h o m e........

p a s t   i s s u e s....

s u b m i s s i o n s....

l i n k s

ANNA MARIA HONG

IO

Omikron to her Omega, Io

am I. From hollow to hello to grotto

to mondo, he followed. Then quicko, all moo

was I. She knew. For him, I was blotto.


Alack, now doomed to loop his gassy bongo

like some dumb bean—navy or cannelletto—

like one number in one bunkum bingo,

I get to fly the shoo in his falsetto


pie. Boo hoo hoo. I, too, can go commando.

I, too, can captain neo, serve up coolio,

assume the form of a loon. Lo! Not so lamo

as once ago like poor Cleo, all brio


and coo on the patio. I hoof my halo

like one swift bolo. I owe you.

EUROPA

Seduced by the obvious. Borne forth 

on a bunch of white bull too crass and flaw-

less to resist. A back like plunged surf.

A sun of terminal pump and paw.


All fatuous thought gone to one. The globe

reduced to glide and spun. The eye a ship

of tapped expanse. Eternity disrobed.

The bending of his blended bones. A grip


within my planted lunge. The inner pin

of infinite numb. Never thinking of home.

Obliterate elixir. Heat so thin.

And nothing outside the animalistic form.


The repeated rub of endless project.

The balance between us hung like logic.

I want to be stiff as a board, light as

a feather, driven like the snow. Hell is

a den of done cliché, but hey, no one

is hotter than Hades. Manor and man


are thick as a brick if you get my drift. 

They say that every curse contains a gift,

and sometimes they hit the nail on the head.

Believe it or not, I’ve been better off dead.


Life was a journey unpredictable as weather. 

I sprang from someone who hurt like a mother. 

The seed was smooth as silk and sweet as honey.

It made me feel filthy and rich as money.


The seed was my ticket to plummet. Each

to each, the fat lady sang for me.

DEMOGRAPH

Friends, Romans, countrymen, countryladies,

jinxed Jainists, born again Bahai, debunkers

of merit, people who do advanced Pilates,

exquisite corpses with two quarters, thunder


lovers, physicists with slipped discs, market

enthusiasts, professional complainers,

light nappers, philosophers of carrot/stick,

those who say, “I’m wearing new trainers,”


connoisseurs of pattern recognition,

dripping worshippers of the fog cult,

promise avoiders and renegers, men

who love a bony ass, the lame, the halt,


celibates with secret stocks of cash,

one-time receivers of the subtle flash.

THE GLASS AGE

Every age an age of glass: a slipper shoes

the foot, takes giant steps of tock and tick,

a cone blown, known gone, glass is fashioned, metal

spun to color, mineral made light,


and this is the last poem I will write.

Glass is sand is time falling loose,

a gap of glass is wrapping, a bottle

(    ) or swan (    ) of the human whose


hand will flip the glass, grabbing it

by the neck. Every time a nick.

And it is our glass to raise and smash.

A female silhouette, a shape, a vase


with two closed ends, one met. Two cones have kissed.

And the skin of our limit is glass.