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3TV Presents: David P. Miller




– i’m going to throw myself in front of the train

paces platform far end erratic loops


you hear his vow first. and

– (mutter)

– nobody will help me out

– (stationmaster robot speaks) attention passengers. the next orange line train to forest hills. is now approaching

he verges the yellow strip

latina mom two little daughters

teenage after-schools at their little rectangles

skateboard flipped by a toe

he leans out. scouts the incoming line

you hear the car scoop its air channel

– attention passengers. the next orange line train to forest hills. is now arriving

retreats a couple feet backward

rocks his soles. arm pendulums fist weights

you are near his side now

tired men with dinner in mind

train ready to snap from arriving to arrived

put a hand on his chest

– don’t do it man

no flinch no resist no none of your business

– (mutter)

– nobody will help me out

eyes raised. fallen

a five in his hand

– thank you

on the car secluded seats

his elbows on knees. face in hands

two stops your exit

– take care of yourself sir

– (mutter)

– (mutter)

moist corneas

– thank you sir


David P. Miller’s poems have appeared in print in Meat for Tea, Stone Soup Presents, Ibbetson Street, and the 2014 Bagel Bards Anthology, and online in the Muddy River Poetry Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, and the Boston and Beyond Poetry Blog. His chapbook, The Afterimages, is forthcoming from Červená Barva Press. His has three “micro-chapbooks” available from the Origami Poems Project website. David was a member of the multidisciplinary Mobius Artists Group of Boston for 25 years, and is a librarian at Curry College in Milton, Mass. He studies with Tom Daley, and has been seen in the company of one or more of the Bagel Bards.


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Poem by David P. Miller

Double Concerto

Do your best to conceal yourself
in the handicapped stall end of the row
off come the pants and long underwear
the second pair of socks
then pants back on and boots laced up
because you’re only changing your clothes
here in Symphony Hall
two stalls away from somebody’s suit
half an hour before ignition
because it’s fifteen degrees
and you carry your day
in a bag on your back
your dress-in-layers
and zip-lock pharmacopoeia:
              cough drops, Tylenol
              and cold medicine Jimmy dropped in the mail slot
              as thanks for those long-term no-interest loans.

Now you and she are harmonized
carry-in bags stowed snug
beneath centenarian balcony chairs
pianissimo winds rise evanescent
almost beyond perception
just when two other music lovers
conclude their pre-concert prep
banging down steps, creaking seats,
de-loading their feet, shuffling their stuff
right in time to accompany
the ascending mist
of the double concerto.


Artwork © Allison Goldin
Artwork © Allison Goldin


David P. Miller’s poems have appeared in print in Meat for Tea, Stone Soup Presents and Durable Goods, and online in the Muddy River Poetry Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, and the Boston and Beyond Poetry Blog. Work is forthcoming in Ibbetson Street. His three “micro-chapbooks” are available from the Origami Poems Project website. His chapbook, The Afterimages, will be published by Červená Barva Press in Spring 2014. He is a semi-regular on the open mike at Stone Soup in Cambridge, visits with the Bagel Bards in Somerville, and studies with Tom Daley.

Allison Goldin is an artist living in Cambridge. Her work is a collection of spontaneous drawings from the imagination. The most common link throughout her art are the semi-recognizable creatures scattered amongst and bringing together the surrounding doodles. She is currently studying Illustration at The School of Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.


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Go JoeGO Go! Poems for José Gouveia, Day Eight: Elizabeth Hanson

Oddball Magazine will be publishing ongoing tributes to José Gouveia to in the hopes of raising awareness of the Joe Gouveia Recovery Fund, an effort to help offset the costs of the poet’s upcoming cancer surgery.


In the moment
For Jose Gouveia

The last line
Into your body
Who would
not recognize your voice ?
So many times
you have risen off
the ground
like a curl of ash like
A bird of prey
You feast on memories
You dine on their disbelief
You will not stay down
You will not roll over
Belly up Gutted No
You sing to them
of blood passing through
The wall of worlds
Passing through
The very foundry of life
Your soul you sew to your back as you drip sonnets of your pain
Into their waiting hands


Elizabeth Hanson is a member of The Bagel Bards. Her work most recently appears in their latest anthology and in Ibbetson Street. She has featured in venues that include Poetry: The Art of Words and the Plymouth annual Poetry Showcase.

Oddball Magazine will be publishing ongoing tributes to José Gouveia to in the hopes of raising awareness of the Joe Gouveia Recovery Fund, an effort to help offset the costs of the poet’s upcoming cancer surgery.

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Sometimes there are Things which come out of the Darkness by Timothy Gager

Grounded to the Moon Courtesy of Allie Gold © 2012

Sometimes you drive to the mountains where sometimes the leaves are turning. There is a girl in the mountains. She’s not actually in one of the mountains but she’s in a town in a mountainous area near the Berkshires. Sometimes she feels unsafe there and those are the sometimes you can’t drive there. It is three hours away. The drive is beautiful. There is a peaceful serenity combined with the anticipation of seeing her once more. You feel that there are angels in the heavens directing you to that small town, a town so rural that there are more horses than inhabitants. When she’s at the door, you watch an angel merge into her and you swear she has wings. If she could fly, she’d be out of this town.



Sometimes the only safe place for her is at the home she recently lived in. She never stopped loving the man there, who used to keep her safe. Sometimes she hated him; it was then she moved out to the place she grew up in. Sometimes she needs to get out that house, the one located mountainous town, as well. It is there her step father and mother make her feel that she can do no right. Sometimes they yell and sometimes it is worse. It’s like a bad smell you try to avoid. Three hours away is a place you can’t get to fast enough to save her. Sometimes you are frustrated that you have to plan trips. Sometimes you doubt that angels really have wings.


Sometimes when you plan it, you can pick her up and she stays with you. You sit and have coffee in your living room. Then you have dinners in softly lit restaurants. Sometimes the restaurant’s walls are maroon or plumb or other warm colors. The two of you make love when you get home. When you are done, you make love again. Sometimes it lasts three hours in which time everything goes away. When she gets up from bed, you smell the clothes she had been wearing. When she goes away, the smell disappears.


Sometimes there is a perfect object. A marble is a perfect object. An egg is a perfect object. When it cracks open you can still eat it. Thread that is woven makes sewn objects which can be perfect. Sometimes things look perfect and sometimes they fit perfectly. W.S. Merwin wrote something perfect. It’s not an object:


Your absence has gone through me

Like thread through a needle

Everything I do is stitched with its color.


Sometimes there are words about creating a more perfect union. You’ve both laughed about marriage; you’ve both thought never again. The girl in the mountains said, shoot me first. You really don’t want to do this. Sometimes things shouldn’t be joked about. Sometimes you wish you can make babies. You can’t make babies because that option has been eliminated, yet there is still hope after a vasectomy. Everything can be reversed, even something more simple like a nose-job. All they’d have to do is pull some skin and material from your hip or your ass and plop it on your face. For the other, there are medical tubes that can be implanted. You imagine that you can buy them at Auto-Zone. She says that she can buy a sperm sample that had been donated by a doctor or a lawyer. You assume all doctors or lawyers are smart. You know for a fact, there are stupid ones.



Sometimes things are perfect. The leaves in her town are perfect. People drive there from hours away to see their color. You drive as if there is a black curtain being dropped from high in the sky. The angels try to fly through it but they are knocked down with such a force the only place they can go is down. They flop on the earth like fish being pulled into a boat.


Sometimes your stomach flops the same way when you drop her back home. You kiss her again and again because once you pull away. the blackness that is that curtain will capture her. You fear once you pull away you will never see light again. Sometimes the angels perk up and slap these thoughts out of your skull with their wings. Sometimes you notice this when it happens, sometimes it just happens. Sometimes it never happens at all; like the times you forget to look to the mountains; or when you forget to listen for her voice in the wind. Sometimes the things that happen are lost. Like she is. Like you are. Like all perfect things sometimes are lost.

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The Giving Tree by Leah Barsanti

The Giving Tree

Eloise was a tree. She grew tall and strong and green feet

roots sprouted leg trunks sprouted branch body and branch arms sprouted leaf head and hair.

Eloise was a tree.

Morning Bird Courtesy of Bridget Galway © 2011

James was a woodpecker,

He visited her on Sundays when it didn’t rain and ate bugs off her skin and ran his feet through her hair-

They were cold but she didn’t mind,

But James was a woodpecker and birds fly south for the winter,

She couldn’t follow,

She had to remain true to her roots.

Eric was a squirrel,

He came to Eloise on weekdays that he didn’t spend in his girlfriend’s hole,

He burrowed into her and it hurt a little,

But he was warm and she was glad for the companionship,

But Eric was a squirrel

and eventually he went off in search of his nuts and she never saw him again.

Harold was a lumberjack and she fell for him,

Of course he was just using her for her body,

They all were, in the end.

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Across The Street by S. Major-Tingey

“The Blue Sphere” courtesy of Shabunawaz Photography © 2010 Shahnawaz Achhiwala

Across the Street

Surveyors measure and hammer pointed stakes into the land,
orange day-glow streamers wave in breezes circling the hill.
Men with machines cut down maples, pines and oaks,
dynamite bores into granite bedrock.

Giant yellow machines claw deep into the earth.
They carve a steep driveway that sweeps down to the blind corner.
They fill the lot with house, the most expensive residence in the neighborhood,
with double doors and a picture window that reflects light from a brass chandelier.

They bring in small Bobcats to push and pull dirt,
they hold land back with stonewalls and spiky, wide-spreading shrubs.
Neighbors wonder who would buy digs on such a challenging site,
for if one had the price, wouldn’t they prefer a better lot?

A family in search of The American Dream moved in,
one breadwinner with a job not known for big financial rewards.
The children help their parents plant bright yellow and orange flowers,
they water and rake, in winter they slide into the street on silver flying saucers.

Near the end of the following fall they pack their SUV and drive away.
No one knows where they have gone or if they will be back.
Months pass. No one comes to check on the house. No one knows who owns it.
It stands dormant through a cold New England winter.

Rain, sleet and snow come to the house that remains uninhabited and unattended.
In spring I glance across the street at metal window frames catching sun, in an odd way.
A curious, broken line shines from low window corners. They drip tears.
Window seals break and torrents of water flow.

Frozen pipes had burst, water filled the space and froze.
Spring melted the ice block and water surged.
Now the house is empty, mold is growing
and yellow tape still drapes the driveway.

© 2010 S. Major-Tingey