. Well, many of us are mothers, but we aren’t your mother. We are also, kof, not a ladies auxiliary tea society. So what is LiteraryMary? We are a website dedicated to helping writers and artists of all skill levels grow and sharpen their skills on the long and often discouraging road to publication. We are also here to provide a place for writers and artists to hang out with other like-minded people. Our staff is knowledgeable and approachable. We have forums for poetry, fiction, nonfiction, screenplay and stage, visual art and audio. We also have forums which are hidden from non-members and search engines to protect your first rights. As a member, you are completely in control of your account and work. They can be deleted by you at any time without our permission. You work belongs to you, not us.
Maybe you’re suffering from writer’s block. That’s okay. We also have debate forums, contests, prompts and forums for socializing and fun. Rant, whine, make some friends, waste some time. It’s all good with us. We would love to pull you in for a great big soothing, slightly sweaty, possibly frightening group hug. On that note, keep in mind that if you are easily offended, our forums are perhaps not the place for you. We are a brick house. Mighty mighty, just lettin’ it all hang out.
Still with us? Good. Come inside, and make yourself at home. We’re glad you made it here.
http://www.literarymary.com/
me!
me!
memememememememememmeme
me me me me
me me me me
me me me
me me me
me me me
memeem meemememeem memememeeeeeee
Me.
ME.
me?
His hands
are larger than mine,
skin like matte paper
left in the rain and dried
by morning light.
I feel them on me
when I lay down
to sleep,
and when I wake
he is the first thought
I think. At dinner time,
his chest is pressed
to my back, long arms
wrapped
around me
where I stand at the stove
cooking, his fingers
on my breasts
and belly, cock
growing hard against my ass
as he laughs
gently
in my ear.
He’s tall. I see him
in a photograph standing
on a fence,
a single set of chain
links, thick
as a lock
of the Statue of Liberty’s hair.
I squint my eyes
at his twisted length
balanced
above buildings in evening’s
indigo, left hand
at rest on a wooden post.
Smiling to myself,
I think:
A man like that
could fly
if he put his mind
to it.
i like how the person who made the video just uploaded the song and left everything else black.
The moon never falls in love, or obsesses
on her personal needs, nor does she entertain
her own hopes or dreams, but bears
the prayers of the earthbound with grace
and uncompromising consistency.
She must be lonely, silver starlet
of the witching hour, voyeur of the vulnerable
upon her pedestal, never clutched
to kiss a lover’s lips, never lulled
by the rocking of hip against hip.
Her existence, only to bear witness.
The stars provide some company, winking
and twinkling, but all sparkle and fade.
The planets are pleasant, but distant
and condescending; planets predominant
over moons where they’re concerned.
Oh there’s work to be done, and she does it
well, turning tide and werewolf
at will while inspiring poets
to ode her more often than she could hope
to recall, though a few she knows by heart.
The moon endures a life accursed;
adored, but helpless to love in return.
image found here.
They had a reel to reel
and a velvet couch,
a deck
with a gazebo
and a hot tub
and a large Dodge van
they’d named
‘The Blue Box’.
We took a trip
to the coast. He played
Michael Jackson
and Christopher Cross
very loud. When we
got to where we were going
he announced:
‘The sunshine arrives
when The Blue Box
Gets There!’ slick
as a coked up disk jockey.
My Mom’s sister wore
flowing night
gowns.
My mom
wore torn underpants
and flannel. At night
I would wake to get a drink
of water and find her
on the couch, cigarette
tip glowing red
hot in the dark.
The reel to reel
fascinated me, but at the time
I thought if I spoke
into the stereo speakers
playing the basketball game
on the radio, my parents
could hear me where
the were, watching
the Portland Trail Blazers.
My mom would visit
her sister while
I lounged on the floor
listening to middle aged
early 80’s music,
watching the tape
grow smaller
on one side
and larger
on the other.
They were the first
family I knew
of who didn’t smoke
in the house.
