all it’s many flaws

i hate that my jaunt
home from work
is in the
darkness
i like the hours,
but not the creepy men
who sometimes
are drawn to me like a moth
to the light;
and i’ve double backed,
walked slower,
and taken different ways
home
to shrug people off
but it’s exhausting always being
on the look out
it’s tiring always having to think
of the worst case scenario—
they insist that there’s
no such thing as rape culture,
but if that were true
i wouldn’t be holding onto my keys
like a weapon
every time i leave my house;
don’t give me your ignorance or your perspective
give me a change so i can believe that
“not all men” are truly accepting
of our culture as is,
and all it’s many flaws.

eyes that never see

i saw a white moon
folded backward
origami
in a hazy blue sky
folded over
a peach lily
caught by the beauty
i gave pause
from my mundane task at work
of taking the trash out,
and i looked around to see
if anyone else
was dazzled by this beauty;
but none of them even noticed
some are given eyes
with which they never see
others have lost their sight and they
can see—
always rushing by
going nowhere fast
i cannot help but wonder
how some people, like me, are given eyes
to witness;
and others eyes that never see.

i wasn’t brave

the cigarette smoke
was dancing
in the air,
and she sat there all
charisma and elegance;
and i envied and admired it
both at once—
i remember the apple tini
with it’s carmel draped across
the top like a gauzy shawl
it was delicious,
and i closed my eyes
before opening them again
to drink everything in;
i remember she was wearing
the black beret and had made her
eyes cat eyes
with that liquid
eye-liner
that i’ve never mastered—
i think that was the moment i knew
that i had fallen for her,
but i was never brave enough to say
it out loud;
especially not to her,
and definitely not to me.

step on a crack, break you own back

i wasn’t paying attention
lost in a thought
i tripped over the crack in the sidewalk
flew forward several feet,
but managed
somehow to keep my footing;
i am good at not
falling
sometimes
in a way that i don’t know if it’s a talent
or just dumb luck
too mute to tell me a thing—
i scold myself
to be more careful,
but i doubt it’ll be the last time
it happens;
my mind is a curious thing always slipping away
from what they tell me is reality
pushing me forward
when they want to push me backward—
right now i’m paying attention,
but later
i may trip over that same crack again;
and this time i may curse
those who made the sidewalk for making it
so tricky
when it should be a perfect shade of straight
instead of curved, irregular
and able to trip over.

addicted to both

shooting star
makes me pause
everything
is noticed
for a reason
either to rescind from chaos
or descend into it,
and i am always good at reaching
my fingers into the cosmic
cookie jar;
what can i say?
i’ve always liked cookies
a trait that
my mother gave me,
and i used to be better at self-control,
but sometimes it tastes too good
to stop;
i would rather be addicted to
the soft goodness
of a chocolate chip cookie
than the body of a man who doesn’t reciprocate
my love
as it so happens
i am addicted to both.

some days his name still hurts

my skin was the equator
his the north pole
i guess i should’ve known
the coldness of his death
would never inhabit
any bones
especially not the firey
song of love,
but when you care for someone
as deeply as i did;
you disrobe from any fabric of logic
start reaching for straws
your fingers are never long enough
to reach
pray the gilded cage is something more
than a pretty lie
even though it can’t be—
and when he finally leaves you,
you ugly cry
like a sky full of gray clouds
christening the ground with silver pearls;
you wonder how you wandered
on the knives of his lust
without realizing it wasn’t love, blaming
yourself for a broken heart
until you wise up
when he does the exact same thing;
then you become all fire and fury
passionately defensive wanting to knock
all his teeth down his throat
until one day you wake up and the pain is gone
although some days his name still hurts.

Inky Interview: Pennsylvanian Native Author Linda M. Crate

I’m in a swamp of toxins
in the American South
Somewhere through water lies Panama
Somewhere through water lies
Europe

where East German
and Bulgarian swimmers
fill their bodies with steroids
and threaten to overthrow me

I’m on the medal stand
and won’t get off
Brutal men will have to drag me off

I am golden
forever golden

Inky Interview: Author Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois from Denver, Colorado

Flash In The Pantry: Serotonin Reuptake by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Mandela Warp: A Moment in History by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Cooking Shows by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Still Wet by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

At McDonald’s, where sweet poisons
Lure you through dead garish lips,
Different jolts, different shades outside:
Some say ‘God’s hands’, some ‘springs of dark’
But we don’t bother, no time to waste
Over difference or metaphysics
For we thrive among probs, cads,
Mist, bikes, fatsoes, even a dirty blonde
Who had her trees deported from beds to beds,
Oh and look, do you remember the handyman
Who shouted no and got slain, how sad!
But the silence of the trees stayed with us,
That and the grudge against moves and peeves –
O trees, my dear trees, if I ever remind our life
I can’t bad-mouth you, my narcissistic trees,
Although you bend too much to pat the river,
Although still waters are your private looking glass,
You never play dirty when darkness skips
The hands I’m stretching out
So I’ll leave you alone and darkness I’ll exile
To those cathedrals where natural born raptors
Look ready to christen him in bliss and water –
Now you shut up, I know they’re different,
Love kicking and breathing,
Life a palsied ghost eager to scaring
Or eating up blue funk:
A loving child taught me so on a wintry day,
I got it fast, that’s why the raptors
Can’t grab me, so please don’t fret,
Let them smile sweet, let Mummy say
‘Know what? We call it life’ –
Life that restless bite?
Funny while running back I feel for them
My raptors that can’t bite,
I mean, honest, I grasp the difference
But they can’t, such crying shame –
Oh, and beware all that green getting so fast to your head,
My dear darling trees.

Inky Interview Special: Italian Poet Gabriella Garofalo

Poetry Drawer: Asymmetry At Full Blast by Gabriella Garofalo

Poetry Drawer: And All Of Them: To A.S.J. by Gabriella Garofalo

On The Tides Of The New

Draped in dull glow of a pale sky
the city awakens to its own rhythm;
Metro rail snaking its tortuous way to
ease flow of life in a paradigm.
Distances dissolve; brows no more wet
with sweat for one to dig his shack;
Gone was the sea lore when a voyageur
took years to anchor his bark.
And too weary to revel in his triumph.
Now beyond home lurk the avenues
on the arc of change; tech wizardry
unwinding windows to aspiring millions.
No romancing the sky, black or blue.
Earth is borne on the tides of the New.

My Tryst With Squirrel

I watched the spry squirrel
scamper away hearing
my footfall; Its ear turned
to even slight dissonance of
sound and it rushed to guard
Its nest; a fretful companion,
content to feed its
squealing offsprings, also
hearkening to my short fuse.

Its energy was unfailing;
it would sweep to the
terrace to grab any morsel
It could feed; the red stripes
on its back, caressed by a mythical
Lord kept egging it on
perhaps; It knew when
the windows would
drop down at night to squeeze
inside for a nap in its niche;
Its squealing heralded
the dawn of dawn too.
Nudging me to open
the window to the trove
of morning breeze flowing in;
And it would rush out.

Wonder what is its missive?
“Wake up Man, it’s time.”

Superannuation

When the destined place of arrival closes in
a leaf of memory throbs with the long
memento of landmarks reached and missed.
Let missed calls die out in the log.

Regrets ever remain in unused folders,
pop up to be trashed into the bog;
Monsoon flies buzzing around the bulb.

On the winding path skirt the shrubs,
breathe the fragrance of fresh blossoms.
Things lost or denied count less than
trees flitting across the train’s window.

Spinning on its thumb the earth has seen
the revolving ends of despair and hope.
On the orb of this rolling circus?

K.S.Subramanian has published two volumes of verse: Ragpickers and Treading on Gnarled Sand through the Writers’ Workshop, Kolkata, India. His short stories have appeared in indianruminations.com, setumag.com, indianreview.in, Tuck magazine and museindia.com.

Arrest this lament
this false flag of endeavor
parachute of the midnight aplomb
splendor soils christened by an exorama
defouled by a parasite cancel
who are you in the liturgy of night?
nameless index
of heathen imperial purple
no margin, no reprieve
augur of ceremonial reimagining
of unnoticed thoughts
searing in erasure
murmur of accidental day
a chastised saucerful of secrets
eviscerator heaven on call

Inky Interview Exclusive: Rus Khomutoff, a Neo-Surrealist Poet From Brooklyn

Poetry Drawer: Prisoner of Infinity: To Felino A. Soriano by Rus Khomutoff

Poetry Drawer: Sonic Threshold of the Sacred: To William Carlos Williams: by Rus Khomutoff

Inkphrastica: Song of Freedom Oasis by Rus Khomutoff (Words) & Now That’s What I Call Blue by Mark Sheeky (Oil Painting)

Poetry Drawer: Four Poems by Rus Khomutoff

In search of a morally uni-vocal answer
There is either right or wrong,
No tertium quid, no equivocity

Seek for the truth,
and meet with scandals and horrors
in multivocal clamor

You do not need bombs and bullets
to hush people’s gums and blur the truth
Terror can be masqueraded as substantive laws

Superpowerism as a promotion
of global movement for democracy
A regression of freedom into monarchical dictatorship.

If plongeurs thought at all,
they would long ago have gone on strike
Eric Arthur Blair mutters over his Chardonnay

The truth is diluted like wine
the sheeple are thrown into a quagmire
“Liberty is telling people what they do not want to hear”

Inky Articles: A Spotlight on Miltos Sachtouris: by Sofia Kioroglou

Cathy Across the Table

My best friend scoots
into the restaurant bundled
against cold spring air. We search
the chalk board and waitin’ line. We
should get a cupcake to
mark the occasion, she says, about
to move 300 miles south
of the Arctic Circle. We toast
our friendship with bowls
of lentil soup, her eyes
sparkle with girlhood
surprise at our window table when I hand
her an afghan I crocheted to warm
Alaskan nights. April showers
pound the glass calling
up our sunlit kayak trip that ended
rain-swamped and overturned. We laugh
and slurp our memories. I want
to make this last and sidestep
good-byes. Tomorrow, Cathy
will leave and despite
promises, our connection will
cease in a relationship
void of commitment.

Lesson Learned

Below a window-framed parking
lot, beside a cushioned time-out
chair, a gray bucket hosts
rock weapons. Six-year olds,
desperate for food, fresh air, try
to stare the classroom clock
into warp

speed. Ms Thompson
hoists the rock bucket
onto her desk, holds
forth active shooter defense strategy. Suzy

reaches for the teddy
bear hidden in her desk, while Jeremy
sucks his thumb and Nicholas imagines finger
painting his rock, before Jane says, My
Mommy won’t let me throw rocks. The lunch bell rings.

Jeremy grabs the newly
vacant swing, as an older boy
pushes him aside, to climb
skyward. Jeremy
fires a rock at the blonde
airborne head.

Decency

In a cobwebbed corner of my mind, it hides before
stepping out in top hat and tails
for a carriage ride across the city, proceeds
to the homeless,
documented
on the Society Page, it

dons a pink
tee-shirt, race number, raising
cash for breast cancer, finishing
time splashed
across Facebook. It

donates to a wildlife society, covets
polar bear gift socks under
my slippers. In

the forefront of my mind, it
sometimes dances, in silent satisfaction
helping a neighbour with
trash, listening to
a co-worker, making
an afghan for a homeless woman.

Inky Interview Special: Poet Karen Wolf from Bowling Green, Ohio

Poetry Drawer: Who She is Not by Karen Wolf

Poetry Drawer: Claustrophobia by Karen Wolf

Tumbling south, swifts and swallows blur the sky
with their numbers; geese wedge their sonorous way
toward longer days before the first frost falls,
each driven or led by a urge sensed
and accepted beyond our comprehension.
But the heron overhead, alone except
for the patch of dawn it carries on its back,
decides each day which pond or beaver bog,
which river bank to haunt–a compass rose
of courses to choose from with each sunrise,
and no flock to follow, or shift in seasons
to shoulder this daily decision we share–
necessity’s mundane miracle
of industry and resolution.