July - Poem 3

Senseless / Clayre Benzadon

In the gap between simple 
and ordinary, I chose simplicity.

Plain, decent, friendly, 
sweet, naïve, foolish, stupid.

The word “stupid” sticks to me.

Recently, in EMDR, I envisioned
all the times someone called me 
stupid: struck senseless.

We hold on to so much that later 
we drop it all in the middle of 
the street, crying ugly, until our 

mascara filthily streaks the sidewalk.
Now, that image is simple.
I’m looking for ordinary

this time:

This time, I enter a convenience
store and pull out a Coke from
the fridge, a package of tissues

to wipe off the snot and filth
of being human. The guy
at the counter, instead of

taking advantage 
of this, asks
if I’m ok.

This isn’t simple, or or-
dinary. No, this is sub-
lime.

I was struck senseless.
I asked the guy for a lime,
to chase the stupid

feeling I got from crying
uncontrollably, at everything.
The gap between simplicity

and ordinary is a small light
someone leaves on for you
in the middle of the night.

I did not use the internet to write this poem  / RJ Ingram

I asked Nora to use the back door the dogs have been acting up / I think they miss their father I think they watch too much tv I think I’ve got to flip whatever’s in the oven / Turnips rot in the back of the fridge I bought them for a salad & only used half of them / I know what you’re thinking what kind of salad needs turnips? / Honestly I don’t recommend it / Prairies come & go but getting to yell COW out the window? That shit’s forever / The quickest way to the kind of quiet I’m looking for is a plate of buttery crackers dipped in melty cheese / Of course you can come over I’m pulling monkey bread out of the oven & I’m going to turn the temperature down & make some shrink sinks later / Do you need a ride? I know you’re just across the street but I’ve got half a mile to go before I hit a digit ending in six zeros / I missed you at the Halloween party by the way / I ended up wearing a dozen or so different costumes & had a character for each / I turned it into a drinking game / The first person to guess my middle name won an all expenses paid trip to the back of our minivan / Santa’s gonna be a little late this year & he’s gonna drop off your presents at K-Mart he left a note you can read it yourself.

And the note said / A lot of things / I’m sure of it

The Poetry of An No-Skip Album- A Pantoum / MeraBaird Kuar

I love a pantoum, the way I love the last song on an album, 
the way it lulls me past harmony, past melody, bends some
space to sound me out, slides me into dreams 
holds me there, how sticky-sweet we feel in the heat of release. 

The way it lulls me past harmony, past melody, bends some
time so I savor the chords strung together like plot points.
Hold me there, how sticky-sweet we feel in the heat of release
coordinates map a story of a time, a place, a voice.

Time to savor the chords strung together like plot points
in and out of an orchestrated void, eyelids flutter or fold
coordinate maps of a story, a time, a place, a voice.
My head nods, my eyes draw hearts and stars, they float

In and out of an orchestrated void, eyelids flutter or fold.
I love a pantoum, the way I love the last song on an album
My head nods, my eyes draw hearts and stars, they float
in space to sound me out, slides into my dream.

Remedies / Dallas Outlaw

My warning label
comes with a warning label
a sticker of noteworthy
tabs to keep open

read me twice
before assuming fluency
my fine print
changes with context

the side effects
include mirrored behavior
returned energy
without modification

the medical term
is projected dysmorphia:
a condition
where people mistake

their own reflection
for my personality
often misdiagnosed
as arrogance, coldness,

or difficult behavior
symptoms worsen
when accountability
is introduced

without anesthesia &
there is no known cure
only distance from the mirror
or the courage to

recognize yourself more 
distortions kaleidoscope
landscape direction
to last feast on the possibility

that it just might work

I Was Raised on Little White Lies / Azmia Ricchuito

The doctor said take two and call him in the morning.

That was over 40 years ago 
and I've been listening to you
say I know what to do
and you'll get right back.
You never did.

Leave a message after the tone.
The lights are on
but nobody's home.

And no, I didn't know what to do.

I don't know where you went
when your eyes turned black.

I don't know where you went
the times your eyes rolled back
in your head
in your head
in your head.

But I know who paid the electric bill
so that the day they find your body
the stench won't be so bad.

Little round white moons
an orange bottle filled with stars
you're higher than the kites
I flew at field day in kindergarten.


You boarded your spaceship
leaving me behind
All these years later
and all I can ask is why 
didn't anyone ever cover my eyes? 

I shouldn't have seen this
concert for aliens
this cacophony of chaos

the fever-pitched crescendo 
of little white lies
crashing
breaking
metal against earth

180 proof, 180 degrees
spinning out of control
an orange Camaro 
wrapped around a tree.

the only family you have left
are the cousins of death 
and me.



I'm choking on your legacy
wishing I could spit it out
it's in my tired bones
laid bare with agony



It's just me and your ghosts
not knowing what to do
and two howling wolves
and they're always ravenous
whatever I do. 

When My Friend Heather Invites Me to Hot Yoga During a Heat Wave / Tammy Smith

Hell no ❌😈
is easier to text
than calling her
but I probably should
politely decline
doing anything
downward-facing dog
on a blue flowered mat
when it’s this hot out

F that
is what I want to convey,
but I’m not about to text
any fire emojis—🔥
nothing flashing red,
orange, yellow: content
she may misconstrue
as explosive 🔥💥
or flirty ❤️‍🔥

Pointless pretending
anyone functions well
when the feels-like temperature
hits triple digits

I hesitate
sharing anything that steamy,
lest Heather think
it’s 🗣️🔥

In Your Duende Dream  / Daphne Stanford

After your body tethers itself to sand
Blown by wind as duende works the
Body of a dancer, allow yourself
To plop yourself down onto shore.

Let the waterline creep further up 
Your leg, ankles sinking into wet 
Sand. Like that scene in “The Never-
Ending Story” where Artex slowly

Sinks his white body into the swamp 
Of sadness swallowing him, despite the
Journey ahead, despite wishing he still
Wanted to try. Some easy dichotomy

Swims toward you, kicking salt-
Water toward pelicans diving to snatch
Sanderlings. Hermit crab sidesteps by, 
Having found himself a new conch shell 

To inhabit. Not allowing us to believe 
We can’t go home again. He takes his 
Home with him, not hoisting it up but
Crawling toward some deep quiet, within.