September 15-21, 2014: Grant Mason and Jonel Abellanosa

Grant Mason and Jonel Abellanosa

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Grant Mason
grantmas90@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

Grant Mason is an unemployed construction worker from South Dakota, though currently living in Denver, where he gawks in museums and pretends to be a handyman to pay the bills. He has been published in Nefarious Ballerina, Admit2, Chopper, and the Rapid City Journal.

The following work is Copyright © 2014, and owned by Grant Mason and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

untitled

I have got to stop passing out drunk with gum in my mouth..
I’m going to suffocate one of these days­­­-
wake up into utter darkness, choking,
my last moments confused and terrified,
helpless.

my room mates will find my body,
shake it,
slap my face,
call
the cops
or an ambulance.

yes, I think I would rather die in the sun,
slowly, so I’d have some time to think.
let the light bathe me, glorious as though in battle.
I would stare hideously, unflinchingly into the face of death.
rage! into the caverns of sadness,
memories, the weight of the brain
impaled on my spine;
raging into he night! hatred
until
slowly, slowly
accepting
death. . .

we would sit as friends across the chess board.
I would make my final move.
I would slip away.

 


Jonel Abellanosa
magbabalak@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

Jonel Abellanosa resides in Cebu City, the Philippines. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals, including Windhover, Poetry Quarterly, Star*Line, Fox Chase Review and Burning Word, recently in Pedestal Magazine and Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, and forthcoming in Anglican Theological Review and Mystic Nebula. His chapbook, Pictures of the Floating World, has been published by Kind of a Hurricane Press. He is working on his first full-length collection, Multiverse.

The following work is Copyright © 2014, and owned by Jonel Abellanosa and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Tablet

How does it draw the forefinger,
This tempter taking a bite off my heart,
Inviting me to touch, offering me
Candy Crush Saga, Pyramid Solitaire Saga?
My world regrows like skin. Hell conspired
With heaven to invent this mesmerist slab
Of digital colors, sharpest images, sounds,
Hypnotic slide shows. This new addiction
Predicts my responses, eyes me each second,
Snapshots to show it owns my memories.
I’ll have much to say to friends, I’ll belong,
Liked, listening to heavy metal and classical
Music as if my room were domed, its
Notes a pit for maturing poems hissing
For my devotion, my mind its plaything.


To the Ants

These leftovers for you,
Your patterned minutiae
Drawing me, Lilliputian
Structuring surrender
To instincts. Rely on my
Crumbs and magnify for me
Nature as self-multiplier.
The equivalent of miles from
Your kingdom: to save
You the climb up the table
I put these on the floor.
When I return for dinner
I expect to see no traces
Of your hardships
But feel our communion,
Morsels of our touch
Changed by parts of us
We leave in contact.
I’ll fill night’s pages with
Lyrics of our shared struggles.