fourth grade

I didn’t care that
Boy George
Looked like a girl
I wasn’t entirely sure
What a fag was
I just knew
That if I was a
Chameleon,

I’d come and go
I’d come and go


daniel romo (Grants Pass, OR, 1973)

snail in the rat trap

waited by the false ringing of some aluminum ears
played trombone with feet of porcelain
made tongue stroke many glasses
half asses played with little hand of clock
clicked back with chin straps and softening voices
believing was a fantasy meant
and a precious
looked

arriving in pickup truck black
bed emptied bottles, vacant memories
asking to be holy, as the white fly flits by right nostril
do I breathe like a rhinoceros
and you question me with words unanswered

how quaint it is to lie in this dim august light
how strange it is to pluck your selfish quaint moral
should I have not told a honey blossom lie
would a barbed wire hand adjunct pleasantly

she waves tears like molten fingers
rake my grave down by the lake
and place the ocean as some false sacrilege at sodden feet
words look like ketchup up a swollen asshole

warnings rave as steel fences beside punk police forces
dressed up nineties child feigning eighties indulgence in
a overindulgent sanctioned Americana landslide
I slide tongue deep up your inner thigh
passing curtain sheet willow tree
waving wet finger at the blower standing simple
clocking hours like a significant crime
raise flags with weeping shackled mourners
placating performers wait for the queen
yet the king stands hearty with a silver staff
a lie with a mirror for doubled eyes


matthew wedlock (Taunton, MA, 1984)

The Yale Series of Younger Poets, 2010 Competition

As from today, The Yale Series of Younger Poets is accepting submissions for the 2010 Competition. So yes, it is that time of the year again for young American poets out there to stop thinking about it and actually submit their best work for consideration at the oldest annual literary award in the United States, also one of the most prestigious given to new American poets.

Entries must be postmarked no earlier than October 1, 2009 and no later than November 15, 2009. The competition is open to any American citizen under forty years of age who has not published a book of poetry. Only one manuscript may be submitted each year, but manuscripts submitted in previous years may be resubmitted. Read the full competition rules here.

Postmark deadline: November 15, 2009

Entry fee: $15.00

Prize: Winning manuscript is published in the Yale Series of Younger Poets, author receives royalties when the book is published


Further reading:

The Yale Series of Younger Poets

Yale University Press

average household

now calling all residents
to join the main dining room
for a special evening
and celebration

we are now officialy plummeting
into the depths of financial hell
surely we must have become
an average household

this is what's left
out of our well-off existence:
bankruptcy
and foreclosure

we will feast in unpaid bills
mom will pawn her latest tiffany's
silver acquisitions
and buy frozen burgers at the latino grocery

me, what am i expected to do?
surrender hope
beg for freedom
turn into melting ice


emily thompson (New York, NY, 1990)

lazy, procrastinating young poets

we want your submissions!

read our guidelines here


and your comments, too!

share, exchange and debate in the comments area for each post.


Young American Poets
A blog devoted to poetry and short stories

texting in tears

I cut my hair real short just because I had to
If I wanted to do this factory thing
So now they can come and probe my poverty
With their golden cane and useless forms

And all I care about is a neverending commute
Lags between dead zones when you try reaching out in 64 characters
Friends get married even when they can't afford it
I lament not being able to buy the things I want

Forever scared at the idea of child rearing
Puddle hopping on a sunny winter day
Reality check by the minute, absolut divorce between
Expectations and the financial roller coaster of low income

An expert scissor toting discount coupon scanner
Scalping tickets, pawning grandmother's earrings yet losing money
A closeted angry, frustrated being
Not a person anymore but an employee

can't talk right now
call me later, will you?


molly church (Washington, DC, 1979)

you and me

I stood in line at 7-Eleven
after my nightly workout
to buy a quart of milk,
because osteoporosis isn't sexy.
And because I still believe
somehow,
it will do my thirty-something year-old body
some good.

Carefree college dude in front of me,
whose mondo snug tee
said I ♥ MILFS,
and barely covered
his corpulent Heineken-bolstered belly,
asked the cliché Calcutta clerk
if he could get him
an obscure brand of cigarettes;
the clerk had to be
guided three times
before he got it right.

"Dhis one?"
"Dhis one?"
"Dhis one?"

I walked out,
envying frat boy and his life,
remembering when…
guzzling my milk.

Carefree college dude
sat down on his beach cruiser,
coolly tapping his sandal to the ground
puffing away
looking up at stars
that weren't there.

I chugged quickly,
staring at him until he looked at me,
Shaking his head in dismay as if to say,
"Hey. My life's not any easier Bro..."


daniel romo (Grants Pass, OR, 1973)