Tuesday, July 29, 2008


PHEW. Try saying that 5 times fast. Oh wait, you don't have to. Because if a tree falls in the internet, no one hears it. Unless it's on youtube. But seriously rats and cats, here is who will be reading: Christine Hamm Sean Fraiser Russell Jaffe David K. Tamura Robert Voris also featuring introducer / host to tha starz, Becky Dewing! If you happen to be one of those readers, please bring no more than 5 (F I V E) poems to read, and please email a short bio of yourself. Why put this here where everyone can see it? BECAUSE WE HAVE ROOM FOR MORE! There were originally two more poets scheduled to read, but they have been forced to drop out due to the major stress of having to be on vacation. Therefore, if you read this and live in or around NYC and want to get MADE in WILLIAMSBURG, please contact me soon, as the list of readers in being finalized by our finalization-tron as we speak. It's a very expensive machine. Hope to hear from you and see you there! -Russell

Monday, July 28, 2008

Featured Poet: David McLean

"David McLean is Welsh though he has lived in Sweden since 1987. He has a couple of chapbooks out, one a free download at Whyvandalism.com. The other, in print, can be ordered at http://www.erbacce-press.com/#/davidmclean/4527659941. He has a full length poetry collection available at Whistling Shade Press called Cadaver's dance. It can be ordered on alibris.com or on amazon.com. A second book of 128 pp is coming from Erbacce-press in August, "pushing lemmings." There is a self-published book of 109 pages at Lulu called "eating your night" - http://www.lulu.com/content/2756039. There are 550 poems now in, or forthcoming, in round 250 magazines online and/or in print. Details are at his blog at htpp://mourningabortion.blogspot.com."

Aside from being our first international poet megastar (everyone else is just a regular megastar,) David McLean has a name eerily similar to Powerful Women of Wrestling / Women of Wrestling / Glorious Ladies of Wrestling promoter / schlock hawk David McLane. But enough about unimportant nonsense: we have a READING coming up on AUGUST 16, and POEMS RIGHT BELOW THIS PARAGRAPH!

god's mouth we go down on the absences, and it is their juice that waters us like passions and night's replete non-sense. the night is a body straining for the plenitude of being that is an incarnation, the meat itself seeks souls to fill it and holes in the darkness wherein to exist, a god's almost irresistible mouth to eat that being

a Kantian confession Kant's ghost sat on the sofa and admitted the deception, the ploy to pull the sheepish wool over moral eyes in “the form of a law in general," - whence the pious idea came he was clearly not saying - “we were all believers then, or pretended” - he said - a bit of specious reasoning was plain sailing

blades anxiety's rusty razor blades lie between the lids and the eyes, they are like dry dead flowers waiting to decorate that mourning decay, the blood just blackness glowering in the flowing veins - for our gods are flatulent old men today, they shall stand naked in their graves and misspell salvation on their feverish fingers, plucking the drugs from dead eyes, collecting fingers ears and nipples, greedy souvenirs of life. harmless cannibals these amateurish scavengers stand around us, vulgar as vultures, they count psychoses like dinner bells pealing, and wait for us, their well-dressed lunch, they are anonymous mostly though their names are plainly listed on midnight's insomniac ceiling - excuses are seldom sufficient reasons

of dwelling

we do not dwell here but

live, eat, fuck, shit, breathe

and all that crap, but dwell

on the earth here,

in the presence of missing

gods, we do not

fuck no!

i dwell in the instant

which distresses me

by constantly pissing

off, like a faintly scented


you can not dwell

there, if dwell was to remain

in place and abide,

just corpses do that -

we live in distances, absences,

and time

giving it all away and we gave everything away like memories absences and anxiously lingering fingerings. we donated it to a future or a past that was so ancient the very dust had deserted it, and sought better deaths and loves for the worms had tunneled us to a ferocious cannibal fiesta where god gnawed the knuckle bones grown clumsy as lust in reason's luscious skeleton tumbling through this sweaty nothing, a night and its appropriate fucking washed in vulgar vodka, skillfully stolen from tattered words unheard though geared to roll slow over the slimy waters god invented himself under drenched in a minute's oblivion or a devil's loveless cum the meaning and the reason sinking like a penis or a sweating sun (some cum thus undun)

Saturday, July 26, 2008

Introducing...ONSIE TWOSIES

This is the hottest new poetry form sweeping the editor's apartment. Join the Onesie Twosie wave. Here's how they work: A poem is done with a title, underlined, and one line under it. Thus, it's not clear whether it is a one or two line poem, because the function of the title is to elaborate on / juxtapose itself to the first line. Now that you have mastered this confusing form, please enjoy these Onesie Twosies by Russell Jaffe, editor of this site. Please feel free to send your own. OH YEAH. Before I get going, how could I have forgotten to drop another reminder about our *FABULOUS FIRST READING?* Why, it's just one post below this one. Middle class struggle I jammed the copier 5 times today. Plath Revisited Poem, Poem, Poem Freedom to: I've seen many women tattoo the names of their boyfriends and husbands on their arms. Had I realized I would have, still What my heart is: an apple. What my heart is: Variations of (a) skull. The source of it, myself, complaining by night. Candles: most of them blown out. Still a room. The herald of the atomic age my father, smiling, by his new DVD burner Conversations, etc. Uncertainties on an infinite loop. That man's beard wet galloshes Sexton would approve The poem! Oh, paternal poem. I'm building something. What is it? Manta Ray time: wings, shallow water, clouds Coney Island For it is beloved; it must be shut down. Odysseus Camped, looked out; ultimately was. Happy Birthday Becky! Though you ultimately deserve a good one. The Jellyfish No coast. No coast at all. Iron Skillet A floor made of wood. Moths think light bulbs are the moon destined for space, sky, boundless anyway These are Onesie Twosies done collaboratively with Becky Dewing. My favorite day at the ball game. Cats all around us Old age as threatening as my next birthday Cats all around us What'll we do?! An inconsequential act I have it in my head, but I don't know how to say it. Cats all around us at the ball game Whose turn is it? Our turn now. Our turn now: What's that guy doing tomorrow? Seduction of the innocent Photos of babies dressed in costumes. There, I noticed birds: they were chirping and they were- America's favorite pass-time: Growing old with cats. What my heart's made of: cotton candy, thumbtacks, coca-cola. Teresa says, "Don't give up." She's someone I know just ok. This is why I smiled: cats all around us. No water today. No lemonade ever. This is an important list: I'll never give in.

Thursday, July 24, 2008


An urban arts gallery that a close friend of mine (Jonathan Roberts, a musician, writer, artist of all trades sort...you'll meet him at the event) started a few months ago. He has held gallery shows, poetry readings, and concerts there.
698 Flushing Ave. #1F
(1 block from Flushing stop on JMZ, 2 from Flushing stop on G)
Brooklyn (E. Williamsburg/Bushwick)
Saturday, August 16.
7:00 PM
ADMISSION: $2. CHEAP! That's 2 measly bills away from being free.
Sean Lymon Frasier
Robert Voris
Niina Pollari
David K. Tamura
and yours truly, Russell Jaffe
Come, bring friends, bring family, and for the love of Thanos bring yourself.
-Russell Jaffe Editor in Chief

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Featured Poet: Linda Prussen

"Linda is inspired by the life and works of Sylvia Plath and Dorothy Parker.She believes poetry should be both beautiful and brutal; it is the presenceof one that helps us to recognize the other."
Linda is no stranger to online publishing, and has had poems appear in, to extract directly from her submission email, "Paper Wasp (print), Fresh (printand online), Simply Haiku (online), Word Riot (online), Spiral Bridge(online) and the Processing Unit (online)." I'm certain she and all readers know by now that this site publishes, period, regardless of other sources, but sharing is caring and caring is sweet. Flowery, also, I suppose.
She wanted to wave goodbye She looked back at Shelia Shelia with the stringy hair Crooked teeth And mismatched clothes She looked back at Shelia and remembered how In the fourth grade Shelia’s cool hand Felt comforting pressed upon her fevered forehead And how Shelia missed the class field trip to the zoo Along with her Just so she wouldn’t feel alone. She looked back at sophomore Shelia on the bus stop And her stomach started to ache She wanted to wave goodbye But she didn’t Because if she did the girls who were juniors The girls with driver’s licenses The girls that thought she was cool Even though she was only a sophomore like Shelia Wouldn’t understand She hoped Shelia would. She wondered if Shelia would wave If it was she sitting in the bright yellow jeep With the top down And the radio blasting And the boys staring And she knew the answer And that she made the wrong decision In the instant the jeep turned the corner And it was too late to wave anyway.
Just to say goodbye? How can you miss someone you met only once? How can you miss their smile? Their laugh? How quickly their laughter came, When you said something that you hoped was funny, Though it probably wasn’t. Putting you at an ease you never felt before. How can you miss their eyes? The way their eyes looked at you, Warm and welcoming with flashes of heat. Like a summer thunderstorm not yet broke. How can you miss the brush of their lips on your cheek? No stronger than a whisper, As unforgettable as your first kiss, But just a kiss goodbye.
Power Plays His eyes focus on her Warm rays of sunlight His focus wraps around her A flannel blanket Staving off the chill of isolation His interest illuminates her As a spotlight would In front of a million adoring fans Only they share the room Yet to her It is their red carpet Each ordinary day She glows Feeling safe, secure, special His kindness An addiction His eyes begin to wander Their absence Felt more strongly than their presence She darts about Trying in vain to catch a flash Of his brilliant and familiar gaze His seeming distraction Lets icy breezes Into their sanctuary He needn’t be angry, or cruel No need to raise a voice Or hand His malicious withdrawal of attention Less a vicious slap More a slow strangulation As what she has come to need Like oxygen Is slowly taken away Worse even than the total absence Of his attention Is the unrelenting fear of its loss The cold hollow feeling That settles in her chest A wind tunnel of uncertainty At her core A self-fulfilling prophecy Created by The teasing plays at affection Increasingly rare But always hinting at what could be And what could be taken away On a whim On his whim Gasping for breath She lashes out at him His calm and quiet A wall she is unable to shatter Her angry words and gestures Desperate attempts to reignite The fire that lit her life Placidly he states She is angry, unreasonable and needy But he knows The power is not in what’s given But in the taking away Of what one has come to rely on

Saturday, July 19, 2008

Featured Poet: Larry Terry

"I am a career Navy Veteran of over 18-years and am originally from a small town of about 70,000 people in Albany Georgia. I joined the Navy because I wanted to make a difference in the lives of others, and to learn different cultures. I come from a very large family of 9-children (5-sisters & 3-brothers). I don't claim to be an accomplished writer, but I write because I do it from the heart. I love sharing my ideas to an audience that can appreciate my points of view. In fact I have written my first novel, entitled "Looking Into The Eyes Of Evil". The freedom of speech is one of the greatest rights we have in the United States, and I think everyone should be heard, because everyone has something to offer." THAT is an OSFR bio. Bra-vo. Also, I want to note that Larry submitted under the nom-de-plume "San Diego Guy," which is also a good name.


On one very special day, my Mother brought me into this world; She only wished for a healthy baby, no matter if boy or girl. Learning so much from my upbringing, education was in session; I was taught life's twists & turns, I received so many lessons. In no time at all, I quickly sprouted up like a tree; I received the toughest discipline, because I needed to be the best I could be. When I completed my real life schooling, it was time to branch out on my own; I needed to take my life to the next level, I needed to prove I could make it and demonstrate what I was shown. It was no easy voyage, there were lots of bumps in the road; But remembering what I was taught, I took on some heavy loads. There were many many rough days and I may have been down, but I was never out; Figuring out and correcting my mistakes, now that's what it's all about. Never give up and never quit, that is the motto that I live; I may not immediately reach my goals, but my best step forward is what I give. Life is a big journey, and sometimes the trip can be a real drag; But one thing is for certain, I shall never raise the white flag.


Writing makes me feel happy and writing makes me feel free; When I pickup a pen and paper, expressing myself is all I like to be. Whether it be an article or a nice poem, when I focus, the words just seem to flow; It's like a time machine, going back in time, I just relax and let the thoughts go. Sometimes I like to write about happy times, but mostly I just like to write; The visions & memories that I write about, simply reminds me that life is alright. I can travel on a fantastic adventure, and I can venture through memory lane; As I visualize about creative journeys, I see a beautiful world that is still untamed. Escaping this crazy world, if even just for a short while; Feelings I haven't seen in a long time, not since I was a child. Oh what a wonderful feeling I have when I write, so many stories to share; It reminds me how good life can be, what others think, I really don't care. When I get lost in my words, I feel like I can conquer the world; Even if you think you can't write, just try it and give it a whirl.


It's the changing of seasons and here comes the snow;

No more birds are singing, I wonder where they all go.

I miss the butterflies and even the bees;

The grass is turning brown and there are no fruit in the trees.

The days are short and the nights are just too long;

I miss the sunshine, oh I wish the snow was all gone.

Going to miss the wind in my face, can't let my rag top down;

I love car drives, but until Summer, there is no cruising around town.

Oh it's a very frosty morning, I hate putting on gloves;

Wish I could wear my shorts, but I see a snow storm brewing above.

So much for a picnic in the park, I'll have to wait awhile;

Until Spring is in the air, the beaches will be deserted for miles.

Ice cycles on my window panes, the sight alone makes me shiver;

If I don't light up the furnace, a chilly night is what Winter will deliver.

Eggnog may be a good touch, but I rather be sipping on ice tea;

Cold weather doesn't appeal to me, year long summers are for me.

Until it’s Summer again, I will be inside by eight;

Just like the bears, Winter makes me want to hibernate.

Featured Poet: Christian Williams

"I do not prefer to speak of myself in third person. Christian

Thank you." Well, she doesn't have much to say in the way of a bio. BUT she has a *PHOTO*, and that's an added bonus! Oh yeah...and she has some poems. REMEMBER: It is not too late to sign up for the reading, which will be taking place August 8 or 9. Don't worry, don't worry...the official announcement is coming...enjoy these P O E M S.


Your lips, your heart speaks of kind.

You wish a wish of contentment: a friend would stay

around and talk of the day, maybe the weather and how

it is just right for a walk.

The lillies distictively cultivated to their taste, medicinal.

The characteristics of erect stalks and yellow common sunflowers.

We are growing.

I knock twice, a musical tone for the light hearted.

Would you like to go for a walk?


Gold. I know nothing of gold. I heard there was gold in California, but that was a long time ago. Mariah Carey has made Glitter since then, and my entire perception has changed. About California and gold. New York, now that is where the crazy people are. Makes me smile. Just walk along and you hear a toot. .. a lady you . Keep walking. A lady needs a drink, and some sex and she offers some of both. if I'm willing for love, if we can find it together. Live happily ever after, Of course I say yes. No, I'm kidding. But, I do politely thank her for the offer extended and keep on walking. I'm on mushrooms. I may be making all this all up. No. yes. This was a long time ago. I don't remember fully walking around the corner of sixth and something French and I hear, "Holy shit! Goddamn! Momma, it's Jesus Christ!", and he's serious. It was Jesus. It was Halloween and Jesus was riding a horse. He may have been a police officer. -He may have been a homosexual. I just wanted to be his friend, talk to him for awhile, ask him where he was from.

I Pray

I pray, and Angel's talk to me. I walk, and Angel's walk beside me. I speak, and God speaks through me. I listen and God knows, I am filled with gratitude, and God blesses me again.

Monday, July 14, 2008

Featured Poet: Michael J. Borey

"My name is Michael J. Borey. I am an undergraduate at Loyola University studying psychology and english. I'm a fan of your blog O Sweet Flowery Roses. I like your content, enthusiasm, and dedication to poetry. I run a literary blog myself including poetry, prose, book/movie reviews, etc @ http://flirting-words.blogspot.com/ Michael J.'s poems have been hiding in my inbox, waiting, crouched, for a leaping attack for some time now. But first: an update. Thanks to all those interested in the reading thus far! You will be receiving a schedule shortly, and it does appear that we will in fact use the space in Williamsburg. Can you smell the mellifluous eddy of hip? Battle at Bombay Pop

my eyelashes are admiring

the hazy reflection drizzle (by)

Bombay pop and bamboo fiddlesticks.

christs, fights, and latch-stick watchtowers.

kites, Roman Candle pipes, and neither bridge is


this row found hero’s cliff rolling

and cigar smoked hum-lightly


there are various starry assessments

to be carved by the

marrow-sharpened interludes

while the green soldier grips

pound grenades, treats the ground kindly,

and loosens the wooing moon.

Nihilistic glass elsewhere remix 2

Swing bike skin tight binge kite spinning and I don’t believe in the outcomes

that were made-- the eyes make shifts the little. Baked break parade for

dinner outloud over an orange candel service. wildebeests playing dice in

the alley, dice of eyes and tattered feet to back, barder and bargain,

reek of all trades. my dear and cratered caves made of cainborrowed bruise,

sage black plaques hide on the walls under plate-glass protective covers

singing for the rain to fall and me to once as drunk stumble over a pile of

rickwack wagons, and rain black or white searches for its twin only on

yesteryears, and leap years. Phantom pigeons In some vein are a hundred

merry-go-rounds. lideadale footprints aside from the moss fern outline

written closed by a distance circle, bulge at the business stressearners.

coyote sewn quilt of a father wed around the birthing stone

Nihilistic glass elsewhere spread the berry beads for the dog and cats

of the world.

Stanford Introduced

caught and wear

the axis knocked the fist full of silver butterfly wings watching from the mistglance moon

then signified before the ground like a truck running over a body

the halo from the venomcollar snake hammers on the bolts of white cloth and says,

“we all had to match at first…”

“…chanting with ink on our tongues when the wide world is resting”

the clocktower explains out and the wire in the walls finds that

loose lacestring bleeding foxblood around your neck like a

fin on the whim with the wing and the

halo sweats ahead and says,

“if I have to resist the tugboat in the water”

“you’re not going to solidify!”

we sit in the patch of dark yellow lakeside flowers in the treecove

and watch the trapeze wave performers misunderstand goodbye

the knotting in your head tugs the vacant blue cubes from the river

into the quick of the lance marrow

as in

the lance of the quakemarrow

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Be a part of the first ever O SWEET FLOWERY READING

That's right! If you live in or around New York City, join us in an awesome reading with poetry, robots, and flowers. Space is still a bit on the TBD side, but you can join in now by emailing me (osfrblog@gmail.com) and letting me know you are interested. Once I have a list of poets, I can determine timeframes for everyone and let you know the super cool space we have picked out. It will most likely be in Brooklyn. Please. Join the revolution. And check out the sweet banner I made to the right. I used Microsoft Paint. -Russell

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

Russell Jaffe reads "Every Spider is Useful and Necessary"

Please enjoy this video of myself reading a poem, "Every Spider is Useful and Necessary," at a party in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NYC, USA. From 6/27/08 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZHRcdeA-qaY