Caper's Poets

Tombstone Warrior — Erica Onda

You must fight

Fight fight,

Against those

Who would kill your soul gladly,

Who find delight

In the death of your self

Those whose soul is a void-

They are a walking shell of a body

They need to kill your soul

So they are not the only dead ones,

But you are full of life (you must remember)


sur ton pierre tombale: vous êtes signifié pendant la vie

Stand tall

Remember yourself,

The divine soul

That you are.


Filed under: Erica Onda, Issue 2


Someone asks me why I cannot breathe,
they say my face is red,
usted mira todos rojos
and I tell them that
it all started to feel like a coffin
sometime last February

Cannot shake it, no?
I say no, no I cannot.
I do not mean to sound
rude, no, but
I have skeletons at my back
who are begging to finally sleep.

My mother weeps and
cleans the house with
my tears.

Filed under: Issue 2, Lisa Marie Basile

Waves Away Waving to Us, But to No Promising Avail — Richard Anthony Phelps

The shoreline is the most honest edge,
its messages written innocently by children and lovers,
cruelly washed away by the incessant insistence
of the calming, coming wave.

The calming, coming wave,
running feet from feet away, trickling down and calming
as it comes closer to us, to we–the naive–ignorantly caressing
those massaged messages of ours smoothly away.

And as we walk into wading,
waiting to die with rocks in our pockets,
we think of only “why?” and so end the poem one expected line short.

Filed under: Issue 2, Richard Anthony Phelps

In The Dunes — Ray Sharp

2 a.m., 2-below, bivouacked downstairs

under the south window, adrift

in the dunes with Port and Kit.

We’re bouncing in the back of the truck

from El Ga’a to Sbâ , sirocco blown grains

of snow, typhoid fever death chill gale –

only one of us will return.

Down, down the deep well of night

paralyzed by the thought that

the sky hides the night behind it,

shelters the person beneath

from the horror that lies above.

Consulting Madame La Hiff’s Gypsy Dream Dictionary

waiting for a sign in the indolent heat.

Later – has it been minutes or weeks?

– the full moon breaks through the ground blizzard

like a midday Sahara sun.  I wish I were

on the terrace of the Café d’Eckmühl-Noiseux

under the awning a-flap in the soft evening breeze

reading the maps, or on the surface of the immaculate moon

aloft in the center of the sheltering sky.

Filed under: Issue 2, Ray Sharp

Rosalita (some thoughts at Granny’s Funeral) — Kenneth Karrer

Granny never liked Rosalita.

She did not like the jet-black,

Shining hair or

Those beautiful flowing tresses

Covering the entire back of

Her pastel quincenera dresses.

“Vulgar little girl,” she’d seethe.

So imagine how she loathed the day

When I’d learned enough

Spanish to say,

“That girl”

was mi chica especial …mi carina.

And how she frowned when I said

Rosalita was like the water for my


Que lastima!

To Granny, brown sugar was coarse stuff…

Unrefined. And “Mexican”

Sounded like something dirty

In her mouth.

So imagine my surprise when

I heard from Auntie Dee that she had spent some

Summers in her younger years

“Down South,” and that the

Dallas Ladies Club had

Once chastised her for

Being too friendly with


Her gardener.

Lo percaron en las tunas,

Con las manas coloradas.*

(* They caught her in the prickly pear patch with her hands all red.)

Filed under: Issue 2, Kenneth Karrer

Breakfast at Neruda’s — Kenneth Karrer

Your wetness dripped down

my chin


bee dulce

honeyed, warmed

from my favorite



by baby powdered


You let me


mi sancha.

I just love to

move up

to your table.


Filed under: Issue 2, Kenneth Karrer

Leaving Where You Came To Me — Mariette Papic

Toni is in Mexico
Selin in Turkey
Neal is leaving for Buenos Aires
things didn’t work out in L.A.
Lands of Destination
Homes once forgotten
New York is less than a vacation
a thumbed over arts publication
prints left behind for all to see
what you saw
when you could still see me
Lovely is the hair,
curls around your ear
in the humidity
Thin was the light
when late you would hold me
the loft of your gaze
shot by the cries
of busying life,
of songs
and lines

Filed under: Issue 2, Mariette Papic

Poetry by Jomo Chiteji

Earth and heaven inverted


It was there,

in a raindrop on the window,

the apocalypse and the world’s

first row


Filed under: Issue 2, Jomo Chiteji

Poetry by Jomo Chiteji

God shimmers in the window

in the room in my wine

We both rue,

Here I am, aquiver at your lips,

and a mere play of light

has you


Mere play of light

Filed under: Issue 2, Jomo Chiteji

Dancing With Those Whom Don’t Dance Back — Roberto Beltran

She hates me now, and she hated the only time I
fucked her up the ass.
But she’ll ask for it, letting each man do that first
until finally she’ll love it.
I can still only masturbate to her.
Masturbating with a broken heart.
Using the tears as lube.
I cry now because I never punched her in the face.
I cry now because I’m not brave enough to punch
myself in the face, but I have found the guts to
shoot myself in the mouth through a bottle of whiskey.
And now I have glass in my eye.

Filed under: Issue 2, Roberto Beltran

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