Archive for the ‘!What’s New!’ Category

Hazy Arizona Sky

Sunday, April 2nd, 2017

by Michael Lee Johnson

 

Midnight,

Sonoran Desert,

sleep, baby talk, dust covering my eyelids.

No need for covers, blankets,

sunscreen, sand is my pillow.

Adaptations

morning fireball

hurls into Arizona sky,

survival shifts gears,

momentum becomes a racecar driver

baking down on cracked,

crusted earth-

makes Prickly Pear cactus

open to visitors just a mirage,

cactus naked spit and slice

rubbery skull, glut open

dreams, flood dry.

Western cowboy wishes, whistles, and movies

valley one cup of cool, clear, fool’s desert gold

dust refreshing poison of the valley.

Bring desert sunflowers, sand dunes, bandanas,

leave your cell phone at home.

 

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Solo Boxing

Sunday, March 26th, 2017

by Michael Lee Johnson

 

Solo boxing, past midnight,

tugging emotions out of memories embedded,

tossing dice, reliving vices, revisiting affairs,

playing solitaire-marathon night,

hopscotch player, toss the rock,

shots of Bourbon.

 

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Little Desert Flower

Sunday, March 19th, 2017

by Michael Lee Johnson 

 

Out of this poem

grows a little desert flower.

it is blue sorrow

it waits for your return.

You escape so you must from me

refuge, folded, wrapped in cool spring rain leaves-

avoiding July, August heat.

South wind hell-fire burns memories within you,

branded I tattoo you, leave my mark,

in rose barren fields fueled with burned and desert stubble.

Yet I wait here, a loyal believer throat raw in thirst.

I wrest thunder gods gathering ritual-prayer rain.

It is lonely here grit, tears rub my eyes without relief.

Yet I catch myself loafing away in the wind waiting fate

to whisper those tiny messages

writer of this storm welded wings,

I go unnoticed but the burned eyes of red-tailed hawk

pinch of hope, sheltered by the doves.

I tip a toast to quench your thirst,

one shot of Tequila my little, purple, desert flower.

 

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Alberta Bound

Monday, March 13th, 2017

by Michael Lee Johnson

 

I own a gate to this prairie

that ends facing the Rocky Mountains.

They call it Alberta

trail of endless blue sky

asylum of endless winters,

hermitage of indolent retracted sun.

Deep freeze drips haphazardly into spring.

Drumheller, dinosaur badlands, dried bones,

ancient hoodoos sculpt high, prairie toadstools.

Alberta highway 2 opens the gateway of endless miles.

Travel weary I stop by roadsides, ears open to whispering pines.

In harmony North to South

Gordon Lightfoot pitches out

a tone

“Alberta Bound.”

With independence in my veins,

I am long way from my home.

 

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Lion in my Heart

Thursday, March 9th, 2017

by Michael Lee Johnson

 

There is a heart embedded inside this male lion, I swear.

I eat leaves and underbrush, foliage of the forest, I belch.

Then I fall in love with birds, strangers and wild women.

Tears fall into the lush forest green below,

like Chinese crystal glass beads, shatter.

Then I realize it’s not the jungle, but I that am alone.

In the morning when the bed squeaks, both alarm clocks erupt,

I realize I’m alone in my jungle.

I hear the calls of the wild-

the streetcars, and the metro trains,

wake me in my sleep in my jungle alone,

let me belch in my belly with my Tums,

let me dream in my aloneness I swell.

There is a heart embedded inside this male lion,

I swear jungle man, lion lover, and city dweller.

 

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White Clouds of Elation

Sunday, January 29th, 2017

Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man’s work, please check out his his book, F.D.A. Approved Poetry, available on Amazon.

White Clouds of Elation

Sneezing
out oxy
first thing
in the
morning

Walking
through a
white cloud
of elation

Climbing
the stairs
avoiding
the steps

Only a
follower
would
submit
to a
program

I’m making
progress
one day at
a time

All my faith
is consolidated
into a single
phone call

I often wonder
how the other
side lives

Able to accept
all the things
that drive
people to
madness

This renegade
is still free
to walk these
streets of
disease
without the
threat of
infection

This straw
is my sword

This bottle
my shield

Together we’ll
fight off the
contamination
of societal
madness

 

 

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THIS WEEK: Hacking Mobility by Deborah Brannon

Monday, January 23rd, 2017

Stay Tuned THIS WEEK,

for a second installment of

Voices of the Disenfranchised: Disability Narratives

 

Hacking Mobility by Deborah Brannon

 

 

What’s New

defenestrationism.net home

 

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More Disability Narratives

Sunday, January 15th, 2017

Meet Defenestrationism.net Special Reporter,

Deborah J. Brannon, (codename: Geek Dame) spends her days in the South herding words by freelancing, with nights and weekends dedicated to scribbling furiously, RPGs (tabletop and video) and a dubious amount of television. Her articles and reviews have appeared in Faerie MagazineFront Page Meews, and Cabinet des Fées, while her original work can be found in Human Tales (editor: Jennifer Brozek), Scheherezade’s Bequest, and more. You can find more articles, reviews, and unabashed excitement on all things geek (flavor: SFF) at www.geekdame.com. Follow her on Twitter as @geekdame .

 

Elegy for a Fallen Angel

by Deborah Brannon

What is it about autumn?
You always asked that question, when I knew you.
What is it about autumn?
every time something went wrong.
I stand by my assurance that as many things went wrong
for you in other seasons.
You were just stuck on autumn
(that is also called Fall)
because of the day you suffered
by a plan, or a mistake, that at least you never intended.
But you can never anticipate God.
You said that too.

You used to moan in your sleep.
I’d never tell you. I’d never even wake you,
spare you the pain of your dreamed remembrances.
I was selfish then. Your half-coherent mutterings
were the only window I had into your inhuman,
smoldering wreck of a heart.
The wind is swift and it hurts, you’d say.
The wind is swift and it hurts.
I made the connection one night, late when
intuitive leaps seem more acceptable and true.
The wind knifed you as you fell from a very long height,
a height no human could hope to survive.
I wondered who pushed you.

When you started coughing up blood,
I knew you’d be going home soon.
I didn’t know whether they’d let you in
and you probably didn’t either.
You didn’t seem any happier to leave,
at any rate. I thought I should ask you some questions.
I wanted to know about the swift wind that hurt.
I wanted to hear you say why you really disliked autumn.
I wanted to believe, wanted inalienable validation.
You died in autumn,
with little fanfare and absolutely no heavenly host
and my questions still unasked.
Who can believe in a story like that?

 

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Winter/ Spring 2017 Schedule

Monday, January 9th, 2017

With One Week left in Fan Voting,

we are pleased to announce our winter posting schedule,

beginning with two pieces expanding our

Voices of the Disenfranchised: Disability Narratives

 

Jan. 15th

Disability Gaming by Deborah Brannon

Jan. 22nd

Elegy for a Fallen Angle by Deborah Brannon

Jan 29th

White Clouds of Elation by Michael Marrotti

Feb. 5th

Little Desert Flower by Michael Lee Johnson

Feb. 12th

Solo Boxing by Michael Lee Johnson

Feb. 19th

Alberta Bound by Michael Lee Johnson

Feb. 26th

Hazy Arizona Sky by Michael Lee Johnson

March 5th

Lion in my Heart by Michael Lee Johnson

 

 

Thnx for surfing through,

and remember us next time.

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Sometimes We Are What We Seem, but Other Times We Are Something Else: the Vacancy

Sunday, January 1st, 2017

by Ingrid Jendrzejewski

The Vacancy

When I tell you I applied to be the moon, you just laugh. The moon? you ask. You have to be a little bit crazy to be the moon! I know, I say. I am, aren’t I? You raise your eyebrows and leave for work, a smile on your lips.

Personally, I think I am uniquely qualified for such a position. I spend my most conscientious hours awake at night, silently watching over our restless little one, my face peering down, full and sleepless, quiet and trenched. My dark arms wrap around her smallness: I am so close and part of her that she forgets I’m something different from the night itself. We hold ourselves in that wasteland between twilight and daybreak when nobody but the infants and troubled and death-sick and mothers are straining.

And then, after and before such vigils, I go about the day as if I am a different entity: I pack lunches. I sweep the porch. I peel oranges. I post birthday cards. In the dawn and dusk, I kiss you goodbye and hello. I am, otherwise, unseen; in the light of the day, my giant moon face shrivels until it is only the size of an average human head.

 

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