EXTRA-WIDE DECEMBER ISSUE
Poetry I (6 from Steve De France)
| 1 | Over the Rainbow by Steve De France
| 2 | Fear and Loathing at the Typewriter by Steve De France
| 3 | Slouching Toward Baghdad by Steve De France
| 4 | A Low Gurgling Sound by Steve De France
| 5 | Spring Rituals by Steve De France
| 6 | 12 Step Plan by Steve De France
Poetry II (3 from Sean C. Bowen)
| 7 | SCREAMING & YELLING by Sean C. Bowen
| 8 | in my notebook by Sean C. Bowen
| 9 | DISTORTION by Sean C. Bowen
Poetry III (1 from David McLean)
| 10 | earning night by David McLean
Poetry IV (1 from Chris Major)
| 11 | So by Chris Major
Poetry V (2 from Michael Finlay)
| 12 | SETTLING ACCOUNTS by Michael Finlay
| 13 | ALL APOLOGIES by Michael Finlay
Poetry VI (5 from Joseph Reich)
| 14 | Holiday-Like Stanzas: 3. Acorn Stew by Joseph Reich
| 15 | The Land of... by Joseph Reich
| 16 | Thirteen Odd Stanzas Involving Culture
| 17 | TurnOver (how nightmares go): nightmare #1 by Joseph Reich
| 18 | White Girls by Joseph Reich
Flash Fiction
| 19 | Morning by Philip Nagle
| 20 | Not there by Kajsa Wiberg
| 21 | Ping by Michael Kechula
| 22 | "Sing a sad, sad song" by Zach Plague
Poetry VII (3 from Jonathan Hayes)
| 23 | Italian Ice and Wiffle Ball by Jonathan Hayes
| 24 | Jellyfish and Vinegar by Jonathan Hayes
| 25 | Knife and Milk by Jonathan Hayes
Poetry VIII (3 from Richard Wink)
| 26 | Leonard and his life by Richard Wink
| 27 | Neck hurts: I'm calling in sick by Richard Wink
| 28 | In spades by Richard Wink
Poetry IX (1 from Justin Hyde)
| 29 | at the delaware avenue quick-trip by Justin Hyde
Poetry X (2 from Dave Oprava)
| 30 | New Year's Eve by Dave Oprava
| 31 | Glue is made from horses and they are Edible by Dave Oprava
about the authors
Steve De France is a widely published poet, playwright and essayist both in America and in Great Britain. In England he won a Reader's Award in Orbis Magazine for his poem "Hawks." In the United States he won the Josh Samuels' Annual Poetry Competition (2003) for his poem: "The Man Who Loved Mermaids." His play THE KILLER had it’s world premier at the GARAGE THEATRE in Long Beach, California (Sept-October 2006). He has received the Distinguished Alumnus Award from Chapman University for his writing. Most recently his poem “Gregor’s Wings” has been nominated for The Best of The Net by Poetic Diversity.
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Sean C. Bowen is a poet from Marlboro, New York.
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David McLean was born in Wales in 1960 though I’ve lived in Sweden since 1987. I’ve been submitting seriously for about a year, and as of October 2007, I have around 300 poems in 131 magazines both online and in print. A chapbook “a hunger for mourning” with 52 poems is available from Erbacce-press and Lulu at http://stores....lulu.com/store.php?fAcctID=1277957. More information at http://www.myspace.com/david_mclean and http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com/
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Chris Major is an English poet who recently has had his e-book, 'Concrete and Calligram,' published by the WV? E-Book Press, which is available on this site for viewing/download.
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Michael G. Finlay has a BA in Theatre and Creative Writing. He has been a self-described "poet-monk" for the past five years, working odd-jobs, writing and not doing much of anything else. He lives in Nashville, TN with his daughter, cat and a large group of loved ones.
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Joseph Reich
is a social worker who works out in the state of Massachusetts; A displaced New Yorker, who sincerely does miss diss-place, most of all the Smoothies on Houston Street, the Thai food, and bagels and bialys from The Lower East Side; When we all get a little older, hopes to bring wife and child to play in the playgrounds of New York.
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Philip Nagle is a fake writer from upstate NY. He wants you to email him right now at PhilipTNagle@yahoo.com.
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Kajsa Wiberg is a freelance writer, translator, and horse trainer. Her stories have appeared in The River Walk Journal, Long Story Short, Prose Toad, Chick Lit Review, Flash Shot, and Insolent Rudder, with forthcoming publications in Shred of Evidence, The Rose and Thorn, and Aoife's Kiss. She is a script reader for Blue Cat Screenplay and a book reviewer for Eclectica. She lives in Cardiff-by-the-Sea, CA, where she's at work on her second novel.
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Michael A. Kechula
is a retired technical writer who has authored two books of flash and micro-fiction: “A Deck Full of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales” and “Crazy Stories for Crazy People.”
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Zach Plague cries at Wimbledon, almost every year. His book 'boring boring boring boring boring boring boring' is forthcoming from featherproof books.
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Jonathan Hayes
lives in San Francisco, California. He has taught poetry at 826 Valencia – a writing center for children – located
in the Mission District of the City.
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Richard Wink is a writer based in Norwich, England. His third poetry chapbook is going to be released early 2008.
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Justin Hyde lives in Iowa, where he works with criminals for a living.
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Dave Oprava is a poet living in Wales and have recently been published or soon to be on Thieves Jargon, Word Riot, Pequin, Poetry Monthly, and 3am.
Over the Rainbow
by Steve De France
I'm looking out my window
at a huge black crow.
He's standing in the exact
center of the cement driveway,
pecking at a dried turd.
Shakes it around
to make sure its dead.
Tilts a glance at me,
breaks off a bite-sized piece,
tips his head back,
& it rolls
down his feathered
ebony throat.
Life would be so simple,
if we could all do the same.
My neighbor, a blue-haired crone,
rolls up in a new silver Lincoln.
Her matching silver-blue poodle
spurts from the car,
like toothpaste from a tube,
& in a neurotic attack of energy
lunges at the crow.
"Felix, No!"
The Crone snatches up her pooch,
& kicks the turd
into the sewer opening.
She trots into her house.
And the crow is left
skulking
in the rose bushes.
Even if you're willing
to eat shit
it may not be enough
for some people.
2
Fear and Loathing at the Typewriter (For Dr. Gonzo)
by Steve De France
I was just outside Barstow when the poem started
taking affect---I was traveling with my attorney
an evil dwarf who sometimes sits on my shoulder as
I write---he leans over and reads the last line.
“Give me more drugs”, he screams----
“Look at that last line,” I cry in ecstasy.
No, no I can’t. . .
“Why?”
“The letters---look---the S’s are turning to snakes”.
I pulled the typewriter over to the side & stared at the letters.
I saw it clearly—the S’s had ganged up on the T’s.
“What should I do doctor?”
My evil dwarf grabbed the typewriter
turned it upside down & shook it.
“Look now,” he screamed.
“No, its no good,” I cried, the S’s are beginning to strangle the L’s.
My attorney & my doctor ripped open a sealed envelope
marked “EMERGENCIES”
He pushed a handful of yellow red & purple capsules into my mouth.
“Swallow these before it is too late,” he stuffed the rest into his mouth.
We sit for hours, maybe days
I can’t be sure.
Staring at the paper as it turns red.
The letters, however, mostly turned white except M’s
& N’s who gather in the upper corner & begin to glow.
My evil dwarf sweats profusely
searching for meanings in the letters.
He mumbles about priests & whores.
I scream into his ear:
“What do you think doctor?”
“The worst is over” he said, slipping
the barrel of the Browning
Pistol into his mouth.
3
Slouching Towards Baghdad
by Steve De France
I go downstairs.
My neighbor's feeding fish heads
to some local dogs.
I find my car.
The day's hot enough to
glaze pottery in the back seat.
I start the engine & crank up the air.
It's running hot.
I flip on the radio. Static.
U. S. bombers leave a vapor
trail in the cloudless sky
as they race toward Baghdad.
People on the street look up dazed.
At the corner, a dangerously pregnant woman
stops in the center of the busy street
to do a body count of her growing family.
My knuckles grow white on the wheel.
I miss the light.
Hot. No wind.
The car's a jar with a lid.
I crank all the windows down.
Try to cool off.
Trees on the street cringe
from the heat. Birds have stopped
flying, instead they huddle
in melting pools of color,
grey, brown, and black,
heads bobbing slowly.
Next to me on the car seat,
a half-eaten chocolate Hershey Bar
has exploded.
All that is plastic is devolving
into petroleum ooze.
Touching a nerve,
fillings in my teeth are burning.
Rounding a corner, the asphalt's
melting---heat ripples rise
as if from an Iraqi mirage.
I eye the ageing buildings on this
block--- dying Victorians---blemished,
battered, broken & bleeding.
Queen Annes once filled with splendor
now crammed with growing families,
that spill over stoops, ramble down steps,
& scatter into the street, where they spray
each other down with water hoses.
Young men with lupine smiles wait & watch,
as emergency sirens scream around the corner.
It is too hot for the fat red spiders
who now sit in heat shock----watching
the death dance of the web-caught flies.
So these street spiders are in no hurry.
It is too soon & too hot for them to dine on me.
They will wait for an unguarded moment.
High Noon in L.A. & another kind of war rages on.
Ahead----two snarling men charge
from trucks, it’s all about a parking place.
They fight in the street. Bone & flesh collide.
Teeth snap. A dog charges and enters the fight.
All in all, it's a day that causes
bankers & accountants & ordinary men
to break cue sticks over bald heads.
A day so sweltering so humid---so hopeless
it boils common thieves too scorched to steal.
On this day---shrieking babies are smashed
against cement walls, Christ’s name is spat on,
& ruefully married women sharpen serrated blades
& stare fixedly at the underbelly of their husbands' throats.
I see hawks sitting in the shade of hemlock trees
considering possibilities. I feel the weight of the
pistol in my pocket & I smile with anticipation.
Because it’s a day for ancient insults to ooze up.
A volcanic day for getting even,
and for settling festering scores.
A day for payback
A day to unleash the dogs from hell
A day created to crush spindle & mutilate flesh
A day for deathblows & raw agony
A day designed for vengeance.
A day to use baseball bats in alleys,
A day to swing socks filled with ball bearings.
A day for reprisals by the damned
A day when little men exact their blood revenge
A day named after mayhem & conceived
by whores & born in the slaughter houses of tomorrow.
4
A Low Gurgling Sound
by Steve De France
In high heels she perches---stick-legged
small-headed, but big-breasted.
She prattles & whistles & tweets
her swan like neck practices seductive circles.
But her sunglasses reflect only hawk-hungers.
Under the spell of some ancient passion
her companion gazes at her flutter of feathers
and is hypnotized by their sexuality.
He reposes in masculine taciturn silence.
As if to complete the metaphor
her eyes---bright & beady---fix on this
companion. She considers size & suitability.
Her curved antediluvian head
suddenly tilts & bobs forward,
she impales her polished beak into
the soft underbelly of the man’s throat.
The luncheon-groom begins to choke.
He struggles haplessly---there is blood splatter.
Before his eyes film over
he is able to see her for the first time—
her iridescent inky plumes ripple & glisten,
as she munches happily on his flesh.
She eats his tongue. He stares in disbelief.
Cocking her head---she deliberately pecks out
both eye balls---she wipes her beak clean.
In the dark the groom feels a first inquisitive pecking,
then a tearing at his testicles---then the last of his blood
gushing between his legs. As consciousness becomes
a tiny speck of light—he hears a low gurgling sound
in his head. Just before the light came to the finest point
and went out---he realized he was trying to scream.
5
Spring Rituals
by
Dogs baying, howling. Men in a jeep.
Drinking beer. Pointing guns.
Shrubs cracking under wheels.
I'd seen them earlier today. Sitting in
their jeep. Shooting squirrels out of
trees. Blew 'em all apart. But I ran
till the forest was quiet.
Resting here beside a clump of dead
branches I hear dogs baying. They've
found me. They're close. I hear shells
rattling into rifle breaches, bolts
jamming shells into firing position.
I'm running again.
Behind me a bolt slams down,
the popping crack of a gun,
the side of the tree next to me explodes.
I run hard.
Run with all my strength.
I leap over my trail & crash into
tree cover. But the jeep is rattling,
jerking itself through underbrush behind
me.
When I hit the stream
the coldness of water tears breath from
me. I stop for a second to regain
direction. A 30 bore bullet smashes my
flank, it's like being clipped by a
truck. I'm down, then up and running.
Over there,
I see my fields golden in the sunset,
it's my spot. I have to try for it.
Wildly with total concentration,
I run
Over bushes, brush past trees, knock
branches down, in my thirst to escape.
I'm moving now. Flying over earth,
my mind afire with the pain in my flank.
Now breathing coming hard.
What's this? A strange taste.
Choking. Blood in my throat.
The ground rushes toward me.
Something going down.
I'm on the ground.
Breathing blood & foam from my mouth.
More burning, body going numb.
Laughter.
Try to get up. Can't.
Someone standing over me.
A boot rolls my head over.
“Didja hit em?”
“Twice.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah, deader 'an hell.”
He didn't hit me. He couldn't have.
No.
I'm still running, still alive.
I see my spot now.
It's here. Tall grass. That good smell.
So tall.
All the way up to my shoulders.
But I don't remember it being
so dark.
6
12 Step Plan
by Steve De France
Thin men in designer jeans,
fresh out of mental clinics,
rehab, or 12 step programs,
sit cross legged on the floor
talking about Alanon, Alcoholics Anonymous,
Hard Love, or about hardly any love at all.
She & her group are in and out
of therapy, a lot. Artistic types.
Each one intense, about everything
The women refuse to shave anything.
They believe in pyramid power:
eat Sea Grass, Ginseng, Bee Pollen & wild Sea Kelp.
They sit together talking & talking
about Georgia O’ Keefe & Frida Kahlo.
As I sit
thinking of the energy
it takes to go in and out
of clinics, workshops, support groups,
a woman of the ARTS
walks over & says:
"I sing opera out my asshole."
"What's your repertoire?" I inquire.
"Mostly Wagner, but I do some Bizet.
Would you like my ass to perform?"
Her buttocks would send Rubens for oils.
David for marble & Persian poets could
achieve religious rhapsody.
If ancient Helen's face launched a thousand sails,
this ass could force the evacuation
of the fishing fleet from San Pedro Harbor.
"Would you like to hear
The Ride of the Valkyries?"
"I would."
Her face tightens to a fist,
something burbles and rumbles.
Suddenly, she farts:
spraying the thin young men
with a dewy-brown-patina.
There's scattered applause.
"Ever seen talent like mine?" she asks.
I smile.
Walk over to her purse, open it,
pull out my pecker & start peeing.
It makes a noise like water
falling
into a hollow bucket.
I fill it up.
The applause was thunderous.
We never discussed ART again.
7
SCREAMING & YELLING
by
at the end of the head
is the thought that i'll share
the voice to relay
starts in sour belly
then clumbsily climbs through bad breath and rotting teeth
until it finally escapes to the vibrations..that when they reach
shall penetrate you
that's the detail that it deserves (if it is to become a treasure)
it's exactly what you might have done
had you the same unintelligent design.
8
in my notebook
by Sean C. Bowen
i
never write on the pages in order
just flip open to any blank space at all
and allow the words to unfold freely
i
descend again into the lines on the page
giving my pen the run of the place
it's definitely the alpha here
might even write something obscene or vulgar
but wait
remember
even in nature - the wolf kills
and isn't that part of the beauty of it all?
so it's like this-
a troublesome pack of words might slowly and deliberately
stalk and attack like rituals for survival
hunting with precision because there are young ones to feed
ensuring indeed a strong new generation
while the weak slip away in silence
it IS nature i tell you.
DISTORTION
by Sean C. Bowen
she cries while using the toilet
becouse she is alone to
becouse
i strike her again and again
and each time i promise never to again
i call her all kinds of names
becouse
her tears, to me
are weakness
how distorted my reality
10
earning night
by David McLean
we do not deserve night
or how the silence
falls an eternity
of sky,
we have not earned
the cold, or ice
freezing dreams
to our lips,
we do not deserve night
or the distances
stars pass
to meet us,
the night we serve
we do not deserve it,
have not earned
its love
11
So
by Chris Major
12
SETTLING ACCOUNTS
by Michael Finlay
After work today
I walked up a different street to the bank.
I went to a different door,
past the construction and the car wash,
where the dropped-out teenagers work
and try to hustle money from the people
in the condos across the street.
I sat in an upholstered chair
with leaf print.
I shook hands with a man in a suit
whose name I quickly forgot.
We spoke about the weather
and how when I was in London it was 60 degrees
while Nashville was 110.
I said that it was nothing personal
and he gave me $5.04-
all that was left in our account.
Back on the street going to the bus stop
I was behind this couple
who held slightly wrinkled hands.
Not that we did that much,
since you always hated my public displays,
but i do wish
that it would be something
that I'd have to forget.
13
ALL APOLOGIES
by
Call it a betrayal if you wish
but perhaps I'm older now
or a tad more rough around the edges
or perhaps or maybe the zeroes behind my miles
has at last caught up with me,
but I've no more room for talk
or to be filled with the faux ennui
that it takes to be noticed.
I prefer now the city avenues,
the sidewalk cafes where the revolutions begin,
it's here, where the beautiful women in their tight blue dresses
walk past me, sliding through my smoke
like a Goddess through the mists,
here where the buildings are ancient
and the streets are older.
Because I have gone too far,
stood up and protested,
marched and threatened
while the hip and hippies
sat and whispered their bitcheries,
rolled their back porch joints
and hid from the pigs.
Call me bored,
but still more crooked than you,
for seeking my illumination
on the city buses,
the cobblestones,
all the things of the world
that are the soul of movement.
My feet are weary
and my pack too heavy,
and yet I am still too strong to sit
and talk away the hours that are left to me,
or perhaps I no longer have the will
to compare, to De-construct,
to define in black and white
what it means to be alive.
My coffee spoons are laid on the table,
and I am home from the searing lights.
Can I still call myself a poet
though I no longer look on the works with disgust?
I wish that I could make it simple,
but simplicity is a myth with no moral,
and the worlds are far too complex to ignore.
I'll not lay down my quill or push aside the paper aside,
because I am who I have always been, only more.
A drunk I've been,
a back row stoner,
the one to stand on the tracks and declare,
the one who sits silent in symphony halls,
and the one who cries when Belle kisses the Beast-
Call me what you will oh artistes,
I am no defined by myself:
poet, man, father, worker,
ex-husband and friend-
all refusing coalescence
into what has always been wanted.
14
Holiday-Like Stanzas: 3. Acorn Stew
by
*
resistance and rebellion, during the change of seasons, that we runaway, run towards
the wild horizons, to visit the black crow at the hospital, who snickers and thanks us
for all our well wishes, for our prayers and nightmares. You bow your head and
tell him it’s simply about survival on a daily basis; About a sense of humor and
being sensitive, as the last of sunlight at day’s end spills into your refrigerator
pulls out a tooth one by one, silhouetted in front of candles giving a speech
for the ages. Of course we forget it all, as the smug and shattered dinner guests
are all in denial and playing roles (Here success appears measured by contrived
and pithy punchlines, really the sign of the unoriginal; Of the scarred soul)
with incestuous desires and throwing out cheap and crude and transparent
innuendoes; The most charming, in fact, the most lonesome and troubled
The Master of the House proudly showing off his Sado-Masochistic Room; His big screen tv
and row of recliners where he may get cozy and comfortable after a diligent day of murder.
He is a Family Man who keeps his kids clueless, sheltered and spoiled, turning more and
sneer in dimly-lit chandelier
The vestibules and foyers
Well-kept lawns
never tread on
by friends
family or peers
(In truth, everyone
becomes strangers
full of superstitions
rituals, routines
and fears)
Silhouetted shrubs
floodlights, gardens
That’s how they want it
insular and guarded
Everything kept secret
on the hush-hush
like creeping through
a museum when it
closes up at dusk
of a perfect
& pristine
self-disgust
Leaves tumble
like thieves
slipping
through
some miserable
macabre evening
Dusty grandfather
clock lets out
a cough
after swallowing
the keyhole key
where nightmares
begin and dreams
end; Curtains on fire
Life and times of a liar
in a very mature and noble manner, disguised by your inability to be her savior,
yet more so a caustic comedian mocking culture. She has always gotten this
a bit mixed up from her brutal background and innocent imagination, yet couldn’t
care less, and with false confidence, absurdly claims to find this act to be most attractive
You know this and go with stars and sentiment
*
all go their own separate ways home through eerie silhouetted industrial
rivers and cathedrals; Through winking woods and sacred slums; Through
billboards and bums; Through blinking skylines on the horizon, which stand
like rows of dominoes after dwelling reflective and catching a good buzz,
to their safe sanctuaries in the suburbs at the onset of Winter and
close of Autumn; To their midnight homes to mansions in the sun
and haunted, holy bridges burning brightly in the distance;
It is clear you need nothing, no-one, something, phantoms...
as the church bells and foghorns remind you you are not alone
15
The Land Of...
when they rolled out the initial suburb i wonder what that must have been like?
how that must have appeared? like heaven? the yellow brick road? or something
like paul goodman’s brilliant sociological novel entitled, “growing up absurd?”
spotless sparkling split-levels & rambling ranches looking out to a long-lost (lot)
landscape of other neat & tidy lawns? space-ship-shaped hour-glass shrubs that
perfectly protect & measure how culture might treasure, or distinguish & determine
the term of what it meant to feel stable, safe & secure; the manicured lawn a manic
cure to the core of man’s quixotic soul; an idealized externalization of liberation to all
those self-defeating feelings of negative self-talk, negation & nihilism; the first breed of trees
& flowers they planted in the ground to placate & pacify the king & clown to make sure they
felt all safe & sound; glimmering appliances which seemed to glow, an extension to the most
eternal of all internal organs we know, the flesh & bones & heart & soul, umbilical chord
to our emptiness & excesses & success & sacrifices; our overcompensations & obsessions,
really a result not so much of a collective unconscious, but more so an individual & instinctive
anguished subconscious, even a collective oppressiveness, all the repression & rumors, beer
& barbecues (the bicycles that would be the mythological vehicles which would forever deliver
us from our daily routines & rituals to our rich & racing escapist imaginations, dancing
& ducking around in daniel boone, davy crocket, coonskin caps with squirrel tails
going down the back for a day of action & adventure in & out the shadows with cats
& crows through the man-made, cut-out, cut-down cul-de-sac) obscure phenomenon
of super heroes who would heal all our existential angst & out-of-reach expectations
& fears & flaws & conflicted superegos; batman & robin in their technicolor masks
& tights & the lone ranger, black & white, with his sidekick indian tonto, who was
an archetypal friend, never a foe; the vacuum cleaner & bible salesmen who would
respectively clean our stained & filthy rugs & soul (getting out those deep & damaged
spots from years of...the sex dreams we weren’t supposed to have, ashamed of &
never got used to, yet somehow got used to, got used too, like some secret rendez-
vous, righteous & true, never a part of you, but really a part of you, that action/adventure
substituted for something romantic, for the deepest of desires, to get ultimate approval
& would somehow save you, the growing & developing psyche consumed all within
the darkened simplicity of a solitary room) girls scouts & avon lady who’d redeem &
restore self-esteem & bring back once more that romantic spark of love to a happily-
ever-after home; integration coming in the form of a lanternman in black-face in lawn-
jockey uniform, brandishing a beacon to keep away the boogie-man; when did the ice
cream man make his first appearance? the paper boy? mail man? milk man? the school
bus delivering pupils & their specimens; science experiments & musical instruments....
dandelions & dioramas, lunch boxes & love letters & fluff & peanut butter sandwiches; the blob
& u.f.o.’s making their first visitation then sudden invasion on this sacred & superficial horizon?
16
Thirteen Odd Stanzas Involving Culture
by
1. A Different Kind Of Martyr
suicide bomber
lost sight of target
cannot find direction
a matter of fact
even goes as far
as to ask for directions
and decides to settle
on chinese instead
and sits in take-out
watching the innocent
bystanders reflecting
about past girlfriends
how good the breeze
feels coming down from the mountain
heads home ditches dynamite
and shoots straight for the garden
2. The Blind Date/the marriage
Mr. Panic Attack meets Miss. Panic Attack
and decide what the heck let's make a go at it
seems so much better than any of the other options
to be surrounded by these constant rat bastards and
will find a way of being compatible and living happily
ever after and who knows maybe they'll even get
a home a time share a condo join the board
quarrel over their local cable over something
territorial keep kosher and swap psychotropics
so much better than in having to go it alone
3. Ballad Of An Aquaintance
carrying blue crabs home
in a brown paper bag
from chinatown
through white cherry blossom
beneath a midnight moon
to greenwich village
to share with my loved one
in the stray catacombs of our courtyard
and washing it all down with margaritas
sheltered by deep dancing shadows
by the fragile fossils and shimmering
echoes of church bells and foghorns
like some miles davis sponge horn
washing away all blues and moods
that redeem and heal you
as if you had never been
as if you somehow
were reborn
4. Bruce
in a deep depression
i decide to hit the showers
and suddenly out of nowhere
like some romantic sentimental trigger
find myself singing songs from childhood
as a teenager when i was in the shower--
"screen door slams/mary's dress waves
like a vision she dances across the floor as the radio plays
roy orbinson sings for the lonely/hey that's me and i want you only..."
suddenly feeling all burdens break and drained self drain down the drain
5. Mid-October Stanza
an old farmer simply
sits with patience
and a big bale
of hay all day
across from
some old
colonial waiting
first for his pay
in the dim grim
brilliant autumn
cows and crows
his only companion
contented as time
is not of the essence
for the woman of the
house to show up
at the start of
the season
6. Honest Living
i want to meet the man
of the house of blue lights
the electrician the handyman
maybe called by a nickname
like bob the slob sam the man
who's job it is to test to tweek
to tug to twist in bulbs when
they ain't working no more
on call around the clock
like some diligent doc
and perhaps when he's
done gets a nice nod
or wink from a lady of the night
working her window then returns
back shuffling down cobblestone
toulouse bourbon new orleans
to support his wife and children
7. History As Seen Through The Eyes...
(viva las vegas! viva las vegas!
viva las vegas ! viva las vegas!)
all swallowed in one single gulp
by buddha in the form
of a porcelain deviled
egg while on vacation
in the greek islands
spitting it out
into the aegean
all those centuries
all those attitudes
all those moods
all those egos
all those ages
all those generations
summed up
in one single
transcendent
precious moment
(viva las vegas!)
while all the tourists
are still at the disco
trying to get laid
ritualistic
and ridiculous
(viva las vegas!)
cluseau staring
from the corner
of his schitzo-
phrenic socket
(viva las vegas!)
adolescence
one big crank
phone call to
prepare you
for all the
pitfalls
of the
adult
world
(viva las vegas!)
mailwoman
drops off
your junk
mail (viva las vegas!)
and you know there's
really no resolution
for any of this at all
just staring at all
the pretty young girls
(viva las vegas!)
8. Letter To Mother After Strept
all's quiet
on eastern
homefront
dylan is well
in williams shirt
erica out getting
mr. potato head
storms all night
daddy long legs
grasping on for dear life
sugar maple blazing crimson
ghost on door didn't make it
violet windows set
back in wilderness
skeletons still in trees
crabapples have all fallen
ladybugs envelop home
bathe your bones in pekid
sun peeking through pines
breeze sweeping through
the battered broom
pull dylan and scout
in wagon in my plaid
checkered lumberjack
jacket in and out wet mailboxes
erica returning home with brand
new spanking mr. potato head
and a proud smile ear to ear
simply looking to please kids
patiently waiting wrapped in plastic
nothing like a new mr. potato head
ready to be ripped open
cranes welcoming autumn
red sox will play cleveland
9. Fatherless
boys fake fighting
in wild and windy
forest of golden
glimmering leaves
hiding behind tall
sheltering pine
when dusk
meets evening
right before
halloween
suppertime
and porch
lights
go on
out
come
the ray
guns--
splat! clow!
flim! flam!
flum! flum!
10. Evening Activity
the thunder and rain
seem to say i will
stick with you
through thick
and thin
through thick
and thin
i will stick
with you
though thick
and thin
11. A Day In The Park
digging a huge hole
working nose paws
and then eventually
whole body halfway
into the ground
with a mound of
leftover kindling
from the tops
of chopped
off lagoon
trees
dog licks
his chops.
at the other end
is dusk, sunsets
ending up
at the movies
once again
in the big city
transcendent
been doing this
for centuries
(like a
glimmer
of hope
escaping
humanity)
12. An American Poem
conversation
texas cafe
hey have you ever been to rochester?
that girl who's father was a pharmacist
and knock-out and you met at the bus station
nostalgia
you cuddle your wife
like fluff & peanutbutter
like seraphim
last standing
slapstick
comedienne
pillow talk
jason rabinowitz was real cute
all the girls had a crush on him
what's he doing now?
i think he was studying
to become a rabbi or monk
he may have gotten into drugs
he was one of those rich kids...
on the state of...
ventriloquist: --"knock-knock!"
puppet: --"who's there?"
mock (all-american girl)
apple-
pie
&
sperm-
acide
13. Reflections Of: The Empty Pool On Pitt Street
at the close of season
with a solemn sun
when winds come
all that's left are
praying-mantis
and ladybugs
wet dazzling
crows with
dim sun
on their
wings
flying off
into the
woods
of fall
the young
dominican
lovers...
17
TurnOver (how nightmares go): nightmare #1
baby moses going over
the falls in a barrel
lands in the hands
of the land
of cleveland
where 'so much
really depends
on a red wheelbarrow'
can you tell me where the
hell's the methadone clinic?
watercolor wilderness
changing colors
by the ferry
where they keep
the factories and fairies
ice fishing through fossils
through all evil influences
to eerie fantasies
tugging up old
blue velvet coat
where family, friend & foe
will try to steal your soul
and got no other choice
with a hook through
jaw but to perservere
to finally know for sure--
"it's only a paper moon"
and kids driven home
brooding through the
school bus window
through leaves and
lagoons wondering
is this all i got to
look forward to?
18
by Joseph Reich
that there was the culture of the 50's
the tragic tormented technicolor movies
everything kept secret, taboo and obscene
(interestingly, even then, things held a lot more mystery
making secret concoctions in the midst of mad-scientist laboratories
of bleak b-movies when the enemy arrived in the form of monster-
martian from outer-space to contaminate and infiltrate main street)
when a ball of fire came down and white birches begin blushing
mind your own beeswax
a couple martinis
at the end of
the after-work party
ike resembling mr. clean
who would clean up everything
heal all worrying & suffering & misery
the morton salt girl, coppertone girl
with drawers drawn down to shore
to make sure your sunburn
when it rains it pours...
as it all comes down in the form of a mute primal-scream
sylvia plath sticking her head from the microwave
down the grave to fatefully meet her destiny
all the pools are above ground
and the nights are long
and culture is dairy queen
which is all fine and dandy
cause the smells are heavenly
and maybe just maybe you might get a b.j.
heard they gave a lot of those away in the 1950's
due to certain social and cultural moires of things
you were allowed to do and not allowed to do before marriage...
(in marriage, the man and woman battle over the most tedious of things
yet it seems, during that phase of courting and dating it was these tedious things...
make sure in seeing a shrink, he has a nice and pleasing voice, like a soothing play-
by-play color-commentator and it is someone you can trust like a good auto-mechanic
as it is often so difficult to manage to find one, mind you, a combination of both...)
you stand like a monster at midnight, naked, half-baked, caked in your refrigerator light
like the man on the moon, hoping that a carton of cool milk might help to ease the mind i
19
by Philip Nagle
I woke next to a note reading; “Days don’t change, Actions do”. Upon the wrinkled paper rested a single dandelion head. My half asleep arm plucked the two from the bed and rested them on her nightstand. Once again, the bed was my own and I intended to keep it that way until she graced the room with her presence. She would do enough for both of us today.
20
by Kajsa Wiberg
Returning from a long trip, I’m baffled to find that my parents are back together.
“What happened?” I ask.
They shrug. Something isn’t there.
“What, ten years of hating each other, and now you’re just going to start over?”
Apathetic nods.
“Why?”
“Because we can.”
It makes sense, and it doesn’t. They aren’t happy, that’s obvious. When the love has been gone for such a long time, it’s hard to bring it back. Still, it stirs huge, frothy waves of hope inside me. If this is possible, it opens a whole new window of Other Things That Could Happen. Things for which I would give everything I own. Things . . . to die for.
I try to make my question sound casual.
“Do you know where she is?”
They exchange awkward glances.
“What kind of question is that?” Dad asks.
A new thought hits me. Magic one.
“The barn’s still here, right?”
“Well,” Mom says. “Funny you should ask, because I happened to drive by the other day, and it looks like they’ve done some major renovations. Three new turnouts, a covered arena, and they painted the barn red.”
The grin spreading in my face seems to scare them rather than encourage them, but I don’t care. This is it! All those years of looking, and the whole time she’s been right in my back pocket. In the strangest of ways, it is perfectly logical.
I turn to Mom.
“Lend me your car.”
Another awkward glance exchanged with her husband-for-the-second-time.
“It’s not a very good idea--”
“Please. I need to do this.”
She sighs and retrieves her keys from the top drawer.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t be further from sighing. Finally! She’s been gone for so long! But today . . . the day of miracles . . . I will see her again. As I pull my breeches on and zip up my half chaps, I’m on cloud nine.
“I need directions,” I tell Mom.
“Are you sure about this?” she asks, the concern written all over her face. “You know she is—“
“Yes,” I interrupt. “Yes, I’m sure.”
As I tramp down the stairs and duck into the car, I can’t believe it. Today’s the day!
***
Somewhere along the way, I get stuck at a red light. The longest red light in the world.
Other cars turn right and left. Cars with happy people, who probably know exactly where their horses are at all times. Lucky people.
That’s when it hits me.
It doesn’t matter whether I make it to the barn or not because she won’t be there. It doesn’t even matter how much I look for her, how much I love her, or how I can’t wait to see her again.
On the way home, warm tears flood my eyes.
My parents stand in the doorway as I stagger out of the car and up the stairs.
“I couldn’t go,” I explain between sobs.
“We understand,” Dad says.
“She wouldn’t be there anyway.”
Nods from both of them.
“I’ll never see her again,” I add, my heart breaking into a thousand pieces.
“Mom, I think you can finish the sentence now.”
“Because she’s dead,” she says.
Some things are possible, while others just aren’t.
21
Ping
by Michael Kechula
Charlie was startled by a PING and a message that suddenly flashed on his computer. The large red letters said: “I love you. I want you. I need you. Do you feel the same?”
Electricity surged through lonely, middle-aged, plain-looking Charlie’s heart. He quickly typed: “Yes.”
“Can we meet?” the next message said.
Charlie entered: “Yes.”
“Go to your roof, strip naked, lay down with arms outstretched, and wait for me.”
“OK,” Charlie typed. Then he added, “How will I recognize you?”
“I know what you look like.”
“But it’s dark out,” he typed. “Suppose you don’t find me.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll find you. Hurry. I ache for your love.”
The word “we’ll” set off a vague warning in Charlie’s head. But raging lust caused him to ignore it.
Grabbing a ladder, he scrambled onto the roof. Though he felt chilly, he quickly stripped, lay on the shingles, and stretched his arms outward.
A few minutes passed. Nothing happened.
“Where are you?” he muttered to the night sky.
All was quiet, as the full moon lit Charlie’s pale skin.
The next-door neighbor’s car pulled in the driveway. The neighbor left the car and walked toward his front door. Looking upward, he noticed something on Charlie’s roof. Drawing closer, he called, “Hey, Charlie? Is that you?”
“Yeah,”
“What the hell you doing on your roof without clothes?
“Waiting for somebody.”
“They ain’t coming,” the neighbor said.
“How do you know?”
“Because the same thing happened to me last night. I waited on the roof until well past midnight. Nobody showed up.”
Surprised, Charlie said, “C’mon Frank. You gotta be kidding. I can’t see you climbing the roof and laying there naked waiting for something to happen.”
“Well, I did. Had a fight with Clara. She went to bed, and I got on the computer to check my email. Got a message telling me to get on the roof and lay there naked. So I did.”
“What else did your message say?” Charlie asked.
“I love you, I want you, I need you.”
“In red letters?”
“No. They were brown,” Frank said.
“Well, it’s musta been somebody else,” Charlie said. “No wonder nobody showed up. Who sends brown-colored messages talking about love, need and want? Brown is a such a nothing color. My message was in hot, passionate red.”
“Guess you’re right,” Frank said. “I laid up there for almost three hours. Nothing happened. How long you been waiting?”
“About twenty minutes.”
“Well, maybe you’ll have better luck than me. Hey, I’m beat. I’m going inside. Hope everything works out.”
“Thanks, Frank. Have a good night.”
“You too. Oh…what if you’re not here tomorrow? I mean what if you get lucky and end up getting loved, wanted, and needed and don’t come back. Do you want me to have your utilities turned off?”
“Yeah. I’d appreciate that.”
“Will do,” Frank said. “Good night.”
Charlie waited. And waited. Then he fell asleep.
A large spacecraft swooped down and bathed his house in green light. A hatch opened, and several tentacles moved toward the roof. Enveloping Charlie without waking him, they gently drew him inside the craft.
The next morning, when Frank went outside, he saw that Charlie was no longer on the roof. He knocked on Charlie’s door, but nobody answered. Picking the lock, Frank went inside the house and checked all the rooms. Charlie was nowhere to be found.
Frank removed Charlie’s computer and installed it in his den. Then as Charlie had asked, he called the gas and electric company, the water and garbage folks, satellite and phone companies.
That night, after an argument with his wife, Frank surfed the Internet. While reading a news site, he heard a PING and saw words flash on his screen. They were the same as those he’d seen the other night: “I love you, I want you, I need you.” This time, they appeared in bright red.
Frank typed: “Come and get me.” Then he climbed the roof, striped, and lay down with outstretched arms.
When Frank fell asleep, a spacecraft approached and bathed him in green light. Tentacles reached for Frank and gently transported him into the craft.
Some of the men in the neighborhood woke and saw Frank’s removal. The next day, they whispered among themselves about what they’d witnessed.
That night, ten, middle-aged, henpecked men repeated what Frank did, though they hadn’t received any computer messages urging them to do so.
No spacecraft ever came.
Psychologists are still pondering why ten naked men would lay on their roofs at night with arms outstretched, as if begging.
"Sing a sad, sad song"
by Zach Plague
There were so many things that had made her want to cry. That kitten that had camped out on her porch one chilly fall morning, its ribs. She gave it food and water and named it Malibu but never saw it again after that day it spent in her lap, as she read some awful book about leather daddies. That time by the pool, the summer before 7th grade when Meredith Lerner had pulled one of her pigtails so hard half of it came out in her little hand, and she thought Meredith Lerner was her friend. That older woman, on Gameshow Surprise, who began to tear up when she won the jackpot. The time her father called to wish her a happy birthday on the 17th, not the 19th. That day she was so sick, in pain, in her dorm alone, too weak to pick up the phone. That joke Vance would tell about the pirate, the peanut and the wide-mouthed frog. That day she found out that Theodora had an ulcer, even though it was about time. That jeweler’s ad, with the big diamond ring. The only reason that the one ex-boyfriend kept falling back on: ‘I just fell out of love with you…’ That pop song on the radio, with some awful shrill girl whining about lost love in unthinking trills. That old thought of herself, alone, and elderly, without a blanket to cover her knees, her cold feet. That expression the blond girl was wearing in the cheap clothing catalog. That way her mother would stroke her cheek, as if she were a house pet. That Zella was raped, that it always fucked up her relationships with boys, that she remained blindingly optimistic. That time the airplane dropped about 3,000 feet at once, everyone screamed, and the stewardesses hit their heads. That last day as a waitress even though she hated the job and everyone that worked there. That sun, finally peaking through wet leaves, its rays piercing the falling droplets. That warm contentedness that half a bottle of codeine cough syrup produced. Her boyfriend, too. He made her cry.
Italian Ice and Wiffle Ball
by Jonathan Hayes
pink tofu
the glamour of sin
The Big Apple’s
intrinsic beauty
seeds floating
around the core
bubble toes
only the king
is allowed to eat
lychee fruit
three fires inside the flesh
grass jelly laughter
do not eat
the bittermelon seeds
or they will grow
in your stomach
uptown:
playground games
low-income sweat
asphalt nostalgia
Rhinelander
and the youth of today
Rupert was a brewmaster
life’s complications
are excuses, not reasons
the pigs and chickens
live happily, together
make naan
not war
batter up!
Jellyfish and Vinegar
by Jonathan Hayes
lightning
breaks the bone
Puck
is on the throne
duck egg / skin anchor
ball and alcoholic chain
(submissive cucumber)
the weight of defeat
[on the perimeter of Times Square squared]
she took a Polaroid picture
and placed it on her pillowcase
next to her head in bed, whispering
a mantra
of multiplication tables
product:
prayers answered
Knife and Milk
by Jonathan Hayes
citrus youth
Tropicana morning
[tragedy of the Rubix Cube]
recess kickball rolling across the asphalt playground
orange peels and sandwich crumbs in parka pocket
Red Dye #2 afternoon
bug juice coming out the nose
back home, picking at scab until it bleeds
cupboard full of immaculate tin cans
a fish called tuna
spitting heinous mayonnaise
samurai tongue cuts stalks of celery
rime and wheat bread
Jack Frost in the backyard
each shadow, a parody of emotion personified
Channel Eleven: Sunset Boulevard
Her Claws, Her Claws
Leonard and his life
by Richard Wink
She told me she was sociopathic,
I had no patience for that
for I had only just mastered the preparation of oysters.
Where I am
is somewhere between where your soulful resistance
and a seat lined with sandpaper
in between two horses
salt licking
Immense pleasure filled me as fresh air gathered in my lungs
already I miss shelter
and answers
Neck hurts: I'm calling in sick
by Richard Wink
Tonight the sky is painted with my mistakes
straighten up
because of my bad posture I cannot even attempt redemption.
The world around me is a whisper
and you
are all actors of varying degrees of talent.
The milkman stands for anarchy
as pints explode on my doorstep
I open my door
to scare away the cats
who snarl
a whiff of drop dead
In spades
by Richard Wink
Some fucker stole my doner card
but left my Visa,
they knew better.
I stand in shame behind two people
who have no more than
five years left before they expire
It pains me to say this
but i'm out of credit
Talk later?
By accident, you put
Your money in my
Machine (#4)
By accident, I put
My money in another
Machine (#6)
On purpose, I put
Your clothes in the
Empty machine full
Of water and no
Clothes
It was lonely.
at the delaware avenue quick-trip
by Justin Hyde
a barefoot guy
in boxers
sitting on a
power-box
doesn't flinch
as i park
and walk in.
you know
you got a live-one
out back?
i ask
as she rings
me up.
yea
i called the cops
an hour ago.
want me to wait
till they
show?
thanks
but i don't think
he's trouble
for anyone
but himself.
what's up?
he calls
in a wet-cracked-bass
that tells me
he's been at it
a few days.
i put my case
on the hood
and keep a
safe distance.
it's over
over for me,
he yanks at
two handfuls of
dirty orange hair
and starts
moaning.
cops are
coming buddy
you live around
here?
you call cops?
he flashes black
tries to rush me
and falls face first
in the grass.
no man
the clerk
had too,
i say
halfway
throwing my back
out
getting him in
my passenger
seat.
he's all noodles
and cross-eyed
butterflies
for hands and
mouth.
i give up
finding his place
and
park on the street
a block over
from my house.
a few beers
even him up
a little.
tells me
his fiance's
been in germany
and iraq
for two years.
she's flying in tomorrow
and he's been lying
about getting on with
the union and
buying them a little house
because he was jealous
she'd find someone better
over there.
god
whatam-i-gonnado?
he grabs me
hard at the shoulders
pleading through these
pathetic little
paperclip eyes.
you need to
sack the fuck up
just be honest
and let the shit stick
where it splashes,
i say
wishing i would have
left his ass
to the cops.
no-no-youdon't-understand
i'm just grunt labor
for a brick layer
and rent the same
basement duplex
fuck-fuckfuck,
he grabs more hair
and bangs
his head
on the dash
three times hard
before the airbag
cuts me some slack
and decks him
cold.
New Year's Eve
by Dave Oprava
You're face down on the ground and I can't tell if you
are sleeping or drunk or dreaming or even if your
heart is beating. So I sit and look at the stars and
remembered that we met in the summer before the slush
froze and the leaves left for the ground and in this
winter moonlight you're still not moving, silent, no
sound, just the mist of my breath as it hits the air
and looks like ghost dancers that have silvery hair.
I prod you with my boot that you laughed looked like a
galosh from when we were four and your mother would
still kiss you on the forehead as she shuffled us out
the door and into the garden after the rain fell and
we hung around as your dad hung that swing under the
oak tree before he was ill and then he died a year
later and we stood holding hands as that man, your
father, was lowered into the ground.
You're still laying there and I'm starting to worry
that it's getting late, we need sleep, we both have
jobs where we think on our feet taking orders and
dishing out dollops of this food and that and somehow
it seemed like we would always be young, happy, and
not strapped to a place where we both hated being, but
that's how life turned out and I know you can hear me
as I'm seeing the past on the dirty night snow and
wondering where, after tonight, we can go.
Come on get up and lets get warm, my feet are cold
and...oh god, oh god....
Glue is made from horses and they are Edible
by Dave Oprava
Stop eating me she said and moved away from the knife
rack as I carved a new notch in my verbal position,
edible, it said and read backwards elbidle that meant
so much more to me seeing as how it was designed for
others to see and not me. Can you read, can you read,
can you eat me?
I stop trying to consume her and let her be like the
lettuce at the back of the fridge that had ceased to
be lettuce but was more like the fur you find on the
backs of small mammals and deranged esoteric
derogatory notes that you leave on my desk. I hate
them.
Our romance needs a new turn, one that speaks volumes
to fridges without dirigible thermometer hinges and
where I can smell the rest of the room through
borrowed olfactory looms that you lent me from your
mother's shop, the one that burned down around when I
stopped sniffing glue and became someone just like
edible you.