MAY 2009


James Babbs

DJ Berndt

Clay Carpenter

Jess Del Balzo

Newamba Flamingo

Doug Holder

Sara Kaplan

Jake Kilroy

Gary Lehmann

Heather Momyer

Nanette Rayman Rivera

Andy Riverbed

Kimberly Ruth

John C. Sweet

Buff Whitman-Bradley

It’s My Birthday
By James Babbs, Mar 05, 2009

it’s my birthday and
I’m driving to the liquor store
I want to buy some whiskey and
get me a case of beer
I’ve been thinking about vodka
how I used to drink it
years ago
when I was in college
I remember
we mixed it with lemonade
something called yuckadoos
playing up and down the river and
I’m just trying to recapture
some part of my lost youth
it’s my birthday
today and
I think about these things

James Babbs still lives and dies a little each day in the same small town where he grew up. He works for the government but doesn’t like to talk about it. He likes getting drunk and writing and sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference because both of them can be very intoxicating. He knows there’s more he should tell you but he just doesn’t have the time. Some recent poems have appeared in his dreams and in Abbey, Nerve Cowboy, Snow Monkey, Transcendent Visions and Zygote in My Coffee.


The Last Thing I Will Do Before I Finally Kill Myself Is Check My Spam E-Mail Folder One Last Time For A Legitimate Message From The Prince Of Nigeria
By DJ Berndt, Mar 09, 2009

my life has become
existentially insignificant
morally empty
spiritually detached
and philosophically meaningless.

i am mentally overwhelmed
emotionally joyless
physically imbalanced
and realistically going to die alone.

i am unable to recall the majority
of my own life’s experiences.

you are beautiful
but most things are not.

i want to decapitate a large wild rabbit
and cut off its face
with the ears still attached
and put it over my own face
and hop around screaming
“i am the result
of everything that nature
has ever intended to happen!”
and the large wild rabbit’s
brain matter, skull tissue, and blood
will be evenly spread over the
field of dying grass below me.

but maybe none of that is true
and i just need you to hug me
as hard as you can.

DJ Berndt blogs at SELF-CONSCIOUS and edits the literary journal PANGUR BAN PARTY. He is twenty-two and lives in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.


IHOP, 1 a.m.
By Clay Carpenter, Mar 23, 2009

Dave remarks that the waitress sashays
and we all laugh at the word in IHOP
over omelets and burgers at 1 a.m.,
talk of ‘80s hair bands and if American
claimed there are no aesthetics

I think, the same conversation might be
taking place in China 12 hours from now,
a group like us having driven across
black ice to a breakfast joint after work.
this Chinese group with its own Drake,
Dave, Marianne, Vivek and Kyle

Does the Chinese Marianne mutter a Chinese
version of ‘Geez Louise’ when the Chinese
Dave talks of his inability to get laid? Do the
Chinese Us mock her for it? Does the Chinese
Kyle talk of being made to push a penny
across the elementary school floor with his nose?
Do the Chinese Us erupt in sympathy?

Vivek orders strawberry pie as I imagine
the Chinese Us sitting in their cubicles, stoic,
the audacious American thought of gathering
after work never occurring to them. Then I

imagine them another way, driven by sex,
validation, a break in the monotony, peering
over the tops of their cubes and uttering: “IHOP?”

Clay Carpenter is a copy editor in Corpus Christi, Texas.


Open Casket
By Jess Del Balzo, Mar 17, 2009

“She looks pretty good,” my grandfather says. Not bad for being dead, not bad at all. My great-grandmother agrees, so at the last minute, they tell the funeral director they’ve changed their minds.

Even after being dead at sixty-one for three days, Jeanne looks better than most of the women about to walk into the room to pay respects.

How’s that for an ego boost?

Jess Del Balzo’s work has appeared in various print and online journals, anthologies and other publications, most recently, damselfly press. A graduate of Emerson College, she was also an active member of the Boston performance poetry scene, appearing in venues in and around the city. She has self-published two chapbooks and released an album of spoken word and music called Lampshade Girls & Other Renegades. She currently lives and works in New York City.


Shooting Midgets from a Catapult and Watching Our Teacher Tap Dance Nude
By Newamba Flamingo, Mar 17, 2009

I woke up late today
The alarm clock had grown arms and legs and ran away
Scratching my testicles and stumbling into the kitchen,
I found an alligator eating my Cheerios

There was no time to fight him,
so I took off my nightgown and slipped into some edible panties,
red tights, a green tutu, retro basketball jersey, and funky tennis shoes

I brushed my teeth and put my hair into pigtails
Then I stepped out the door
and mounted the unicycle I ride to school
After giving a stranger the finger, I took off onto the highway
(The Miami Vice theme song played in my head)

Upon arrival at school,
I saw Tiger Woods out on the front lawn
with a neck brace on,
shooting midgets from a catapult

A group of mimes were next to him,
involved in a limbo contest

Behind them was a three legged homosexual donkey called “Rufus,”
chasing a rogue peacock in circles like a loon,
whilst singing Lady GaGa’s “Poker Face”
completely out of tune

Inside the school, a roaming pack of football players,
in pads and helmets, tackled random people throughout the hallways,
as two cheerleaders named “Buffy” followed, waving pom poms,
and chanting the school fight song

As I walked into class,
I noticed that our teacher, Mr. Schlomsky, wasn’t there yet
Everyone looked puzzled...
When out of the blue, without warning,
Mr. Schlomsky fell through the ceiling and landed perfectly on his feet
(Totally perpendicular to the podium!)

A balding, obese and hairy Polish man of 5’2”,
he was entirely naked except for a large pair of Versace sunglasses,
Polka-dotted bowtie and large red clown shoes

He looked around the room and didn’t say a word for about thirty seconds
And then
Burst into a fiery lecture about Confucius,
which was peppered with Russian curse words,
spastic hand and arm motions,
and brief outbursts of tap dancing

At the conclusion of the lecture,
he juggled pineapples,
and I stood up and applauded

Mr. Schlomsky then shapeshifted into a pterodactyl and flew out the window

After class, I saw Tiger Woods riding away on my unicycle,
giving me the finger and throwing golf balls at pedestrians

I tried to hail a taxi, but they were all full
Fortunately the baboon that lives in my closet, Fred,
was driving an ice cream truck nearby,
so I pole-vaulted onto the roof of the vehicle and surfed it all the way home

I hoped that alligator wasn’t still in my kitchen
because I was hungry and needed something to eat.

Newamba Flamingo was born and raised on a chicken farm in the Florida Keys by a suicidal cult of transvestite prostitutes who dressed up in gorilla suits and played loud polka music from distorted speakers at all hours of the night. After escaping the chicken farm, he was taken hostage by an Elvis impersonator that forced him at gunpoint to write poetry. He was later able to flee from the Elvis impersonator and now wanders the streets of South Beach in a purple tutu, spitting out bizarre poems as he pleases. His work has been published and featured at 10K Poets, BadWriter, NC Lowbrow, MySpace, EveryPoet.Net, PoemHunter, and various toilet stalls across Florida.


By Doug Holder, Mar 23, 2009

In the parlor

By the Lava Lamp

Under the gaze of the sea monkeys

Blooming in their tank

I took a bite of my Twinkie...

Only the crème de la crème

Letting my hair down...

Falling over my polyester collar

Luxuriating in the quotidian

Resting my cocktail on the ornate coaster

The sunlight spilling through the windows

The intricate pattern.

After my third drink

I could almost swear...

I saw the plastic beak

Of the flamingo

Break into a resplendent

Conspiratorial grin.

Doug Holder’s work has appeared in Word Riot, Autumn Sky, The Toronto Quarterly, Seven Circle Press, and many others. He has a new collection of interviews out: From the Paris of New England: Interviews with Poets and Writers (Ibbetson Street Press).


Touring West of the Mississippi
By Sara Kaplan, Mar 22, 2009

In Cheyenne, the steam locomotive,
Big Boy, is on all the postcards. When I stay, I swear
I see its rotund body choo-choo
pass my motel window looking for more
coal to keep it moving.

I search the Weather
Channel for New Mexico where aliens
will hover their craft over my bed tomorrow.

But, I’m headed towards the Gulf
and Area 51’s not on the way.
Neither is Roswell.
I’m going through the Northeast corner of New Mexico.
On the map, it looks like it will take 15
minutes, but this drive lasts half a day. This desert
looks like Mars—
landing is possible, but no one would believe me.

This is the kind of driving people do.
They want to see it all, but have to keep moving
onto the state roads towards Amarillo, San Antonio, the Gulf.
All you see, really, is the oil pumps, cacti,
and the ranches
the cattle. Someone lives out there
where it’s flat and hot, where everything burns.
And I slow down to 30mph
for some rinky-dink town where I end up
buying alien postcards. I thumb
through them in my car at a rail crossing
where I turn off my engine for a train
whose graffitied diesel boxcars curse me.

Sara Kaplan is an English Instructor at Del Mar College in Corpus Christi, Texas, where she teaches Creative Writing, Composition, and Literature. Her work has appeared in LIT 9, The Cincinnati Review, Talking River Review, The Meadow, the InLand, The Antioch Review, Harpur Palate, Ruminate, The New Vilna Review, & MO: Writings from the River.


Medieval (Me Devil)
By Jake Kilroy, Mar 10, 2009

What shall we call this?

The Pompous Poet Lounges Around Loudly Once Again In The Streets
(Or, “What Graces A Woman To Dance Sin In The Wake Of A Public Speaker”)
(Or, “The Cobblestone Address Of Confidence And Beauty”)
(Or, “What Renaissance? I Thought You Were All Here To Love Me”)
(Or, “When Careless And Dashing, Always Love Heroically”)
(Or, “Speak Before Spoken To And You’ll Always Have Women”)
(Or, “The Evening Speech Of The Arrogant Writer Near The Lake At Sunset”)

Hear ye, kings and mighty swordsmen!
Hear ye, leaders and courageous soldiers!
Hear ye, queens and slender women!
Hear ye, bad saints and good sinners!
Hear me, chumps and chumpettes!

I swallowed fire to impress all of the audience that gathered fair at the renaissance!
We had to dress up kindly and spark with manners,
as we traveled to a where, not a when.
I saw the push of the shove as her tush I came to love,
as I rhymed myself straight into her bed and right out of her heart.
In one holy place and out the other I am.

I’ve set fire to kingdoms and I’ve set foot in churches!
But I’ve never wrestled a beauty such as you.
The beat talker, no street walker, is she
(I pray, and I hope, well-wishers),
but us hapless rogues (snarky and sharky), (whimsical and cunning),
(brutal and bare), (shape-shifting and flesh-kissing),
we’re still the leading reason they invented handcuffs.
And I’ve never been a criminal for crime.
But subliminal for time, or rub slims sinful for rhymes.

Well, you ladies with fans and you fans of ladies,
hear me like the cannon that may be my doom!
I’m the smartest court jester that you’ve ever seen dance a jig,
and I can swindle your clothes, your cards and your coins,
before you even knew that you loved me.
Ah, fair games are only in afternoon lounges it seems!

I live over yonder, out where the trees sigh with content,
the youths swim nude and the lake water has no weeds.
Visit me! I have no barren soul (or any real character to speak of, just tongue).
I’ve been an empty birdcage full of words since I last loved,
and since I last loved, I’ve evolved,
much like the jackrabbit (fast and sweet, I tell you).
I’ll lay you tender and I’ll lay you cold.
By the end, I’ll leave your eternity old.
You’ll have learned from loving I,
and I’ll stay with you until your chest is red with warmth.
Battlegrounds? I should say not!
I couldn’t hold any weapon greater than a pen!

So ink your skulls! And spill paint onto your lovers!
We dine on the most sinful of feasts tonight,
but only after the dimmest of lamps in the street blow out their candles,
just like you’ll be doing in the new waking eve of heavy breathing.
March, young squadrons of bedroom soldiers!
For I have a declaration and I don’t want a king here!
Whispers are the only communication us poets have.
They’ll kill us otherwise. But I’ve always been that other wise.

Charming hearts and loosening bosom tops are charity work in my efforts!
I hereby declare that I’ll also be swearing until dawn
that I saw whatever mystical creature you wanted to exist and named it too!
So piss off, young dreamers and schemers and feverish crashes!
I have done all there is to be done in this era, that is this day and this age!
And your loves sin from dusk until dawn,
while I leave these troops of stretching women!
Wives have left their husbands! Queens have deserted their kings!
And I have left my floor before!
But nevermore am I a humble worker in this town, quiet and without muse.
I am as reckless as I am planned, and I’m as glorious as I am damned!
Drinkers are the only sinners that don’t make mistakes.

Powerful rogues! This goes on! I continue! And I apologize for it!
But once you have a fair audience, why stop?
Burn your bottoms and cut off your tops!
The only war we have is with ourselves!
How long have you been fighting? Will you go on? Are you done?
Have you felt your last human being who wasn’t you?

Shackles! Prisoners of love! Prisoners of war!
Nobody is at home near the fire!
The giggling you hear at night is not you!
It belongs to your lover.
You’ve slept right through the excitement while she slept right through me!
Yes, constables and squires, I loved your maidens and they loved me!
I assure you that I loved them better than they could ever hope to sin,
like steam in courtyards.
Beautiful, tender and wild (never mild in my throws),
careless with laughter. Sweet, loud laughter/(explicit).

Look into it while you chase me on the cobblestones!
I’ll look to you as I hobble you with words, gentlemen.
Tomorrow evening, I expect us to have drinks!
Because the only thing I’m better at manipulating than your maidens is your language.

Now you see the prettiest skies are our faintest light and our darkest hour is upon us!
You see, I wrote this in five minutes and it’s best left
for the eaters of squalor who holler for fights at night when they rhyme so right.
But me, I’m making this up as I go!
I saw a girl in cowboy boots and I felt inspired.
You don’t know cowgirls, you say?
Well, I couldn’t even tell you what this poem was really in regards to anyway.

But I’ll continue to stand in the public square,
maybe to refine this one day!
Or night.

For now though, I have a date with Destiny!
And she’s alone until he comes home.

I’m off!

Contrary to popular belief, Jake Kilroy was not raised by handsome wolves. Instead, he was brought up by his nuclear family to lead a radioactive life in Orange County, California. Kilroy, twenty-four, graduated from Cal State Fullerton with a degree in print journalism and a minor in political science. You may know him from fancy dinner parties in your area. He is often the only one to bring licorice to such gala events.


Also Sprach Fred
By Gary Lehmann, Mar 02, 2009

On January 3, 1889, Friedrich Nietzsche, champion of the power of free will,
ran out into a Turin street to embrace an Italian draft horse that was being beaten.
He wept bitter tears for the fate of the poor animal, then fainted, leaving his mind behind.
Months later, without ever recovering, he died, still in his own mind a Superman.

On January 3, 1989, a smart young man posed as Fred Nietzsche on a trans-Atlantic flight.
He explained to a pretty American girl, “I’m just a mixed up philosopher who needs love.”
When she took him home to meet her parents, he explained, “I’m a poor orphan in this world.”
For two weeks, they fed and loved him to excess. He was philosophically satisfied.

Then he called his mother to come pick him up, but he stressed the necessity of remaining
an orphan. “There’s no need to disillusion these nice people now,” he explained.
His mother had to wait a long time at the bus station. “Are you all right, my darling?”
Fresh from a fortnight in the Hamptons, he responded, “I’m fine, mom. I feel like a Superman.”

Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Gary Lehmann’s essays, poetry and short stories are widely published. Books include The Span I will Cross (Process Press, 2004) and Public Lives and Private Secrets (Foothills Publishing, 2005). His most recent book is American Sponsored Torture (FootHills Publishing, 2007). Visit his website at


Dead Dog
By Heather Momyer, Mar 22, 2009

Littered clementine peels on a planked porch,
Pulps shared by a dog who is not yet dying
With a girl who has not yet heard “Maybe cancer,”
In regard to her unused womb.
The animal is “like a son” a sister says,
But maybe a baby because she says,
“I just want to love someone that much,”
Though for now, the Shepherd waiting for orange bits is best
And the citrus fruit is still sweet and tart.
There will always be tomorrow to mourn for the dog
Whose malignant blood is unable to sustain him,
And for the one who will not run tiny fingers
Through old gray fur.

Heather Momyer has work appearing or forthcoming in Exquisite Corpse, wordriver, PANK, and 303 Magazine.


glamour girl
By Nanette Rayman Rivera, Mar 11, 2009

a poem-play with 2 stage directions; of course after actors’ rehearsal

The pepto-pink off-exit motel’s a life’s toss
for ex runner-up Miss Massachusetts and her saved sundress—

loose lace is dewblow that flutters around her,
what he took
                             for class—
surrender a sudden shedding
—a hapless woman’s unveiling, naked breasts gift-boxes in his edacious hands.

~ ~ ~

Right now, in June, girl’s playing chicken over flor de maga sweat
resonant as a waterfall in the country of an cook immigrante,
just arrived and with job, just arrived and cooking thighs
and eggs in a woman’s residence, the one she’s evicted from—
                             no job

and she wants to believe in this month, in lives
that chime when they’re struck,
impossible to want what he wants
when she’s wild strawberries
verdant like Cassandra
before rape fed on her perverse lunations
                             —that was real death, sewers of it.
How can she let him when hyacinths
grow in her ghetto?

scrawling poppy-red word in flattened lipstick/
writing the blindsided path/fear-scent swimming/
throat sickened with milk/cook begging/will pay for/it/
no way, not ever/she snarks/a fistful of breadcrumbs thrown
                             he already knows of the come-around.

~ ~

Because the stage threw her back
with her beauty intact, not for lack
of talent, this is the final illusion.
She hangs from chipped ledges in the capo, nude
cherry trees raining on her whisper, her wail, legs
twisting off the gargoyle, just the cook ordering

Climb down. (stage direction: tone of voice implies she’s a fistful of dirt)

Then scooping her up like she’s a cow

~ ~ ~

                                                               when the give-in happens does it
                                                               antisepticise a cataract in the air
                                                               so the eye of the spirit can vanish
                                                               from her wounded womb cleanly
                                                               like the gash that unties her heart?
                                                               He beat a letter.
                                                               It could mean U.
                                                               It could mean I.

Gods don’t wait for her. Never show at the door.
Only after submission does a voice inform her, yes, you will whack
through more wilderness. No matter, she thinks, I’m already dead,
while the cook scrabbled for her mermaid nape, her siren thighs.
She became a dove in dramatic mourn cloth, suitable
for such a life. Would you have survived, are you so blind
to her unravel, her skin-trade for a one night bed?
This is the final chimera, the one where the others led.

             (Stage direction: girl:)

girl smokes one of the cigarettes he bought her, sees long lines of people—
reeds in deli’s slow motion. Looks in window, licks her lips. Thinks
about bathing again, about scrubbing off her damage in the scalding scalp of a creek.
Thinks she won’t eat, then decides not to punish herself again. Bagel and coffee.

             Perhaps she cries into the what-was of self.
             Perhaps there’s a path at horizon’s crossed arms.

Nanette Rayman Rivera, two-time Pushcart Nominee for nonfiction and poetry, is the author of the poetry collection, Project: Butterflies by Foothills Publishing and the chapbook, alegrias, by Lopside Press. She is the first winner of the Glass Woman Prize for nonfiction and has poetry on Best of the Net 2007. Her story, “Puhi Paka,” was best of issue in Greensilk Journal. She is the current featured writer in Up the Staircase. Other publications include The Worcester Review, Oranges and Sardines, MiPOesias, Gold Wake Press, Whistling Shade, Carousel, Carve Magazine, The Berkeley Fiction Review, ditch, Prick of the Spindle, blossombones, The Wilderness Literary Review, Unmoveable Feast, Pebble Lake Review, Mannequin Envy, Dirty Napkin, Pedestal, Lily, Wheelhouse, Stirring, Snow Monkey, Wicked Alice, Tipton Poetry Journal, Dragonfire, Arsenic Lobster, Three Candles, Offcourse, O Sweet Flowery Roses, The Smoking Poet, Velvet Avalanche Anthology, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, Flashquake, A Little Poetry, DMQ Review, Her Circle, grasslimb, Barnwood. She’s written a memoir she’s shopping around to agents. UPCOMING PUBLICATIONS: Santa Fe Writer’s Project, Contemporary American Voices, Magnolia, Hobble Creek Review, Slant and Motel 58.


Tasted like peanut-butter and guava-jelly (on the last, broken half-slice of bread)
By Andy Riverbed, Mar 21, 2009

The purple glow of the neon sign vibrated
from the top of the shitty bar where

in a band battle, the band
you sang in was participating. I laid

my face against the cement rail that
held me from falling from the second story.

I didn’t want to pay seven bucks to see
your band lose to some frat boys who

probably rapped their lyrics, so I had searched
for other ways to enter. I found a door that led

into the second floor, which was empty except
for a table covered in pieces of construction.

I used my cell phone as light following
the echoes of music that permeated from

the floor—at that moment: shitty hard rock.
I dusted my hands with every doorknob

I thought might lead me inside the bar.
Isn’t there a bar in Cancún named the same?

Would there be a Wet T-Shirt Contest?
All the doors were locked; I found

a window by the dried-up bathroom and
opened it to walk the top of the roof

where I looked down and saw the hall
that led into the fancy Italian place next door.

There was an electrical box that asked me
why I was there. He had a face with a nose

and a smile. He did not have eyes. He told
me to leave, and I saw the moon on my back

for a bit, and left to lay in bed
till my body didn’t ache.

Andy Riverbed is author of the collection Damaged. Read him at


In honor of some things
By Kimberly Ruth, Mar 21, 2009

A half-invisible man who was bleeding red
floated up to the sky. To a place that is like here
but better, according to an unsuccessful locksmith

who then suggested we decorate balloons in honor
of the bleeding man.

A bird escaped his cage

as I wrapped the breath-filled capsule in
glue-saturated string and sprinkled it with gold
sparkles and unwanted feathers.

The bird zig-zagged in confusion
as short fingers wiggled to hold him
and put him back behind bars but

the window was open. He flew out.

And in honor of this I picked a star
from the sky

and plugged it in.

Kimberly Ruth is a recent graduate from SUNY New Paltz where she received a degree in photography and a degree in journalism. She plans to attend graduate school in the fall, where she will work towards an MFA degree in Fine Art. You can view samples of her work at


Sugar’d street ghost makers
By John C. Sweet, Mar 15, 2009

Sugar don’t call me sugar, ‘cause I will rot yer tongue, drill tiny little holes in yer teeth.

& run away naked down tha street shouting for a fix.

Filling up tha holes in my arms with tha mess you left behind,

my fingers will stick in tha glue, spat from yer worthless gums.

Fingering tha flesh, pus oozes, I am suddenly scared feeling how empty I am

inside. Junkie ghost eyes cry, ladadadadada day wasting away in the oil stain’d roads

Waxy lights drop their goo searing my eyes that stare at the man with half a face

hanging from the pole, whispering jonny jonny it’s time to go.

So baby don’t call me sugar, melting in that street licking me with yer putrid tongue

trying to clean me from tha resin of the gun plunged into tha veins, tha rosebeat of sap

Pools in its fluid hue, blocking tha flow of junk and I withdraw from tha street

following tha yellow lines to tha hollow of my heart, jumping round

Holy hound hungry & tha pusher laughs under tha awning, his boy body

with haunches of steel, shimmer shimmer stealing all tha trace of light, tha half faced man

Reaches out his hand, whispering what yer seeing is tha result of patchwork blends,

coke n valium racing through yer cage. So sugar don’t try to steal my post traumatic dreams.

She rots at tha seams, spilling her effects all over the place all she does is cry,

sucking me dry my husk only knows how to wander anyone can make him for a ghost.

If you follow him you will find yer steady connection, he only disappears after fixing up

filling tha husk with air he sits next to me in his ghost form, smiling & I feel sick.

Like someone wets their fingers snuffing out my wick my tears harden in their waxy spills,

remaining where they are, so sugar go get tha pennies in tha jar & let’s suck on tha copper,

Shocking tha mercury teeth sending its waves to our groins, we climax

spurting our essence all over tha room rolling sliding laughing, then it comes down

& out in yellow’d throat gases, silencing tha air, so it’s time to kiss my mouth kisses

her rotten lips all over her face, stealing my sugar back drooling it into the spoon,

heating it all up all over again.

& winter will come stealing our memories, she still loves to kiss me

until we cum again drowning while tha half faced man laughs kicking the can,

& we watch out tha thousand of windows & the ghost walks away,

cool & luminous, phone ringing junkies singing for some sugar, yea it’s an easy score.

John C. Sweet resides in Dallas, GA. Recently published with InnerCirclePublishing latest book titled: Evolution: beingjohnsweet, works appeared in Haggard & Halloo and Poetry Warrior Magazine. Self published eight other chapbook style poetry books under the pen name of beingjohnsweet. Graduate of Central Michigan University BA, focus on creative arts. Father of three and husband to a beautiful princess.


Aerial Intercourse
By Buff Whitman-Bradley, Mar 02, 2009

I have always wondered why the term
Is used as an epithet as a way of insulting
Someone of conveying one’s contempt
Of saying you’re a hopeless fool now get lost

When I think about the phrase it doesn’t
Sound at all unpleasant I picture a naked
Couple floating in space free of gravity
Lazily orbiting each other brushing lightly

Against a belly a penis a nipple an ass a thigh
Drifting away for a moment then returning
For a brief kiss caress fondle lick nibble suck
Drifting away again and returning and

Drifting and returning until they are so
Utterly inflamed that on the next pass they
Can’t help but grab hold and hang on tight
Joined in the slippery places growing sublime

To me it sounds like a blessing not a curse
Unless the lovers heedless in their ecstasy
Are carried away by prevailing winds over
A top secret missile site in North Dakota

Where they are intercepted and forced to the
Ground by NORAD F-16s seeing the naked
Homeland Security officers brand them as
Terrorists put them in orange jumpsuits and

Take them away to a secret interrogation
Center in Uzbekistan where they are tortured
Night and day for weeks and found guilty
Of everything including aerial intercourse

That is too brutal a fate to wish upon a
Person even our worst enemy so we should
Think carefully and mind our words before
Telling anyone to take a flying fuck

Buff Whitman-Bradley is the author of b. eagle, poet, and The Honey Philosophies. His poems have appeared in numerous literary journals. He is also the producer of documentary videos and audios, including, with his wife Cynthia, the award-winning film Outside In. He lives in northern California.