(no) one is leaving
by Ryan C. Pirosch

i wept once (only once -)

for the tragedy of birth
(irony reached a ridiculous pitch)
not understanding the folly of understanding

what isn't to be understood
cleanse my lips with coal
(if it is on fire it is it is clean)

their is no comprehen(s[c]ion -
born into [no]thing (no) one is leaving
with anything anyway urbanascetic in the basement
[kerouac saw the ikon and the poet of rainbows
came close to approaching understanding but appreciated
well enough for all that he too was the poet of rainbows]

without coal upon my lips
i sprout dagger tips
(painful toothchips)
& thus understanding slips
[silently in morning the stock market slips millions are lost
from the flock]

soma
by Ryan C. Pirosch

[or, soma]

incissive victories, cutting
to the heart [onward to[ward the darkness]]
gloria in excelsis soma, so they say - visceral |is what we want| guts[?]
(hemingway wrestles bulls we wrestle the bulls
shit)

she (like she)
by Ryan C. Pirosch

[or, An Unassertive Description of a Crocodile]

like a presumed appearance
she (like she) made she herself

(bow now to con(sequence))

Frost's meter was no more meeter
than his rhyme lodged in rime
than she is [then she is] lodged
than she is [then she is] in time

(standing in for metaphysical ass-
assination
i [present to you] |love| you)

You will finish to make sure
you haven't missed anything more
than I've found or maybe
you'll make sure I haven't found it,
but at least you'll be satisfied
in the end, I mean,
you've made it, and if you haven't,
at least you didn't
miss anything.

An error occured
when I was searching
for flights

"Please enter the date
you would like to
return from your trip. (Message 1046)"

The Francophile says to me
around noon,
Did you notice the coffee pot
isn't spilling today?

He is like a big white cat
with blue eyes living
above a bread bakery
in Provence (when he thinks its Paris)
with a plaid driver's cap and
whiskers whiskers whiskers
won't you come in?

(Well, no I didn't notice, but
I don't trust that son of a bitch
either way
you wait until
tomorrow once you've gotten
used to the fact, and you'll find
your shirt and toes covered in
coffee when you're late for work
at something like 9 in the morning.)

He adds soy and hands me a cup
it's the one with the polka dots on it
and I cross my ankles on his lap

We stare at each other for a while
and I wonder just how long I have
before the plastic switch stops
turning red altogether and
my pillow
stops smelling like a baguette.

I have concluded that
no one should know what
bad bananas and stolen tortilla chips
taste like together (babyfoodburrito) and
this is
because
no one should eat this for dinner
alone
with the morning coffee

My life has churned a set of
attachments into this odd mess
of french-bread smelling boys
and freckled swamp visitors
from Brazil

Stomach ache and anxious afternoon
What do I do with it? I am
writhing in this clutter
waiting for a metallic knock
that could
only
bring
blue eyes but
why?

17




Hold by Loren Marks, oil and silver leaf on canvas, 16" x 20"




18

The Dash-8 aircraft hovers
in a seagull imitation.

Engines glisten
as sun's nourishing rays cover 
a friendship of farms
stitched on patterns below.

From my window perch clouds
form cotton balls of
misshapen puffs, pout
across the sky

and our plane a glider
at 18,000 feet, descending.

Roads inch across
green swaths of land
as an amalgam of colour
on a busy pallet

civilization’s photo album of
cottages circle lakes 
poured into
the sink-hole of woods.

An earthly landing, a relief
from winded sky.

In a drop of water, the molecules on the surface are attracted inwardly by the pull of other molecules within the bead.  This pull is a result of the polarity within the molecule itself.  Oxygen pulls the electrons closer to its larger nucleus creating a negative charge, while the lack of electrons creates a positive charge around the hydrogen atoms.  Each individual molecule is then drawn together through the affinity for the opposite charge.

Imagine a dewdrop hanging precariously to a blade of grass.  The surface is smooth.  Tenuous.   Now picture it falling.  It holds its shape.  Briefly, you might see your own reflection.

The Three Gorges Dam Project will be 1.2 miles across and 600 feet high. It will create a reservoir 360 miles long and will submerge 632 square kilometers, 113 cities, 140 towns, 1352 villages, 657 factories, and will ultimately cause the relocation of 1.3 million people. 

The colder water is carried by convection currents to the bottom of the dam where it will eventually be released.  The release creates electricity.  The release creates a river.  Release.  A natural phenomenon.  Millions of people visit the dam every year.  The water is clearer than before.  The fish disappear.  Questions will always arise.

A push.  A pull.  There is an attraction from inside.  The persuasion of differences creates a new bond and, to an extent, elasticity.  I always thought the Yangtze River began in Kazakhstan, but it doesn’t.  Think of when you were certain.  What did it look like?  I think of the world and all of its oceans.  There is too much space.  There is so much space. 

i whisper loud enough for all to hear
i am the voice of those who don’t listen
speaking gently like the soft vibrations
received from passing over a worn forgotten
patch of cobble stone
always out of mind
until
a brief moment floods your soul
drowning you in a warm flow
carrying you away

                                                     briskly

              yesterday
                            the crane alarming
                            flew away
i spent an eternity searching for discarded
and lost
pennies
on the pavement
                            the flustered crane fluttered off
then i chucked them in
a pale stagnant creek
full of envious scum puddles
                          and the rewinding crane or
             stork

22

went to the apple store today
needed my ipod fix(ed)
everyone there was cool
cooler than me
way cooler than me
the counter i waited at
was a bar
sans drinks
and i couldn’t help but smile
as my eyes bore witness to the hip cats
and chilling vibes
digitalized
it was the new cafe
but coffee was soooooo last week

23

we swallow the nights
with stiff drinks
and we sop it up with bread.
we swallow the nights
with the radio and rain.
we swallow the nights
singing old songs
in thick voices.
we swallow the nights
laughing at the genius
of the dead.
we swallow the nights
with bliss
with a sprinkle of garlic
with a jigger of salt
and another ice cube.
we swallow the nights
that the phone rings.
we swallow the nights
and don't answer the door.
we swallow the nights
of sanity and madness
and silence.
we swallow the nights
on loud streets
on loud blocks
in cities that have gone to
hell and won't come back.
we swallow the nights
ravenously.
nights make good meals.
we swallow the nights whole.
but they never quell our hunger
or abate the fear
of being eaten alive
by all the rest
the very next day.
we swallow the nights
but are never truly free.

24

it is more than falling
into a booze coma
and calling it sleep.
it is more than waking at 3 a.m.
in sweat and terror.
it is more than wrestling
with poems and prose
before you can take on the sun.
it is more than hot water
burning the back
and the built-up mildew
cracking between the toes
in the shower.
it is more than a morning scotch,
the journal, and the weather report.
it is more than baseball news.
it is more than contemplating
american anti-intellectualism
on a stalled train,
as all of brooklyn goes mad
staring at their clocks and watches.
it is more than getting caught in cold rain
on nostrand avenue,
having the water bring up the dirt
in your denim.
it is more than smelling of dust.
it is more than sitting in the mix
of another day, composing silliness
as a means to compensate,
knowing that all you've written above
will happen again tomorrow
or maybe the next day.
it is more than being one day worse off
than the last.
it is more than denying god for a little peace
and quiet.
it is more than all of that.
but it is less than that too.

25

we have so little.
i mean choice.
we have so little choice.
what we want to eat
is even being taken away
these days.
we have so little.
and more and more
is falling off
every night
the sun hides its ugly face.
this morning
peering out the bathroom
window, lathered,
i watched two men stop
to greet each other
in the rain.
they laughed and talked
as the drops fell all over
them.
they looked happy
and well off.
they looked like
they had too much.
i wanted to kill them.
but i chose not to do it.
and i decided not to shave off
my one week old beard
as well.

I am not really here nor
will I be,

but nonetheless

a bum arrives out of
the thin rain

pushing a shopping cart
jammed with abandoned treasures,

old newspapers, broken idols,
the pale, upturned faces of empties,

and when I lay down
in the afternoon,

suffering from an unspecified
heartache,

I can feel through the floor
of all fifty states

the sobbing of an orphan engine.

27

Tonight, like most nights, she'll go to bed first,
and I'll read in the kitchen, where the light is good,

until tired enough to sleep, and when I wake up
without the alarm and somehow before her,

the dawn will be full of birdsong, and the birdsong,
as happens, full of primitive and gratuitous grief.