Cerebral Contents:

Update for 05.13.08:

Male Model by Phil Doran

Set to Replay by Willie Smith

Backsliding by Cynthia Ruth Lewis

Tree by G. David Schwartz

05.05.08:

Disintegration by Don Hucks

Five Feet and Building by Joel Van Noord

Grocery Aisle by Richard Lighthouse

Cross the Road by Ashok Niyogi

04.29.08:

Lookalikes by Phil Doran

Dinner by Brandi Wells

The Modern Covenant by Daniel E. Wilcox

Death by Onions by Michael Frissore

04.21.08:

Future's Children by Kimberly Raiser

Identity Theft by George Anderson

The Datists by Adam Engel

A Great Deal of Money by Justin Hyde

04.14.08:

Mr. Papaya and Dale by Eric Suhem

California by Caroline Imreibe

Aftermath of Vehement Argument #1,068 by Cynthia Ruth Lewis

Trip-Hammer Vitality by Lisa Nickerson

04.07.08:

The Florence of Basel, or Why Readers of Nietzsche Need to Read Burckhardt by Jeff Crouch

Slideshow by Miles J. Bell

Friends of the Poet by Sean C. Bowen

Picture Perfect by Leah Baldwin

03.24.08:

The Streak by Jeremy Hendrix

Grab Your Butts by Emme Hor

Far Away by Ashok Niyogi

Staring Down a White-Tailed Doe by Aleathia Drehmer

03.17.08:

The Hairbrush by Vernard Kennedy

Dog Days of Winter by Niall Berkeley

Poem From My Grave by Michael Lee Johnson

Mashed Potatoes and Hamburgers by Matt Finney

03.10.08:

Hard Work by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

Jetty Cake Pigs by J.D. Nelson

I'm Quiet in Bed by Moctezuma Johnson

Tequila Shakes by Richard Lighthouse

On the Hill

by Rachel Ruffing

Captain Jack Sparrow next to young James Dean
on an old porch swing in the moonlit night
on the eastern hill. Two Storm Troopers and

a Pumpkin King, smoking by the tree with
a corncob pipe near a honey bee, and
all the booze wasted on the old porch through

a flask of disillusionment. And all
the ghosts debate capital punishment.
In my devil world with my candy corn

on my handy throne in the dark with the
candle glow. There is a magical calm
before the pompous jester takes me down,

and Aragorn drives his crown into the
dill dip — all for a wink from the tipsy
gypsy girl. I hide like a hell spider

behind Medusa's snakes, sneering and too
real for my tired taste. Pitchfork twisted
and now I wait, with Caesar and Senate
for a new debate on the eastern hill.

______________________________________
posted 11.19.07.

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