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The Hunter

By Magdalen Powers

Poem

The wild animal
in our bed

always leaves
before dawn.

george.one.and.one.03


WHAT IS THE WORST LETTER IN THE ALPHABET?

Kardashian.


DADDY

By George Wallace

Poem

I am the hand grenade
your daddy should’ve
jumped on, back in ‘43,
to save his buddies,
the snipers nest in
Fallujah, I am the lost
platoon, the lost soldier

we are at home in half houses
we house the fatherless sons
we weave together our fingers
form baskets of veins filled with blood

when-

By Christine Tierney

Poem

this slow pace clings    i drag myself    to the dark underneath    of all beds.     goodbye acheybreaky     goodbye naptime leeches.    i am the saturated plum of dusk    and the plea to leave the last few ingredients out,     the cookie could give 2 shits    no rising    no butter.

SDAI P&A #1--Michael Klam at Mic
Hello.  I’m reporter Michael Klam, and it is my great pleasure to interview myself for The Nervous Breakdown.   I was told by the mighty Rich Ferguson to read the other self-interviews on TNB, but I didn’t.  My ego is far too big for that, cosmic big, not like the cosmos of yesterday (we are the only galaxy, etc.) but “Kepler huge” like the infinite cosmos with all of its bits of dust and muck that barely fit into the pinky toe of my self-awareness and enlightenment.

Woah, woah, woah! Hello? Editor Michael Klam checking in here:  Was that last sentence a run-on? Should I fix it? Should I consult Strunk and White? I don’t think it makes sense.

when speaking of reincarnation
nobody ever says
“I want to be a Chihuahua”
but what if you found out that Chihuahuas tremble
because they are in a constant state of orgasm?

if you are a nymphomaniac or an addict
you might think twice about this

Autobiography in ten words.

Brawled my way into the world. Survive is my language.

You firestar. Pool of moonburst.
You turned my skin to dust. Rawblade glasstooth girl.
With your hot rage and bus ticket anywhere.
Never saw a woman run so many directions at once.
One night, you shined so bright the police came to watch.
Your bruises and shirt-shreds. How we all just stood there,
watching you shimmer. Afraid to flinch, for a faceful of claw.
You are some kind of firework. Flipswitch blues.
Broken Sundays spent towing the boulders out of you.
The Brooklyn 3am’s, frenzied as an upturned autobahn.

IMG_4080ec

What’s the strangest place you’ve ever written a poem?

In a Porta-Potty at Oktoberfest in Munich, Germany, drunk off my ass on the first beer I’d ever imbibed. The poem didn’t make it past the cutting room floor for my first book, but that feeling of MUST WRITE A POEM NOW before I’d even really started identifying as a poet (I still thought of myself as a fiction writer, ha!) was exhilarating. Though the beer probably contributed to that.

Desperate men do not make patient women.

This town, these years, always living on the edge of something.

Disease, drought, revival, recession.

The woods are musky, dark, but give way softly to water.

Fish and stags float when shot dead.

One year there was no rain; the next, rivers overflowed.

Not a hell mouth or hydrophobic, but even the air here is tainted.

The ice never quite crusts over, babies are left untended, crops go missing.

My wife won’t quit visiting whores.

Song

By Anton Yakovlev

Poem

I will move into a dream home to enhance my image.
I will furnish it with an elephant, build an extra loft and a hearth.
After I shop, the coziness aisle in the department store will be empty.
But at night, I will dream that we’ve never properly said goodbye.

I will put a stuffed bear in a microwave, make him toasty
and hold him to my heart, imagining his affection.
I will floor passersby with space-age flower shows in my windows.
But at night, I will dream that we’ve never properly said goodbye.

jericho_5

In your most recent collection, The New Testament, you wrote in one of your poems, “Hustle”: “I eat with humans who think any book full of black characters is about race.” Overall, your work seems to revolve around issues of sexuality, love, violence, masculinity, family, spirituality, mortality, and race (among other things, of course). When someone attempts to categorize you exclusively as a “homosexual” or a “gym rat” or a “Southern black man” or a “’religious’ poet,” etc (while misrepresenting or failing to acknowledge the other parts of your identity), how do you resist such curtailment or oversimplification of your identity? 

Well, I don’t exactly “resist” any identifiers because I don’t automatically think of it as “curtailment” or “oversimplification.”  So yes, the parenthetical phase in your question is of utmost importance.

You come with a little
Black string tied
Around your tongue,
Knotted to remind
Where you came from
And why you left
Behind photographs
Of people whose
Names need no
Pronouncing. How

Your signature scent is the apple pie
Yankee Candle on the toilet in your grandmother’s
powder room in La Jolla, which I light
just after I finally shit for the first time in a week
full of casseroles, cobbs and clubs, plus
the hours of sitting in your grandfather’s Lincoln
driving through desert hills decked out in
ranch-style manses, old money, oil and gold,
a wheeling and dealing history as he tells it,
feeling something acidic push up in my throat
as we cruise and swerve through what should be just desert.