Thursday, November 19, 2009

New Prose Poems from John Olson!

President Taft Presses A Telegraph Key

Let us consider President Taft. He sits, a large man with a walrus mustache, pondering a gold telegraph key. He cracks his knuckles. He leans forward. He presses the key. A surge of electricity travels through thousands of miles of wire to the west, across mountains and prairies and rivers and mills, factories and forests and bridges and trains, to put the Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition into motion.
Mounted on a slope of picturesque Seattle commons, punctuated with towering firs and palatial exhibits, a huge gong strikes five times, an enormous American flag unfurls from a high scaffold, and Japanese and American fleets in Elliott Bay boom their tributes. Volumes of smoke drift over the water as the reports from the cannons resound in monumental concussions thrilling the crowd of people gathered for the opening of the fair into eruptions of unbridled joy.
The famous Bicket family performs at the foot of the Pay Streak and later there is a shoe contest. Everyone removes their shoes and puts them in a barrel. The barrel is placed in the center of a large open field. At the sound of a whistle everyone rushes out to the barrel to find their shoes. The winner must have his or her shoes laced throughout, and must stand at attention.
Calista Leach, the first American woman to visit Alaska, heads straight to the Alaska exhibit. Eight Inuit men join hands and begin circling to the left, chanting and leaping into the air, notwithstanding their heavy Oxfords.
Gas balloons carry toy flags over the crowd.
The Navy band plays Sousa marches.
There is a tug of war and a relay race and an exhibition drill by a company of blue jackets.
Beautiful snow white carrara marble statuary ornaments the entrance of the Oriental Building where there are displays of coral, cut silver, and Roman pearls.
Strains of music pours from the D.S. Johnston Company’s Krell Autogrand upright player piano housed in the spacious Manufacturer’s Building.
Bud Mars makes his first ascension in a big dirigible balloon and circles the grounds while Princess Lala dances the barn dance with writhing reptiles in the Turkish Village.
Curtains are drawn on The Baby Incubator Exhibit, housed in a two-story neoclassical pavilion with Ionic columns and ornamental pilasters, between the Temple of Palmistry and the Gold Camps of Alaska.
Shouts and laughter come from the Fairy Gorge Tickler.
The Theater of Sensations opens its doors.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

New! Three Poems from Thomas Gibney!

Thomas Gibney is a twenty-three year old poet from Nashville, Tennessee. His chapbook, Poems You Read Out Loud, was published by Scantily Clad Press. His poems have also appeared at,, and you say. say, an anthology published by Uphook Press.

What You Are

It’s no surprise—what you are is not ruthless, not self-righteous or even selfish at times. What is there to expect from you. What’s wrong with you is you can’t savor jealousy, you cannot dream, wish, exert force or motion. You can’t go to bed with your pride. At times I wonder what country could have raised you. You can’t even love your own vices. Look, do you need some help? Do we really have to go over this again? You can’t just be unyielding, can you? What’s wrong with you is you’re not fit for this day in age. You’re not crass. You’re not manic or pretentious either. What does it matter?—it’s neither here nor there. It’s you and your chronic lack of baggage. You’re incapable of scorn. You refuse insensitivity. You don’t belong to either one. Can’t you just choose a side? You’re not the only one in the room, okay. You can’t just acquiesce to vengeance. To egoness, to helplessness. To the profane imp that surely gnaws inside you. But what do you do? Not a thing. You don’t live like your fangs depended on it. You won’t even take the money. Do you need some incentive from me? Are your wires crossed? What’s wrong with you?


Old School

Para que la tomen en lugar. There are so many seeds on which to count. The belch which had led to a vomit. The omelet held a sinister glare inside it. Bees’ puddles. Bees’ puddles on which the roaches. The monument’s shadow. The grave carving. The grave, grave carving. But here, just these miniature stilts in the washed fluorescence. A wobbling giant. Roots, tiny filaments in the ears. The brilliant fist of moon. The beer fountain flows with such sincerity like you’ve never, I mean you’ve never. The guard in his circus-issue leotard is calling. That pile of crushed beer cans is not necessary, sir. The catatonic light above the stable. The moon. The tiny filaments, I mean. Who here can tell us which is the punch and which is the yak. And that giant dwarf lumbering… the payphone is ringing…



What happens is we forget,

so when you get happy and I get happy

and we all get drunk and cry a bit

the world feels normal again, we’re back on our heads.

Understand that poetry is a chemical

imbalance, clouds seem more auspicious,

even the last light kneeled before your face

betrays a subtle persistence,

I know tomorrow it’ll hurt but my liver has clever

ways of chewing around the nasty parts.

Only the silt remains.

The sludge in my head is an agile green,

essentially tonal in nature,

prone to ecstatic fits of what.

To regulate. To regulate. To regulate.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Submission Guidelines

All submissions should be sent to

Please include a brief cover letter and a list of prior publications and other relevant accomplishments.

Poetry: up to 5 poems
Fiction: up to 15 pages
Non-fiction/Album&Book reviews: up to 6 pages
Photography, Painting, Video, Music: Send what you will!

Submissions will be accepted until December 1, 2009, and will re-open in February 2010.

You will be notified within two weeks if you have been accepted, and your work will appear shortly after that. We accept simultaneous submissions, with notification upon acceptance elsewhere.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Welcome to Meadow Wobbler

Welcome to The Meadow Wobbler, an online magazine dedicated to exposing the most authentic poetry, music, and art to an otherwise inauthentic universe.

Submission guidelines will be posted in the next few weeks, if not days. In the meantime, send any inquiries to

Thanks for tuning in.