Snow Monkey

Simon Perchik

2012-01-02T12:00:00.000-08:00

*
You never get all its air out
yet this water boiling
takes your hands along --shopping

is its secret passageway
lowered in front this display case
half glass, half with the sea inside

though your heart stays dry
begins to tip-toe past something new
in a box that is not a wound

--to buy is all that's needed
is your fingers squeezing the Earth
for its first river, its first raindrop

flowing slowly as string
no longer thirsty or old
or trying to lift off the lines

from your palm while you count out
one by one :a language
only the dead still understand

--you pay and the bells you hear
know all about how a bubble not yet dry
trickles down on your lips

floating off around the corner
and you can open your eyes again
--you don't hear the moon but it's a start.

*
And step by step this cane
scratching the way the dead
plant their scepter in the darkness

--they never forget which end
takes hold so you limp along a path
or perhaps your shadow overflowing again

--they rule the ground, commanding it
to rise slowly, let you lag behind
while their castles drag you on

--even here there are nights
warmed by walls and longing
and one knee is always colder

--you make yourself lame
are helped into the turn
years ago pulled down to make room

for rain that no longer falls for you
only these stones that have the speed
are always in front, taking you back.

*
It's not a beautiful storm
--it needs more time, centuries
perhaps as sea birds

wingtip to wingtip the way water
backs up in the streets
half rain, half from memory

and everyone who died today
holding your hand
and not moving

--there's no more room
though the mourners
lash down the dead

who still give up their lips
trying to remember
safe in the grave

why each kiss now
has no bottom, nothing left
only the gentle breeze to come.

*
To urge the dead you lift
a small gift, placed so the height
waits motionless alongside

though you can't sleep anymore
afraid once your eyes close
there's no turning back, you'll drift

as darkness into darkness
--you bring these dead a sharp stone
the kind insomniacs find

under the kitchen table
--they loosen each tile
the way flowers are pulled out

still drinking from your hands
on the way to the cemetery --you pick up
everything! roads, shadows, dust

and carefully face to face
as if there was something daylight
left out as shovels and weightlessness.

*
Inside an ancient gesture this swan
spilling its guts though the pond
never overflows --only one bird

half sun, half longing to flare out
as if the first spark
came from the sky and still needs air

--you come here to breathe
and with one hand scoop the other
from the darkness in your mouth

and because death was done before
you wipe away all doubt
begin to sing till the Earth

circles you, sometimes on fire
sometimes rain falling as dirt
though you are no longer afraid

to clear your throat
--of course this swan is stone
as it should be and the fountain

is stone as it should be
and the sun buried an hour or so ago
under its shallow wings and your arms.

Amanda Sautbine

2011-11-27T10:05:00.000-08:00

I started the war. I won't say what side I was on--Union, Confederate; it doesn't matter. I was in love at the time, with someone, and had gotten no sleep the night before. Maybe that was why I pulled the trigger and fired that first shot. Or maybe I was just plain terrified.

David Levine

2011-11-27T10:00:00.000-08:00

Iron

I.

I am not a scientist.

All these colder closures, these
sealed hallways you hid,

they are not a threat.

II.

You wanted something tangible.
You would not hold me.

III.

Any other man
would let me breathe sky.

I want wings in my head.

IV.

I have crafted this mass
out of tile and hardwood.

I am tired of your flailing paper jet.

Your world will crash into my wall.

V.

You plant yourself in a new back porch
and point out all my trees.

The birches know.

VI.

I can't see the agency in your ice.
I burrow into dirt beneath high tension wires.

I am not a scientist.

This must be the right place to hide.

Tim Kercher

2011-11-27T09:55:00.000-08:00

Nobody in a Foreign Land

Nobody finds himself in a new country
and wonders if here he is somebody.
People stare, some directly, some
covertly, as he walks down the Cypress-
lined streets dotted with mortar holes.
He hears the whispers:
“Who’s that?” “Nobody I know.”
All the somebodies sipping coffee
in their steel-trellis chairs. Nobody
takes a seat and tries to order his own
coffee. But there’s something about
the way he orders, something about
the way his language dials in—
Zero. Zero. Zero. Goes
through his head like a mantra,
as if his very heartbeat is voicing
why his coffee never comes.

Eric Martin

2011-10-22T13:05:00.000-07:00

and i shall howl from babel's tower

radioactive candy corn newsprint
leaves orange glow-in-the-dark ink
on my fish-nibbled, whorless fingers
that do not leave visible or dustable prints
on this volcanic glass-smooth crunch-spire,
upon which i perform mental push-ups
my human presence undetectable except
by monsieur geiger's little clicky box
of wire-wrapped, assorted chocolates
don't eat the round ones; they're gross,
domestic--a product of unrefined oil
scraped from the gulf of mexico's floor
on which i strolled in the slowest of motions,
tethered to a raft of plastic bag-lashed moorings
that floated atop the sea-turned-mercury,
because everyone knows mooring anchors
don't float on water, they sink, they hold
the line of crap oil companies spew like
broken pump-pipes about safety in great
numbers, the safe sex of those pipes entering
drilled earth with no risk of oil baby defects.
that the manufacturer has sand-blasted
its non-existent yet multitudinous hands of,
knowing that purchasers will never read
the operating manual, even though it is
written in 101 languages: xhosa; khmer;
inuit; sumerian; the same manufacturer
of the tainted ink used to print the art scene
newsletter (the publishers, a canary named ty
and his sidekick, joe, bought it for a song)
that i have just consumed and excreted via
reverse osmosis to create this paper-mache
tower that crackles in the cold, quick wind
beneath my bare, frostbitten-black feet
and await the results of my poison-ink mutation
of body, mind, maybe spirit, and, if body,
i can guess what spirit will makes its nest
in the distorted form once me--a grey wolf,
howling for a careless, candy-ass canary.

Damping

The reactor that exceeds

two hearts' tensile strengths

looms in the car's headlights,

as he rehashes the dark

spots, driving under the

gravitational influences

of imposed logic and stifled

emotion on a starlit ranch

road that leads to this hot

vacuum of a house, home

to two suns in wobbling

orbit that flare at close

proximity but cannot pull

or will not break away

from blinding attraction.

It needs to stop, he knows,

this dual supernova in the

making, and he parks his car,

takes a few deep breaths,

puts on polarized shades,

and leaves to cool the fires.

Edward Manzi

2011-10-22T13:03:00.000-07:00

Gypsy

There is enough fire in me to burn a box of sixty-four crayons to the ground, to the pavement where little sneakers roam.

Neanderthal

Compose in me a circus of giraffes where the tomato is hatching grapefruits and the lumberjack is listening intently to the conch shell at the church where the octopus is giving a sermon.

Jim Bertolino

2011-10-22T13:00:00.000-07:00

Bobby's Brain

Before Bobby's brain tumor grew
to the size and shape of a castor bean,

he rode his toy motorcycle down the blue roof
onto the barefoot girl in a bathrobe--

where she was on her knees counting ants.
Luckily aspirin and band-aids were available.

The incident was quickly forgotten,
but not before a pastry shaped

like a mule's ear
issued from Sylvia's oven.

Each of us, including our barefoot neighbor,
got a tasty chunk. It was the last time

we were all together. Bobby's virus
changed everything.

Simon Perchik

2011-09-10T16:00:00.000-07:00

You can tell this sink lost interest
though hour after hour you hum
another love song --it doesn't care

lets you shave, take over
half soap, half from that froth
--you are born already worried

and the mirror goes along :drain
is what mirrors do.
It's a little late for promises.

You promise you'll bring it flowers
that the sink will figure it out
--you say you'll stay all evening

the way one faucet is always rooted
in ice, arrives forever
and alongside carries away

the other and your face
helpless even now to flow
from your hands and bleeding.

Rich Ives

2011-09-10T15:45:00.000-07:00

Occupant

Someone slipped the baby past the door like a letter delivered to the wrong box, and I propped it up against the radiator to try to talk to it. No one seemed to understand how lonely I was.

Then the rice boiled over and while I was attending to the misguided dinner, the baby melted. "Ah yes, childhood flora," said the emergency operator longingly, and connected me to the Japanese Botanical Society. And no, I didn't know the baby's Latin name, so we couldn't be sure, could we, but rice water is good for just about anything, isn't it, and I ran quickly after the baby's mouth as it puddled beneath the dove's bamboo cage and burbled melodically toward the door.

I could hear the neighbors cooing softly in the hallway. My dove, perched now in the youngest living plant in my living room, answered, and the melted baby evaporated like mist from a delicate river.

Nickel Dropped in a Deadman’s Beer

To open the door, you must first create it. It’s the sound the insects make that changes the color of the leaves. A dream in which sparrows nesting in an empty room enter the eyes of a baby and return with a yellow string that doesn’t end.

The entree was fog, the wine no more than a damp sweat on the brow of the victim, who could only smell it until it scared him. (A critic denounces his rival’s poetic endeavors as primitive and the door to the man’s home finally opens.)

They made a copper door and closed it. They made a sky.

I'm well fed.

We don't know these people.

A soldier slapping his hand against a post to feel something yells and then smiles, yells and smiles. (A campfire guiding travelers across the ballroom.)

Light being squeezed from a heated nail. The religious beliefs of a hole in the red clay sit at the table with winter. We can speak but we don’t. It’s not a conversation either of us wants to have.

Suzanne Marie Hopcroft

2011-09-10T15:30:00.000-07:00

Displacement

Lash me with your alabaster
tongue the flush of
cherries round
your throat

Crinkle up your violet
brows your half-moon waist bent
double mocking my
distress

Bare your flaxen teeth as fierce as
pearled curls flicking (yours of
course) across my
putty face

World is turning backwards and not
just these hues but also
my regard I
find entirely displaced

Summer break

2011-07-01T16:23:00.000-07:00

Time to hit the trails and head for the high country. Will be reading again in September when we start Issue 22.

Alan Zhukovski

2011-06-01T13:15:00.000-07:00

Sunny Haiku

Sunlight foxes.
Hens of clouds.
Risky business.

***

Birds in yellow.
Risky dresses
Of the sun.

***

Sticky birches.
Resin water
In the pond.

***

The door of light.
The night is locked
Inside the space.

***

Electric rats
Are licking water
In the storm.

***

The stream of light
Has burned the valley.
Cruel war.

***

A tiny lake
Behind the bridge.
Another country.

***

A future tree
Has dug a tunnel
In the pavement.

***

The night is gone.
There is no time
To burn the river.

Jeremy Aufrance

2011-06-01T13:10:00.000-07:00

Him, 1950
Escape Plan

I’ve said it before but didn’t mean it
and meant it before but never said it—

pack your things, put them in my truck
and say goodbye to this smoke and dust town.

The men down at the diner chuckle
when I come in the door. They aren’t afraid

of me, talk about your kids, call you
“another man’s second helping”

like I don’t know. I try to ignore them,
but how can I? Is there a secret

you’re not telling me? I can’t take the eyes
on the back of my head, my burning ears—

but there’s nothing for us here. Grab your kids
and come with me to Nowhere, Ohio.

This isn’t a life, only a trap you’ve gotten
stuck in. It’s time for you to stop worrying

and come with me. Let them keep talking.
Let’s build ourselves a life we’ll both fit into.

Diane Webster

2011-06-01T13:05:00.000-07:00

Parking Lot

Like a mother making sure her child is safe,
like a thief timing comings and goings,
like a child peeking out from hiding
to see if anyone still searches
I sit in the bar’s parking lot.
If I go inside, everyone will know
I look for another for a drink
for a dance for a night.
I just want to talk, find someone I like.
I don’t drink, don’t dance, not
a one-night stand --
I don’t think.
Sit in a booth with a mysterious aura,
see if I radar in to someone.
Wait for her to catch my eye
or could I be so bold as to touch her arm
and say, “Hi. How you doing?”
Could months of getting-to-know-you
pack into an intuitive consent
to demolish my walls?
Could I haul my ass out of this car
and walk inside?

Daniel Gallik

2011-06-01T13:00:00.000-07:00

Two Reasonable Adults Discuss a Good Marriage

He was surprised she accepted his idea so readily.
He had a smile on his face when she entered the kitchen.
She asked him if he was feeling comfortable, maybe even hungry.
He did not understand what she meant by that.
She stated that sentence again and waited for a response.
She had been very, very polite lately, and this statement made her smile and smile; feel warm inside.
She had her head raised in an elite fashion, waiting.
He said that he was feeling rather good, that he actually felt good about himself and where he was heading.
She asked again if that meant he felt good about himself.
She said she was also interested in whether he was hungry.
He looked into her eyes and said, that yes, he was hungry.
She told him that supper was soon and that she had planned a rather formal evening of food.

He again peered into her eyes and said he had a hunger.

Mark Neely

2011-05-01T22:25:00.000-07:00

Triple Elvis

Hillock says life is grand-

fathered in so just

as might spit chew drink rot

close in on any laquered body

you can

Hillock says barn it all

barn a billion

chickens shitting bingo barn

every hair-sprayed autocrat and

porn star

take your guilt

your concrete-booted

desire and polish until the holy dog

starts ankling its tethers

take your lead regret

Hillock behind which crouches

gloom stroking sparks

from its cat hair coat I declare

your shape a dirt mound

dead roil

under declare you

a masochist by

weight a dandy pushing

a little red up

between your thighs

a road

hillock burns up

behind us as he fires

toward his untimely

(great) demise

Bill Neumire

2011-05-01T22:20:00.000-07:00

Please Understand

It's not the day you've been waiting for. It’s not your biography, but rather the story of the only man who fell through a cumulonimbus & survived. You are not that man & because of this the world is not yours. Please understand, you don't make the rules; Heidegger, after everything else, came to emulate Black Forest peasants.

You have waited in line for hours, but it is not yours. You did not write the book titled Ignore Me yet. It is not that day, which will arrive as a horrible machine much like this. There was once a terrible translator of the great architect's work who corrected blueprint flaws; these buildings became enduring structures in Europe & Asia, squat & tyrannical they stared at their cities like mothers-in-law thinking hideous thoughts. It will not be partly cloudy.

This little girl, why is she alone in the bourbon evening? She calls the machine angel-maker. The man is always is in the theater that repeats the life in the cloud. It tears at his clothes and flesh. He is buckled to himself. When someone else speaks, another cloud emerges. Please understand, the rules are loose & always changing.

Marissa McNamara

2011-05-01T22:10:00.000-07:00

Breaking Up: 10 Methods

I. At the table: knife, fork, salt, spoon
and napkins.
Lots of napkins.

II. In the car. Tear a map down the center.
Place one ½ on the driver’s seat.
Forget the keys.

III. The park. Yes. Go there.
Push one empty swing.
Leave.

IV. Over the phone. Call and hang up.
Do not answer when the return call comes.

V. In bed. Before sleep. Before sex. After sex.
Turn on the overhead fan.
Watch it spin.

VI. The post office. Open the blue metal box.
Drop the letter in. Close the box.
Stand at the box thinking for 5 minutes
or a week.
Bring an umbrella.

VII. Wait for rain.
Let it run down your face.
Listen for thunder.

VIII. Over very hot coffee. With too much sugar.
Speak quickly. Blow the steam.
Burn your tongue anyway.

IX. Write an e-mail. Read it over. Sign it With Love.
Delete With Love. Sign it With Love.
Repeat.

X. Cut off your arm. Offer it up.
Say I’ll never be the same.
You won’t.

XI. Don’t.

James Bertolino

2011-05-01T22:05:00.000-07:00

Clown Buttons

When I first began dating Mystique,
the guys at the bar said, “Hey! You goin’
woo-woo on us?” But I knew

they were glad I wouldn’t be whining
anymore about having lost Becky.
Mystique had a wisdom

I couldn’t even imagine. She’d studied
in India with a guru. When I admitted
I didn’t know what a guru was,

she got mad. Not wanting to let her
get the upper hand (like Becky),
I told her not to be pushing my buttons.

“You mean your clown-button chakras?
I’ve been pressing them since minute one!”
I got an image of Bozo, and had to laugh.

Now I consider her the canary in my mind.
She’s there, chirping somewhere behind
my forehead, and I know when she stops,

we’re all going down.

Vadim Vladimir Osadchi

2011-04-01T22:20:00.000-07:00

Train Station

"I'm beautiful, aren't I?" - because he can't find the time
Dreamy tracks convey a steam engine
Into a substream where he is the conductor
There, stone sprouts from water
Faceless spirits board the shuttle

But she follows on foot
The sea churns, catches red and yellow - icy sheets
On the other side of nowhere, the caravan pulls in
She can not find him - pairs of mists
Watching her from among the luggage racks

Heather Abner

2011-04-01T22:15:00.000-07:00

The Last Cowboy Poem # 52

For months
I’ve thought of nothing
but Stetson hats,
Tennessee whiskey,
and the way your stomach,
so tight with muscle,
makes me want
so much
to touch you.
But this is the last
cowboy poem
I will ever write.
Unless,
while driving my father’s pick-up
faster than is reasonable
through the switchback
curve
on Bull Run Road,
I change my mind.

James Schiller

2011-04-01T22:10:00.000-07:00

i didn’t want to scare you but listen

what i can’t understand is

how it used to be

in the big ancient chunks of time

when the earth was still

trying to get its shit together

before the engine of speech

tore through our brains

running down stragglers

guzzling everything

that people looked out

at a sky so cut up with stars

and all that colossal black drool

and didn’t just bash their heads in

or set their families on fire

and drive them away

into the goddamned

bloodthirsty jungle

what i can’t understand is

how we were even able to hold on

with the whole planet spinning

like it was trying to make us dizzy

why we didn’t dig up the old volcanoes

after they got bored and shrank away

just so we could cry

and scream at them for leaving us

i didn’t want to scare you but

what i can’t understand is

why there aren’t more fossils

of lonely imploded humans

that simply fizzled out and quit

and hucked themselves

into some random bloated ocean

because everything out there was laughing

that terrible gooey laugh

and we didn’t know

what exactly that meant

but probably it meant

‘i dare you’

James Valvis

2011-04-01T22:05:00.000-07:00

Tom’s Final Plan

Fifty years he’s chased Jerry
   and hasn’t caught him.
He isn’t getting any younger
   and Jerry isn’t getting any slower.
So he formulates a final plan.
   No longer will be play dumb cat
to Jerry’s blazing, heroic mouse.
   Instead he’ll spend his days
relaxing by the fire, curled up
   on his kitty pillow. And wait.
It doesn’t take a year before Jerry,
   fat from unlimited cheese,
can no longer run without wobbling.
   The plan has worked, doing less
had been the solution all along.
   His hour of triumph has come!
So Tom moves in for the kill,
   but he’s put on weight himself.
He can hardly catch his breath,
   feels his chest constricting,
and when Jerry gets stuck
   waddling into his mouse hole,
his round bottom wedged tight,
   Tom dies suddenly, laughing.

Joseph Farley

2011-03-01T21:40:00.000-08:00

No Bravado

just tell it like it is
in single breath lines
without exaggeration
or pats to the ego

each language has
its own rhythm:
waltz, minuet.
jitterbug, tango.

let it flow!
let it flow!
a calm mountain stream
turning torrent below.

electric
cloud patter
across dark sky

Nathan Neely

2011-03-01T21:35:00.000-08:00

Hear, New Here

If not sleeping sometimes dreaming, it’s the cat’s double tapping of a paw.
Thwacking open a vision into a fat TV still on lull.

That same awakeness wondering: where am I really…where I am.

A here for now being myself.

Then later a someotherthing.

A something else a different someone.

Like light changing actually constantly throughout the day, me.

So Sunday with football switched flatbread foods.

Fanfare.

Monday.

Yesterday nostalgialogy to suit up for this weak week.

Work wins over for a day-times-five. Sloughing off the Zimmerman, Robert. How
it will have to be now.

To say:

The networks are all down by some other hand. Endless banter and demanding
headperson says: do now what will be sillily asked now and probably forgotten not
later.

This all leading into wedingly windnessed dayness here all sudden wednessdays
and customer tripouts.

Cigarette scratch covering the keyboards of confusing technologies to the lagging.

To the madness of seen unknowing segueing into the self unknowing of strangeness
religion life stuff.

People whom younger than our mothers face-crease into a vein of humanity that has
devolved into something that brings us into sadness. Wanting. Thirst

Thursdays. There before the dawn of a short-term new beginning. Or just the typical
new birth.

These Thursday night buttons at my fingertips press like silly putty or landmines.
They are here now. Welcomed. Frying
the things within the scalp. Just there.

Friday it makes us think of sun and fish and chimpanzees on rampage.

Music comes more fluidly. An unclogged i.v. threading uncomfortable. bending over
our past and putting it to it and forgetting until it matters.

She’s pulled off so many times. Many times of putting to it and forgetting both she
and not really i. sat her this day. Shat I at the same time.

Saturday. What do I have to say? What say do I have?

M.P. Powers

2011-03-01T21:30:00.000-08:00

A Strangely Isolated Place

Feeling like an open nerve ending
touched by a slight breeze
(or slighted by a touched breeze)...
I am trying to spell out
all the underlying forces at work
in me. The sonic dump
of my grumbling mind, your voice
inside, like trembling petals
of an ancient garden.
You brought me great
jewels yesterday, and the stinging rain.
The faces of fat flowers
that bloomed so
vividly. Was I not sincere
enough? Or were you too true?
Or maybe it was the air
between us,
full of static light and great distances.
The colors streaming
so brightly from your flaming
heart to mine. The colors
of a beautiful sunrise on a beautiful drive
home - rose, lavender, crimson,
scarlet -
all, quickly dying into blue.

Jon Cone

2011-02-01T19:10:00.000-08:00

BOBBY FULLER WROTE THAT
GREAT SONG ON MY iPOD
PLAYING ALL THE WHILE

The drunk oxidized one murderous forsythia
out back of the dwarf
observatory.
I heard harmonica from some dang porch swing.

My hand leaked
awkward like
into a transistor radio I’d made
from gunny-sack, mud and ear.

The one-eyed girl who swiveled funny
came my way.
I could feel her crawl down the dirty fleece
my skin was.

***

FROM A TIBETAN SCHOOLBOOK
OF THE DEAD ENGLISH PRIMER
for Ben Mirov

Where is the museum of prayer flags?
I have an animal of elegant limb.
Which mountain peak would you recommend
for its transcendent view? I have never seen
a lung fish. Have you?
How many kilometers to the nearest embassy?
My father is an embassy official and I am in desperate need
of a dentist. Please have the valet summon
an herbalist. The abscess progresses.
What sports do you enjoy? My uncle
played cricket swimmingly. Does your mother enjoy
the domestic arts? I originate
from a land that is low and flat. We have livestock
abundant, a number. Your coat is very
handsome and your wife is very delightful.
I have only a limited quantity
in funds. I will be leaving tomorrow
for India. I am politically a neutral.
How many sisters do you have?
Is that woman your sister?
I play traditional songs on my mouth organ.
The lung fish is indeed esteemed.
Sweet tea is rampant. Where can one go?
I will visit the monastery this evening
where the Buddha is much beloved.
I have several prayer flags in my valise.
Would you like two? Three?
The attractive tourists are Danish, though my
remembrances might be confused.
I saw one tourist doing deep-knee bends
beside the stream of restorative properties.
She wore athletic apparel.
I would be honored to view further
any attractive incarnation.
Where can I buy a skillet?
I have worn mine out.
Because I have been praying strenuously since my arrival
by plane my tour
has been thus far pleasant. How many
kilometers to the nearest temple?
It has been two months
since I last performed any ritual utility.
I agree kind sir the dead like to be honored.

***

BOTTLED MILK, DELIVERED DAILY

I revered the murals in your father’s house
Especially the one called ‘The New Boredom’,
When we left no one came to say goodbye
Because even the neighbors kept track of
How many times we left milk on the porch
To sour. On the road arm in arm in arm,
We crawled humbled by the ways and means
Committee of the heart that let us go where
We amused various red faced babies.
So many raindrops, so few teeth.

Laura LeHew

2011-02-01T19:05:00.000-08:00

In a Blizzard

between Basin and Butte
chrysanthemums litter the charred sky
pummel our little red Honda
cranking open the window
to ferret out the drowned road—

I could bring you so much pleasure
if you are ready for extinction

A Word Problem, 3

Karen, a serial monogamist, holds a doctoral degree in ministry. Every 30 days Karen purchases 3 pounds of Peets Gaia Organic Blend® coffee at $13.95/lb. for a cost of $41.85. Minus her Peetniks discount of $4.00. Plus $8.00 shipping which is calculated at time of shipment [Ground - Cont. U.S. (3-8 business days)]. There is no sales tax since Karen lives in Oregon. Weekly she purchases a 32 oz carton of RICE DREAM® Enriched Original Organic rice milk. The perfect non-dairy beverage, enriched with vitamins A, D & B12 with the same amount of calcium as milk. It is low fat and all natural and costs $3.70. She drives 2.55 miles to the grocery store.

The cost of gas is currently $3.23 a gallon. Karen’s 1999 periwinkle blue VW Passat with heated black leather seats gets 21 miles to the gallon in the city. It has 105,000 miles on the odometer. Recently Karen went to the car dealer to have the oil changed, mentioning to the service rep that some lights had just come on. 5 hours later the technician informed her that the ABS system had failed, her coolant bottle was cracked and leaking, the cam adjustor and valve cover gaskets were leaking oil on the exhaust manifold and engine block and the motor mounts were leaking hydraulic dampening fluid. The tech suggested replacement. The power steering fluid was dark and dirty; it needed flushing. Brake fluids were due to be changed, the fuel system needed to be flushed and a fuel filter replaced. AC was not working as the system was reaching “high suck” pressures due to the AC fan having failed. They suggested replacement. Estimated cost of repairs: $3,200. Blue book value of the car, if it were in moderate shape: $3,208. The car dealer proposed a trade-in. She declined. Karen did, however, authorize an oil change for $29.99 and paid $185.36 for the diagnosis including labor, parts and miscellaneous. It was the hottest day of the year, reaching 97 degrees. Driving the car home with the windows down Karen adjusted the mirrors. The knob broke off and flew out the window.

The Nissan Leaf a 100% electric car with zero emissions is expected to be priced under $35,000. (Less than the average driver spends on gas over 10 years). MSRP is $33,720 with federal tax savings from 0-$7,500. After tax savings, Karen’s net costs could be as low as $26,220, assuming $1,999 initial customer payment. The Leaf will be available in limited quantities in late 2010. Alternatively, Karen could purchase a 1999 black Mercedes at the cost of $13,999. It has been converted to use bio-diesel and is available today.

16 oz. rice milk lattes with sugar free vanilla cost $4.25 from Full City Roasters. Full City is 7 miles away from Karen’s home. Which variant gives Karen the smallest carbon footprint: buying her coffee out or brewing her own? Please show your work and don’t forget to add in the cost of tipping the barista.

John Yohe

2011-02-01T19:00:00.000-08:00

Individual coming together

The rain

the black oak tree, a rock

the open space in front of it, broken

stillwater, a mirror

whose face the wind destroys

the wind, with its desire to destroy

and on my wrists the long red scars

each erased of its many pictures.

I never believed a body’s mending held

the unknowns of its blindness:

weeds, mud tracks on the floor

a woman pulling away from her husband

across a dusty hotel bed, insulting him

as though his obedience caused it

I never saw them come together

the jagged wind that went out finally

I never dreamed of not watching that

the way we watched the sky on winter days

your foot on my back, the lipstick

the cold air

there is a darkness, and pleasure

the bound wrist changes everything

like wind feeds fire or carves rock

unseen, unidentifiable

except felt on the skin, exposed

my love for you this fire

my love for you this fire

burning in the desert

brighter than the lights of Phoenix

brighter than the moon & stars

in land too thick and steep to contain

I can only wait and try to sleep

while isolated pockets flare in the night —

orange light and crackling

my love for you this fire

these embers staring out of trees

these cat-faced snags

this smoke choking my lungs

blinding my eyes

and the ash covering my skin

the grit on my teeth

the heat on my face

stopping me from getting too close

Joanna M. Weston

2011-01-01T21:15:00.000-08:00

AND THEN

stopped at half-past
the New Year
to watch waves of green
pink fading to yellow
cascade the sky
blurring into
an impossible horizon
and taking stars
further into orbit
while we, anchored
to the roadside
heard a distant wind
and a faint voice

Neila Mezynski

2011-01-01T21:10:00.000-08:00

Men Who Wait

Why don’t cha’ sofa soft, hard to get up off for a days work. Desert. Wasteland. Me, maybe. Suitcase packed. Twenty more years time to practice. Interminable. Tomorrow.

Michael Estabrook

2011-01-01T21:05:00.000-08:00

In the old world

I - The old world is different

than the new world,

a more solid texture to things,

more resilience, confidence, timelessness,

everything with obvious purpose and place.

II - Outside my hotel window

I see racks of bicycles,

a woman pushing a baby carriage,

a bus spewing smoke,

the squeal of a train stopping

at the station slices through the dusk.

A black and white image like from a scene

in Casablanca flicks into my mind:

dark-clad people, wearing hats,

clutching themselves tightly pressing forward

into the wind, dirty snow on the ground,

in the background a Nazi car watching

like an untrustworthy gargoyle.

III - And I’m sitting here

in a comfortable chair in my hotel room,

trying not to succumb this early

to the jetlag and I’m thinking, as usual,

about you, at home looking after things,

missing me too, or maybe not.

Christopher Vola

2011-01-01T21:00:00.000-08:00

Tonight is Losing Teeth

One evening Uncle spit into your brother and reached for a bowl.

"Snap Crackle and Pop," he said, and you shoved him sense then, for you and your brother, into the corner table next to him until his head hit white bread and you licked the ketchup off and your dad charged in (bellowing through the house with your tee shirts pulled up, fleeing to your room and hidden under your blanket, exposed). You would smack your bellies then.

Instead, things were quiet for hours. You fell asleep being aliens. Afternoons spent you up.

Your brother was fine, screaming at the wall, "We’re not afraid of you," regenerated, grown into two new heads, wormlike as you jumped, punctuating the word "kitchen" and wanting to know if you wanted some and laughing like crazy. At some point your brother’s throat was swallowing mint chips, silently muttering.

The weirdness of childhood. The things that make Rice Krispies (the snapcracklepop), the things that make your chair. You hadn’t considered the sharp things you did. You smeared ketchup on slices cracked open.

Your brother started wailing and left the bread on your plates. You ran around demanding to know what had happened. You, your heads, arms still in the sleeves, stomachs expecting horrible punishment at any moment.

"Oyoyoyoyoyoyoyoyoy!" you thought.

Eventually your dad woke and came in. His head had split in two.

"Oscar the Grouch!" you shouted that over and over.

Uncle was having some ice cream in his “grouch” by landing on your butts instead of feet. You tottered from the kitchen as one expressing displeasure at a given situation. Your dad licked his lips. "Snap Crackle and Pop, the old mouth." One remembers the origin of this phrase.

Simon Perchik

2010-12-01T22:15:00.000-08:00

7 poems

*
Your shoulders in overhead sweeps
pulling you through the dark water
--you're turning the Earth
from its center, eyes closed
as if you still need the soft, white pillows
the nurses left at your sides.

It still snows, it rains
and my eyes too are useless
without some glass bent over to comfort them
--we can't look up, blindfolded
like a man about to be shot
his eyes kept empty
as if they could reach out
fill his ears with riversides

--what you hear is this Mason jar
and the fresh mound
these berries will feed
--they're sweetening the winter now
and the fields grow fat, peaceful

--you hear its jar from the middle
and the dirt that must know by now
still sniffs my hand
streaming with blood
and the fingers too are missing.

*
Barely coating the corner trim
this dark green must think it's summer
and pinecones shimmering
till the knots too show through

--even the air, back and forth
till a thin breeze
warms the wood, covers your arm
still coming out the ground
and opening outward

--this paint will take years
dries the way I move to a new place
--first, it can be sure this house
will be pulled by a river
that's been forgotten
then slowly opens the sky and around you.

*
Two syllables :the curve
where her name can turn homeward
and the path take on the shape
the spiral working its way

--you see the name bend
leaving your eyes
for the ice that trembles between your hands
and rivers sinking into the Earth

--in your arms her name and its shadow
has a forehead, made from iron
--you can't lift it closer, kneel
till no light enters or leaves

--two sounds that have no sound
but the longing for the small feathers
that flutter past your lips
shake the sky loose and in your arms.

*
The air I breathe out stays cold
fills with stones and unyielding flowers
--I still gather these sharp blooms
fold my shoulders over the height
that arrives without trees
without the space between them --each
evening

another stone and falling through the sky
its breeze rippling outward
turning back the sun, bloodstained, lifeless
left rearing from the battlefield
one by one, carried out
never again so blue
and looking for flowers.

*
It's not the needle, leaving
is always faint, a metallic hum :my blood
and along this clear glass tube
while you stare from some cockpit canopy
banking slowly into ice, then rain, then ice
never coming to an end

--not the sudden breeze
unfolding under my skin
though you grip my wrist, count the years
till I say that in the dark
my breathing slows --more light! and you

press a small warm bulb into my eyes
tell me inhale, deep, go down
--come back, you say, kisses
will bathe me, --my blood show where
--a plane can't just disappear

its enormous wing embedded in my heart
and fill this tube, piece by piece
falling without me.

*
One by one and every Spring my eyelashes
somehow taller, lush, almost green
--every few hours I need rainwater
more blades --3, 6, 10 times a day.
How red the sea must have been.

I don't let my beard and the leaves
are gone :shave till my face
smells from those seablooms
that became my heart, my arms
my legs too need running water
and birdsong --this razor
can't keep up! tree after lifeless tree
chipped for its still warm dust

for that first timid wave taking root
on shore as if all these warm breezes
now filled with soft seawater
new branches :Spring, one behind the other.

*
Dorian's lips in ruins
and the slow song
that never catches up --her son

not yet named, almost weightless
born with a bone already broken
and his arm left to heal.

Perhaps he will remember
how sometimes even the sea
needs more room, even that tiny hand

wanting to take hold the world
--perhaps with a name, made whole
by a sound that left some far coast

shipwrecked, to make an offer.
The doctors say but what

James Bertolino

2010-12-01T22:10:00.000-08:00

Carotid Song: A Kind of Triolet

She proclaimed, “I am the MasoChrist,”
and took a karate kick to the carotid.
Feeling dizzy, as if shaking off lice,
she uttered, “I am the MasoChrist!”
Her aggressive partner said, “You must slice
through your self-importance and be rid
of any notion you are the MasoChrist.”
She delivered a stunning blow to his carotid.

Lyn Lifshin

2010-12-01T22:05:00.000-08:00

STILL

under the gray paint
maybe still the
DNA of your palm.
It was the first night.
I wish I had known
I’d already fallen
for your voice,
your stories on night
radio. Who could
want a man without
a treasure of tales?
Isn’t it when each
person’s stories run
out it starts to get
boring? Your plastic
leg like a totem
while you held me,
too few nights, the
beat that my heart
skipped

Murray Dunlap

2010-12-01T22:00:00.000-08:00

A Calming

Never worry, my sweet girl. Never worry. He has no hidden agenda. No secret plan. He just likes you is all. And tells you so. Never worry, sweet girl. He has enough support to get through this spell. He'll figure it out. And he'll do things for you, if you would just let him. Let the poor boy, my sweet. Let him have his moment of being normal, and paying for his dear new friend to have a nice time out. It's for him, you see. Just know that. You would not be doing this otherwise. I understand. And so does he. He just likes you is all. And wants to help. Just let the boy. And he's your friend for life. Know that too. For life.

So when he calls from the phone on the corner, let him. Just let him. He’ll lay your number on the table by the window, and he’ll think about it for a spell in the couch. But then he will get up, walk to the window, lift the pad and call. Just let him.

And be calm. Let the new angles of life allow you to see clearly. He's got a clear view of them. He'll show you. He'll take your hand and hold it easy and snug. Just right. And if this is hard for you, please just tell him. He'll understand and slip out of sight. But if you can manage a smile, please tell him it is ok. My dear sweet girl. My dear. He's falling. Falling hard. Don't be afraid. It's silly. Just let him. Let him fall and he'll do whatever you need. Anything. Just keep this on the outside. No need to hide anything. He's honest to a fault. You see, it helps him remember. Lies get lost. But you, you would never be lost. You just smile and be you. That is all he requires. And my dear sweet girl, he's your friend for life. Just know that.

So be calm. There is nothing to worry about. Nothing. It's easy. Just relax and be calm. Your calming will calm him. And perhaps you will see that he has gone insane. Entirely insane. And you will see this if you see him through the window he is calling from. Insane.

But calm.

Ron Reikki

2010-11-01T22:30:00.000-07:00

I’M IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY AND I KNOW I’M NOT GETTING THE JOB

but we still have to finish this meal.

They bought me durian for dessert;

eating it is like preparing an essay

for a teacher you hate. The woman across from me

is a drunk, but she works here. How did she

get in? We eat. We don’t know what to say.

I start talking about Jeff Noon’s Vurt

but no one’s heard of it. Now I feel

like I could vomit. I’m ready to kill someone

for a job. When they’ve never had to work for one.

PAM (STARING INTO THE SUN)

I keep thinking about when she left.

There was this burning smell in the riot

of my breaths.

I think the greatest horror

is realizing you can’t kiss someone again.

I think it’s too fiery, these realizations . . .

The past only leaves you with steam.

Brian S. Hart

2010-11-01T22:25:00.000-07:00

excerpt from
The Psychoanalysis of Clarence Checkeredfish

|snow * of the visible * breath * peters to blue * fog * of dreamy night stories, awesome is this day * men and women born all over * “…never does a soldier give up the cause…” * again * who will bear the honor * wear * the uniform, with the Green Sprig on * the left shoulder, a commendation-pledge of allegiance to American farmers * alongside Antoine Elephant * the world trembles * even the King * is not afraid to * bow down * “Where’s Luke Day…” * our ((24) “Mangled clue A peeves, surprise advantage” (3, 2, 6 3 wds. 173 24 193 241 4 240 129 255 116 248 13)) * “‘Messy’ should have reached him by now…” * says a * nervous * Longhill St. * farmer * know now great storm of history *cannot be changed * only the future * abides * by * spirits * forever about * what will the * promise * of today * be * to America’s * future * “‘Trader’ Mills, Cap’n should we shoe him out…” * nah! * ignore it * then * nod * t’ * get “Kid” Root out of here * will a diamond * be kept * inside * a chest * now * and always * the timeline * in mad leaps and bounds * rushes * ahead * or back * depends * upon * answers to mysteries, and then new ones * Chinese dolls inside dolls * in lavish dresses * twirling parasols * stroll * along the Tao * Lao Tzu says * “the spirit of the fountain dies not” * ages * like wine * ice lay in a sea of madness * the pretty skater is sure to * dance a * cart * wheel * another * pirouette to Hayden! * playful * gentlemen arrive in tuxedos * aren’t about to miss it * sharpened skates screech to a delicate halt, the complex * minuet finishes * water breaks * tears * of joy * gush * overflow * fall * like ticker-tape * to cryptic streets and memories * (“See, here! There! Dr. Seuss of Mulberry St, at the crossroads of ((2) 6 1 wd. 198 180 95 125 168 210) and ((1) 7 1 wd. 79 151 53 163 200 7 174) * the heights * of Billy Conn * Blvd.! * or ((21) “Lion tamer’s straw, influence with exhilaration! Famous Western Massachusetts road!” (6, 5, 7 3 wds. 161 224 218 236 50 143 54 35 212 177 204 87 123 100 49 221 230 60)) a tiny girl * to be a woman! * pirate! * says * “Roses for the Main St. girl!” * she’s a fan of Archimedes! * crown achievement! * salut! * Eureka! * “…all behind the…” * curtain, mirrors * you, too * “…are welcome...” * come join, celebrate * the Queen’s coronation * everyone enjoys a wild parade * centuries ago * snow|

|snow * Pic…a’s * ’magine * dilettan…t…e * prevent * ma…ll…e… * …n…a…ble * ane…choi…c * d’…gung…h…o…t…e…x * ce…l…a…n… * d…in…e…bri…cabrac…ate * architec’ * …ul…ture… * o’ * …en…jantment * Mrs. Winchester * Wicca * as * k…h…a…li…b…e…i…r…u…t…k…i…a…ta’…vism * dasha’ * so * eas’ly * totala’ * Cap’d * shakes’ * spirit * snow|

|snow * “Memorize…!” * so * einstein * born * in * german! * europ * franc! * gese * omin! * calm * tho * rainy! * titani * rub! * bery * oxen! * od * state * californi * suf! * dym * polo * hall! * coal * lit * radi! * alumin * haf * pot! * plat phor us! * americ * anthum * tune! * sele * act! * mercy * no * bel! * nice * ruth * gal * tellur * lambeosaur! * hdgen * camiu! * fem * lori * gon! * ado * prom * tim! * silc * trim * denum * hem! * fur * ’enon * go! * sir * ron * he * irc pal * ’erb! * men * ces! * are * thu * yt! * scan * pros * mag! * indi * car on! * tech * inc! * homi * lad * lute! * obi * rid! * law * proact! * samari * cop * van * rod * bam! * kypt * gaol! * mum! * stron * cerium! * tanta * yum! * trogen * cur! * bek * pluto! * bimuth * prased * neptun! * “Ele…menta…l…ry, my dear…son!” * séance * alchemy * T.A.B.L.E. * to * transition! * slowly, now * could be * genuine * ESP! * “Yes, S’r!” * BeCaMgRaBa! * send * Halloween * letters * IIA! * rare Earth! * dinosaur * land! * radio attack! * Mrs. Winchester * give you! * Ca. tan! * meteor * credit for! * extra * laugh at! * sheets * book! * who * Dee * knee * under * cover…s! * egg! * please allow! * costume! * let! * Hg * Welles * ZnCd! * grow * up * why not be a * chemist! * uh! * ue! * us! * uq! * un! * uo! * snow|

|snow * hike * through! * tri slant! * bakers * tress * crooked! * pass Bacchus’ shadow! * on * way of life! * eyes! * “do…” * Oahu! * “…take…” * …ze… * …n * “…as lawful…” * t… * …w… * …o… * scramble * “w…” * …o… * r… * h… * “…e…” * …a… * …r… * “…d…” * “…d…” * …s… * …n… …a… * …t… * …r… * …e… * a… * …n… * …c… * …h… * “…ed” * wif… * …fl… * …e * ball! * “I” * think I * “do!” * so! * islands are just! * Descartes * to * Xantippe * of * mount… * ….ebank! * backbite! * relish * baklava! * King * at * Olympus * time! * a… * …Z… * e… * …u… * …r… * …o…-z… * …e… * r… * …r * …O… * a… * …st… * …er * …ra… * …N… * …g… * …E… …S…! * make int… * …r… * o! * specialty is! * T… * …ok… * …a * …y… * …o! * a la King! * “This is…” * Philip… * pines * to smoke * …t.… * …o… * b… * …ac… * backspin! * reverse psychology! * violin * engender * sextet *fugue * remembers * Bach * backwards! * backstage! * Pirate Blue * consult Baedeker * for * apron * type! * smart! * Polynesian! * Gallicism! * rich * franc * is * bacon! * boy * to * cook * breakfast * now! * pot! * bum rang * British * bar… * …t… * …en… * …d… * …in… * …er! * care * to * take! * …r… * …evolutionary * come back * for another! * simple * matter of * m… * …ate! * bigmouth sleeper! * can probably bench… * press 32 * …c…. * …ar… * …at… * …o… * …us… * …a… * …l… * …lion! * of… * …f * woods! * bluff * worldly * sea * lion * Queen! * Galapagos! * attractive! * her majesty’s * seahorse! * Ja… * …Pan * race * around * cake! * kick ! * slips! * ha! * r’… * …m… * …o… * …l… * …as… * …e… * …n… * …o… * …n… * …s… * …e… * …n… * …s… * …e… * …mble… * …y! * girl * act! * shop * quartet * verse * o’ * “Midsummer…” * between * gi… * …g * “…Night’s …” * adder * bo… * …X * against * spring * …presse… * …s… * …war… * …d… …im… * …m… * …inent * …er! * isles! * bees! * dar… * …wi… * …n… * …ed! * fool! * mistaken for! * Poe! * t… * …hin air! * at cloud * gather! * to * Alaska! * May * break * altitude * record! * Jun… * …co… * …e… * …d * …au… * …phin * Sun * on burner! * swim to! * nothing * time o’ * backdate! * not yeti! * few months * to * block * new * beautiful * girl * Jul’ * of * T’bet! * August… * …t… * …an! * handle! * where * time * hono’! * Lulu * is! * more beautiful than! * house! * arrest! * me * on * leave! * of absence! * how far! * west * from * England! * Corp. Bird * please * to remember * Pittsburgh * say * always * keep ya’ * moustache * through * out! * snow|

|snow * d… * UNESC… * …O! * …p… * …r… * …e… * …t… * …or… * …t… * ….y * sand * verses! * beautiful! * mer! * Lyn! * Ace of Diamonds * artwork! not so! * pointed! * bea… * …r… * …ds * d… * …o… * …w… * …n! * all looks! * magical! * exactly! * like little crush! * Bebryx * shirt! * on * hard knocks! * bema gal! * whistle at gam! * ((7) “Fischer’s yak! Becoming girl’s footwear!” (8 1 wd. 104 63 242 148 83 67 189 179)) * cheer * damsel * in * distress! * wish * to * give athlete * lei! * gamy * gamine! * jest! * to visit! * yegg! * dream cycle! * gammon! * Las * V… * eg… * ascoda Gama! * blackjack * hit * with 2 * straw * boot! * jacquard * cuss * 3 * toe! * bigmouth jerkwater * take * basilisk to alcazar! * death * rod * of * rattle * born * snake! * Corp. Bird * aflutter! * wake-robin * to * witch hazel! * brew * Mrs. Winchester * freestanding! * surprise! * gamble * on * hot * port o’ * mu… * …ch… * …o… * …a… * …c… * …o… * …ha * late * morning * game! * Pirate Blue * jaunty * jumper * who’ll save! * ogle * Hercules! * throw stone! * demarcate! * gambol! * pick-up! * joie de vivre! * member! * Charlie Plume! farmer * pear * tre… * …mo… * …r… * …lo * v… * …e… * ..l… * …vet! * h… * …ar… * …b… * …or… * …s * d’oeu * …v… * …r… * …es * …t * au * r… * …e… * …a… * …n… * …t… * …e * for cause! * snow|

S. P. Flannery

2010-10-01T19:00:00.000-07:00

Earth Pulled Wrong

Eclipse. We dance
in the absence.
Feet create new steps.
Arm flail religious
because bees are
blind. Information
stagnates the air.
Data streams dam
continuous motion.
We writhe ringed
by the corona. An
infant's picture is
captured, fire
encircles the body.
Those pleasant few
who gaze with open
intensity are rewarded
with inner sight. Fights
explode anxiety. The
moon freezes, lingers
longer than one expects.
Bats emerge early to
feed. Sonar hears
a brand new world.
These chiropterans fly
into the unshrouded sun
never felt before.

Ana Silva

2010-10-01T18:55:00.001-07:00

Tonight

tonight
now
this house
I breathed the livingroom
punk, punk, punk
her needle pulled the cloth
tighter

Kai Laursen

2010-10-01T18:55:00.000-07:00

BLACK BUTTE FLYING SAUCER TRANSMISSION

I TELL YA GOOD BUDDY WE GOT BRIGHT LIGHTS BEAMING DOWN IN ALL DIRECTIONS AND HEADLINES ABOUT FLYING SAUCERS IN PHOTOSHOP CLASS I’M PERFECTLY WILLING TO BELIEVE IN FLYING SAUCERS BECAUSE I HEAR THEM RAVE AT THE CLUB WITH SHORT SKIRTS AND GREEN TIGHTS THEY ARE BECOMING PSYCHEDELIC POSTERS WE DONT KNOW THE FUTURE WE KNOW THE FUTURE HEAVY CLOUDS BUILDING A STRETCH OF RAIN LATER HE SAID IN AN ENGLISH ACCENT BLOODY HELL A TIGHT GAME SHE ONLY CONCEDED TWO POINTS ALL AFTERNOON IT REALLY CARRIED MUCH TO CLOSE SHE REALLY GOT A HOLD OF THAT ONE THE RUNWAY SIX AND OVER BIRDS CHIRPING IN THE BACKGROUND GIVEN IT WASN’T A CLEAN BREAK IN THE END THE BOUGHS HAD COME OFF STILL WELL DOWN THE PITCH AND LOOKING DOWN THE HEATHER LOVELY SHOT AGAIN WE HAVE TO MAKE ROOM FOR IT YES THAT WAS A REAL CROWD PLEASER THE POWER WENT OUT IN AGREEMENT.

Denis Emorine

2010-09-01T12:00:00.000-07:00

5 poems from "Those Words that Make Time Bleed"

1

You see the dead again goggle-eyed
in the ruins
and the astonishment
of the living
with child-like eyes
surprised
still to exist

At the end of the tunnel
the sun salutes
those who are going to kill
to kill again
TO KILL AGAIN

2

In the recognized warmth
the taste of death
suddenly appeased
is no longer the same

At the end of the gun
always the same scene
as in the cinema
the bodies crumple one after the other
blood has such a particular smell
that of forbidden games
In your sleep
the charnel-houses pass by where
the twisted bodies
always have the same posture
as if
astonished to be there
and to have been blasted so quickly

3

They advance step by step
You might think they were
children playing
or
hunted animals
but they
do not kill
to feed themselves

4

I have lost my address
on a lovely summer's day
I remember
the countryside was so beautiful on that day
here and there
some smashed houses were smoking still
four or five blackened corpses punctuated the landscape
with the black veil
of crows at work

I have lost my address I tell you
I lived in Auschwitz
Sarajevo
or Grozny I believe
but why
mention death
I ask you
It
is everywhere
at home

5

There are no more words
to use for war
the murderers took them away
with them
to bury them further away
there where
the shores of oblivion start
and finish
similarly

Translated from the French by Brian Cole

Cathlamet Prize for Poetry announced

2010-08-14T16:55:00.000-07:00

Ravenna Press has just launched its first annual Cathlamet Prize for Poetry, open through December 1. See the website here for details.

Summer break

2010-07-01T20:46:00.000-07:00

Snow Monkey is out of here for the summer. Hiking. Climbing. Tide-pooling. We'll be back in September with new poems by Denis Emorine for starters.

Simon Perchek

2010-06-01T06:10:00.000-07:00

*

You send your hands across but the light
stops in time --to the end
you never hear its screech
and though the wind returns from just so far

your hands are raining --they remember
when once the sun broke loose
and everything on Earth, even these stones
sang to call it back --a soft rain

holding on to that light the sun
still retrieves :each morning an ancient lullaby
thriving on the sun --you still keep
a small bulb lit and facing north

guiding the sun --still sit alone
at a table, at a come here
and lead your hands across the same light
that throws the moon on its side

--you reach for darkness everywhere
trust this distance racing toward you
--at every window you become weightless
and the wall still warm

pushing each star back to one another
--you fill your hand
with another hand, with singing, a light
almost asleep, closer and closer.

*

You tried to say, Send distances
missing all these years --words
don't need a mouth
for a landmark --they find their way
through stones in riverbeds
in old bread that has your soft voice
your drifting away, hands closed.

It's not a particular bird
that the bath in the backyard
thaws and the water in your lips
becomes dark red :a great wave
come back from somewhere far
sweeping away and in my arms

--I send you distances --one by one
one from this bird, one from
these few seeds
and I am over the world
feeding the world through Spring
through its Winter.

You tried to say and this birdbath
whose stones still damp from the beach
huddle --I drink from here
as in a small cemetery
after a warm rainfall and my mouth
fills with flowers and distances.

Carly Pribyl

2010-06-01T06:05:00.000-07:00

A Short Essay on Desert Living

I.
You can’t imagine the kinds of things that live in the desert. Sharp, scaly rocks of things. Wet, globular clouds that shimmy across concrete. These things are like yeast, lying dormant until brick-oven heat whittles their shape. They burrow in the skin beneath your fingernails.

II.
Everything I own is packed. Everything I own has been divided and packed into twelve boxes. The boxes sit in the corner of a living room, inside a tract house. I don’t own the tract house.

I spend a lot of time trying to remember what is in each box. Books in the bottom five. Pictures and bedding in the middle four. Wine glasses and kitchen knives in the top three.

The middle four trip me up. I think I’m failing to account for something. It’s everything I have not to tap out one of the boxes like a Jenga block and rip it open at the flanks to check.

III.
I have never seen hours move this slowly. In the desert, time is dead.

I sleep in the sun. Let it rip my skin at its seams, boil out an Irish girl’s desperate tan. Nevada sun is wicked. Maybe the balance to California’s honey-spitting version. It dances between the deadly and the spiritual; in the desert, you are always poised between death and godly epiphany.

IV.
I decide the purpose of my being in the desert is to find a way out.

In the morning there is hope; I scour the internet for jobs in San Diego, Boulder, and Portland. It wanes at noon; I run countless miles, chiseling legs to flee on foot (should it come to that). In the evening I am faithless; I mix vegetable juice with vodka and cross my eyes at the Martha Stewart granite floors.

V.
Months masquerade as decades in the desert. I’m hired out of state four months after I arrive.

I can start next week, I tell them. They ask, don’t I need time to pack my things? No.

Heat is rising off the ground in visible waves the day I leave. Like water running over glass. Nauseating. My boyfriend helps load a (small) U-haul trailer. I carry a garbage bag of broken things to the curb. An empty bottle shard pokes through the plastic. It digs deeply into my right calf. I bleed everywhere.

My boyfriend argues with me about the Las Vegas emergency room. No. We’re losing time. I pull vodka out of a small cooler and drain it over the wound. I create a paper-towel bandage, seal it with electrical tape.

The U-haul bounces-a giant tin can-as we exit the desert. I am only vaguely aware of leg-blood pooling beneath the tape’s adhesive, dripping down the dash.

Adam Moorad

2010-06-01T06:00:00.000-07:00

l'étranger

lick old albert camus photos:

you see him with this long coat

standing in a doorway, his collar up

smoking gitanes, looking french

thus impossibly sang-froid to someone

from the backass american whateverness

el camino real

a pale victorian ghost-child

i rarely leave the house

so i have no lungs for action

i've noticed in the last ten or twenty years

i've slipped into horrible tabloid-fuelled puritanism

whinging white-haired into a hollywood buttocks

Helen Peterson

2010-05-01T10:10:00.000-07:00

Funny, You Don't Look Like a Grandmother

The first time Sweet Baby stopped flowing
her mama bathed her in a tub
till her skin ran livid
as her sunset hair.

Next time, she forced her daughter to mount
her horse, bareback, and ride between stones
crowning through hills
back and forth for weeks.

Not once thinking
perhaps the poor girl's eggs
simply shrank from fear,

that all she needed was
to meet new people,
eat a good steak.

Stephen Roxborough

2010-05-01T10:05:00.000-07:00

the molehill suite

1. a big job

he must have looked at the mountain
thousands of times yet it never
changed
and this disturbed him
because he knew change
was eternal
but from his perspective he couldn't fathom
how he could imagine
he wouldn't be able to see
the change
until it was too late
or he climbed the mountain
and it would change him

2. perspective

from afar he said
the mountain is very beautiful
perfect in its own
well documented way

but up close up real
not so beautiful
mostly rocks
slippery edges of shake
that move
underneath you

very hard to walk on
difficult to see
feet slipping on top of a mountain
from the sea town
where i live

3. invasion of the moles

when the mountains arrived
they tried to tell us
how big the gods are
how small we must be
but for the most part
we didn't listen
we wanted to conquer
the mountain gods
wound mystery
try to place us above
nature or feed ourselves
that illusion

4. the death zone

above the death zone
the mountain will eat you
alive

above the death zone
life is suspended
time stops
logic impaired
weather kills
sun blinds
cold burns
toes and nose turn black
fall off
as gravity asks you
to fall

angels call
yet wings do not work
words are useless
you cannot remember your prayers
when you need them most
time kills
air is lonely
your money will not save you
strange voices whisper your name
all names are the same
time slows
time accelerates
radiation cooks your brain

hearts must rise
to the occasion

5. the peak

you can see forever
you can live forever
forever is such a short time
time is compressed
no pressure to return
the world is at your feet
there is nothing to buy
perspective is lost
there is no sex
no drink no drugs
life is a dream
closer
is further
away

Keith Moul

2010-05-01T10:00:00.000-07:00

Dakota Swim

House lights here and there
in night’s deep pool flicker
like benevolent stars:
but black, Dakota air
douses each spark.

Or else we see our own lights
bounced weakly back
from aluminum cans
or prairie dog eyes.

Your silence comforts me.
I miss you when I blink.
I strain to keep
everything in sight.

No landmarks loom up—
so we could be in a sea
with fish that always sleep.

Some artist showed deft control
painting a perfectly straight
infinite yellow stripe.

Lisa Cole

2010-04-01T09:30:00.000-07:00

9

"the earth vibrates and we get wet//little red leaves fall//breathing on my back (spine) trying to enter me //like I am a door// like I am a room only, like I am-- //through all of the embers//enders//end//end-ings//memory again curses, pulses//revolts the inner workings of the human clock//tickticktick//tock//a bomb going off each time your chest contracts."

Amy Schrader

2010-04-01T09:25:00.000-07:00

Half-Dreamt Sonnet

As if somnambulist.
As if walking off the cliff
with arms outstretched,
eyes closed. As if

somniloquy: out, out—
our usual discussion.
Goldfish thrashing about
all night. Eyes open,

unblinking. As if lucid.
As if we know how
the sun reveals us: pellucid,
beneath the ice. Mouths

open. Wide open.

Sonnet for The Fool

I am the me in mine own story:
one step away from cliff, a handkerchief
hung on a stick. Stray dog, I’m you. You’re me,
so deeply leap, your whiskers so! Try this:
deal six cards to the dog. Le chien, the kitty,
a face-down pile: the valet, cavalier,
the dame and roi. Don’t forget moi, say me.
I’m your excuse, your guard against the way
that zero multiplies. As zero, I
rule no one yet I’m equal to the king.
No fooling, no u-turns. The joker’s wild,
out of the game. Talk about trick-making!
I count me in & on each hand, unspoken
triumph: never taking, never taken.

Leaving Texas Sonnet (II)

Who knew we still had gold-
mines? Altitude-sick, we’re cold

in the throes of spring. Call it high.
Call it yours, call it mine:

the sandwich between us
on the seat. Jesus-

streaks, the storm clouds part.
A tunnel straight into the heart

of the mountain. Beloved,
there is no mountain, only

paper cut-outs. Each one casts
a layered shadow higher than the last.

If this were your last day on earth
what would you do? Repent, and pray.

Divination

Three sparrows on a wire.
No weighty portent, this.
I search mosquito bites, my mumped-up face
for signs. Last year, before
our trouble started, you said:
Scarlet parrots with emerald eyes
escaped from the pet shop, perhaps,
an aviary at the zoo,
or the cynical widow’s window box,
feral now, unfurled
upon the city’s twilit shoulders.
Raucous cries commute their gorgeous warning.
But now the only sound to heed, the folding
of road maps in my lap. Listen:
the refolding.

Don Skiles & Peter Cherches

2010-04-01T09:20:00.000-07:00

Days Lost To History With No Eyewitness

Small moments. Places once lived, streets the once familiar routine of someone else’s days. Would it be an epic night, then? A Hank Williams June night in a high school gym in some small Arkansas town circa 1952? There was a motorcycle--a Ducati--parked in a thick scattering of fallen leaves, reds, especially, every hue from a deep, rich wine, crimson red to a soft fading pink. It was a time for one of those small moments, when a woman walks out of a pizza on a warm, humid summer night. Or was it a piazza? Most people are traveling endless highways looking for somebody they left behind. A look, a glance in the street, from someone you don’t know, never did, and never will, hanging like a guitar chord in the cold night air. A song, late at night. Never come back; never return. Cold, Cold Heart.

Autumn Humphrey

2010-03-01T19:30:00.000-08:00

Some are More Equal than Others

Strands of blonde hair stuck against Adele’s wet cheeks, mixed with rivulets of running mascara. A cigarette burned between two fingers and her lips were never far from her rum and coke as she sat on the patio of the bar with Elizabeth.

“It never would have worked, I know that,” Adele sniffled, “He was just too different.”

“People work through their differences when they are in love.”

Adele grabbed her friend’s arm and looked directly into her eyes. “No. I mean different. Like physically.” She nodded for emphasis, then leaned in and whispered into her friend’s ear.

Elizabeth pursed her lips. “Oh, my. You never told me that about him.”

“Well, it’s not something you talk about.” Adele looked away and shivered at a memory before inhaling the last of her drink. “I could never spend my life with someone who was so … odd. I know it’s shallow. I know it’s wrong. But I am who I am.”

Adele got up to leave, then looked back and slurred, “I’ll be alright,” before stumbling down the street, her long blonde monkey tail swishing around of its own accord from the bottom of her skirt.

Joanna M. Weston

2010-03-01T19:25:00.000-08:00

Under Painted Skies (Haibun)

Faces and limbs of plump angels frolic across the
ceiling of St. Peter’s. I stand, head-back, then
sit down, overwhelmed by brilliant blues and reds,
the height of pillars and statues. A group of
tourists stand to one side, listening to their
tour-guide. They focus cameras and click north,
south, east, and west. I, and the white-haired man
asleep on the chair in front of me, will be shown
on film in China.

his slow breathing
in rhythm
with my own

Prasenjit Maiti

2010-03-01T19:20:00.000-08:00

Smirk

You must be laughing when you read this If at all you read this when it is finally a dismal winter in Kolkata If at all I collect my ruins to call you And ask you to visit me To walk with me to the distant nowhere of my passions You must be laughing when I talk to you Or even hold your hands Or touch the tired sweat of our evening together across your moist lips You must be laughing when I kneel before you When I tear my heart out You must be laughing when I stir sugar in your coffee I add cream I lift your cup When I say I could never write without you

Margaret Walther

2010-03-01T19:15:00.000-08:00

Your Mission, Maggie, Should You Accept It, Is the Thirteenth Letter of the Alphabet

an omen or a thousand omen

crumbs in the woods no one remembers, the hum in a dream

magpies, mariachi band in drag, rattle pine tree gloom

the widow commits a minnow of mourning crime

diamonds are a girl’s best mend

the muse, a maniac with rhyme and a metronome

Micky and Minnie eating M&M’s

a megalith, a monolith, a menhir, the little lullaby at the end of home

a man with one says I must put in a mustache

rum, each drop, melodious morphine to a skid row bum

trombone, trumpet, tam-tam, a vibration smash

mountain peaks, turned upside down, you’re reflected in lake’s womb

the thirteenth line, mission accomplished, om

Brandon S. Roy

2010-03-01T19:10:00.000-08:00

Recognize

I opened the door
Of a house with no windows,

I saw everyone walking by had
A tiny rain cloud above them

It was scary to see
That I was lacking a cloud,

As I looked closer,
I could see that I was all wet.

Denis Emorine

2010-02-01T19:10:00.000-08:00

1

As a backdrop
there would be scars of war on the curtains of time,
the indifference of men,
the impure truth of arms leveled at anything that moves,
the din of life that rebels at every moment.
in vain,
in vain ...

Your voice powerless to avert the words of war
and
the raucousness of the moment.

I want words
WORDS
to KILL the
HANGMEN!

2

They appeared at daybreak. In their eyes the earth could be seen opening up and the fire dancing on the dead. They did not look anyone in the face and especially not the child who vanished at their approach. They were silent before innocence because they had devastated it just as they wished. When you raised your finger to the sky they turned their eyes away while clutching their weapons. No one knew where they came from nor where they were going. They would have liked to tuck themselves away in the hollow of the earth but that space was already taken by the dead.

They passed through the village without a backward glance. Oblivion was their only certainty but I am not sure they found it.

Even under the ashes.

Little by little they unlearned the heartbeats of the day.

3

Horizon overcast
body scattered in the fog of sights
no more life, they say

Killing as a habit
from boredom
or lassitude
by the supreme authority
Finally to know
that God does not exist

4

In the smoky fumes of exile
they sometimes sketched a gesture
towards the other
but the horror that they read
on that face
that is THEIR OWN
So impossible to embrace
the one who was so like them
that brother who is dying
under the blows
that they count mechanically
one
after
the other

5

God
"my" god

I would like to strangle you with my bare hands
to prevent you from causing more harm
sighs the soldier free at last
after the daily murders

His weapon lies at his feet

blushing at the crimes
past and to come
it purrs gently

translated from the French by Brian Cole

Neila Mezynski

2010-02-01T19:05:00.000-08:00

Yountville, Ca.

Jeanne

Jeanne was a forlorn young woman with gentle brown curls.
Large eyes, skin of soft and white.
A soulful creature somewhat lost in appearance, exuding a tenderness.
Strolling the streets aimlessly, nervous and unsure.
Into a shop for soothing’s sake and stopping the need to run.
The shop keeper made banter until Jeanne could escape.
An unsocial girl, she couldn’t stay long.
Back in her safe room with her lost father downstairs, she went to her top drawer and withdrew the object sharp and silver.
Sitting in her flowered chair in Indian style, pausing only a second, she drew the razor tenderly yet surely across her alabaster thigh.
Red drops appeared. Then the other leg for symmetries’ sake.
The sharp pain was quiet, soothing to Jeanne.

Bill

Bill Spence had a hard time remembering himself anymore since Sally died.
Missing, so much missing.
He went to her closet when the house was quiet. He stood there inhaling the warm scent of her still remembering clothes.
Letting the softness drape over him, lay on him, be on him,
in the quiet secrecy of the house.
Dressed in Sally.

Muriel

Muriel wanted Tom.
Tom was different and Muriel was getting different.
Hard to compete with those on the make broads dressed in colorful curls, watery grins and carefully chosen movements in all day planning.
She went to Tom and asked him to come home with her.
“Okay”, he said.

Blanche

Blanche was 60.
Harsh for a belle.
Colorful paper and strewn about ribbons on a table laid with expectations.
A darkened room, a birthday party.
No children’s laughter.
Blanche’s high held ribs, hollow sound.

Sally

A too tight countenance with hair pinned back, school marm glasses.
Too many exposed legs and breasts and booze.
Separation.
Held together by pins and wires,
he stood in front of her small house.
He knocked softly,
“are you sure?”
Quiet closed the door.

Maude

“ Maudie, I’m going to join up now, “said young Tim.
“I’ve made up my mind, I’m goin’.”
Can’t compete with the romance of war and do the right thing sort of baloney.
Tim being a serious sort of boy would take kindly to that romantic stuff.
“Timmy come here one more time.”
She watched him walk down the dusty road, jaunty like.

Bruce

Beautiful Bruce with his Dick Tracy kind of looks lay in his waiting bed.
His white shock of hair gave him an angelic quality hiding his once powerful physique behind a white sheet and gown.
Precious memories give a kind of translucent glow as he waits the long wait.

Kyle Hemmings

2010-02-01T19:00:00.000-08:00

Lydia Wants Us to Play Today

The winter hinted at carcasses
rustling under our feet;
snow-blind, we invented new games
in the parlor: Skin the Moose,
Pollyanna Pucker, Shake Antler Fake,
Scat Treason, Rag and Smack-down.
The hearth sparkled
but gave off little heat.
Outside, the sheen
from the frozen river
invited the weakest of us.
Tea cups.
Hunters Beware.

Doug Tanoury (1)

2010-01-01T13:50:00.000-08:00

St. Christina the Astonishing

St. Christina prays, with head tossed back
And eyes uplifted toward heaven, as she kneels
In the topmost branches of a Birch tree,
Under a sky that I remember from my childhood,
A rare blue egg tempera wash that would hang
Over the near Eastside on June mornings.

In a tree crowded with colorful birds that sing
Sweet songs amid green foliage, perches one
Sepia Saint, a lone pelican far from the sea,
A white feathered symbol of transcendence
And selfless sacrifice escaping the strong smell
Of the sinful by climbing high and far from its reach.

On the ground below, two barefoot priests
In black robes look up, one holds a cord to bind her,
The other, a ladder to snatch her, twisting and kicking
Against their grasp, like a bird pulled from its perch,
Out of the rare blue air and egg tempera sky,
Out of all the June mornings of my childhood.

The painting St. Christina the Astonishing is used with the permission of the artist Cynthia Large – All Rights Reserved (http://www.cynthialarge.com/)

Doug Tanoury (2)

2010-01-01T13:40:00.000-08:00

St. John of the Ladder

St. John says that understanding
Is a deliberate lifting up of one’s self
And comes by slow and steady effort,
As if you are climbing a tall ladder
Ring by rung, hand over hand and
Step by step, where ascent is a
Vertical exercise of beating down vice
And stepping on them, one by one,
To raise yourself up.

In his cell, a lone penitent kneels
Head bowed deep in prayer,
As virtues move beneath his garment
And fly like white and tan pigeons,
A rapid flurry of wings flapping
Against the fabric of his hair shirt
As they escape, one by one,
To the window ledge and out
To the open air.

For me, insight comes all at once
Like a multi-vehicle crash on the interstate
Where cars pile up on each other,
One by one, at high speed
To the bang of metal on metal,
The boom of exploding airbags,
As red brake lights silently pulse
On and off bleeding out all my wrong
And mistaken notions.

I prefer the more modern methods of
Spiritual awakening in a midnight vigil
With cars lined up, one by one,
Awaiting neon lit enlightenment
Dispensed at the all night drive through
Of a fast food retail outlet and when the
Speaker crackles, I lean my head out
Of the car window and pray: “Please
Forgive me, for I have sinned…”

The Ladder of Divine Ascent or The Ladder of Paradise. A 12th-century icon described by John Climacus. Monastery of St Catherine, Mount Sinai.

Doug Tanoury (3)

2010-01-01T13:30:00.000-08:00

St. Expedito

The red votive candle
On my bookshelf--
Never lit,
Lets all thing
Come to pass
In the sweetness
Of their own time.

Doug Tanoury (4)

2010-01-01T13:20:00.000-08:00

Soliloquy of Saint Simeon Stylites the Younger
(Or St. Simeon of the Admirable Mountain)

My hermitage is a tall pillar
Standing upon a high mountain,
Elevated in living benediction, alone
And solitary, among the highest places.

Escaping worldly temptation in my solitude,
Floating somewhere between earth and sky,
Tree and cloud, mountain and plain,
I stand as a witness for my God.

When the sun blinds my eyes
And burns my flesh, when the wind
Whips and the rain lashes I am most
Close to the pure happiness of heaven,

And I pray: take me, let lightning strike me
In a storm and throw me down
In flames to death and raise me up
To New Life and The Communion of Saints.

Looking down, the world is so beautiful
At a distance and the silence sings to my soul;
In the evening when the warm breeze blows
From the East, it is the whispering of God.

When the Evil one turns stones to loaves,
Serpents to fish and scorpions to eggs, I close my
Eyes and turn my head away, and Angels
With blue faces minister to me.

And when He tempts me with a human touch,
The sound of a woman’s laughter, the warmth
Of breasts and the softness of her belly,
I shout my prayer of mortification of flesh.

The Prophets come to comfort me and
Converse with me as a gentle rain
Washes me clean and the wind dries me,
As the top of my column becomes a tabernacle.

I have Holy Visions of the Lord
Who teaches and instructs me and
Gives me Holy Messages for the people
Who come to this place to pray with me.

He says that everyone who is isolated
From their neighbor sits on a high pillar,
And all who are angry with their brother
Stand solitary and alone on a high column.

Doug Tanoury (5)

2010-01-01T13:10:00.000-08:00

The Hagiography of a Flamingo Hopping on One Foot

I.
They say that St. Christina the Astonishing rose up after the Agnus Dei at her funeral Mass, levitated above her coffin and flew like a bird to perch on the highest rafters of the church, then descended to the altar, and told an amazing tale that she had visited heaven, hell and purgatory.

II.
She met many family and friends in purgatory and hell, but unfortunately saw no one that she knew in heaven except God Himself, and after this amazing day, she fled the company of people, complaining that she could smell their sins and it was a powerful stench.

III.
She would climb tall trees and sit in their top most branches with the birds. She would stay in a tree, looking up to heaven and praying for so long she would forget to eat. Christina was known on occasion to cast herself into fires and throw herself in open ovens, emerging unharmed and with no burns.

IV.
Cristina the Astonishing would also jump into the frozen river, remaining there for long periods of time as she prayed. Less fantastic, but certainly no less wondrous, eyewitness accounts describe that she prayed while doing cartwheels and while her body was curled up in a tight a ball.

V.
It has been documented by multiple sources, reliable religious and well regarded lay contemporaries, that on one particular occasion she was seen hopping about on one foot and crying out to God in a loud and powerful voice: “Look upon me, O Lord, for I am like unto a flamingo.”

VI.
Saint Christina is by far the most magical bag lady in the communion of saints, and the most astonishing and unbelievable wonder she performed was this miraculous transformation into a flamingo as she hopped about on a single leg, an act in my mind that is singularly worthy of sainthood.

Doug Tanoury (6)

2010-01-01T13:00:00.000-08:00

Santa María de la Cabeza

The head of Maria Torribia
Is kept in a silver reliquary
And in times of extreme drought
It is brought out for procession
Through the streets of Madrid.

In a wooden tabernacle
Carved with the faces of
Infant Angels and decorated
With silk ribbons, streamers
Of purple, green and blue.

The head is held high,
Carried by the tallest man
In the parish and followed
By a long line of priests
In black vestments.

Saint Mary lost her child
An event that shook her faith,
Shaped her Sainthood, and made
Her a humble hermit
Praying on a hillside.

When the storm clouds gather
In late August and the rain falls
So heavy it obscures the landscape,
It is simply a Saint remembering
A life unlived.

Meg Eden

2009-12-01T20:25:00.000-08:00

I am in
Nepal

when the wind hits
exactly east, and

the light in the trees is
familiar, a kaleidoscope

of glass, only,
no influence of internal substances

making me spin, spin
pulled deeper, into

the leaves, the earth, the
snow that is to come.

Rachel VanHorn Leroy

2009-12-01T20:20:00.000-08:00

Life Cycle

Soil brushes against
the inside of my finger
like sweet mush.
The patted down surface
of broken life re-emerges
from itself in a circle.
A tiny green speck bursts through
the placenta of blackness
and opens its two tiny digits
to the far-off sky
with very little chance
of living
and reaches all the more
for the air and the light.

Sarah L. Miller

2009-12-01T20:15:00.000-08:00

Sponge

It isn’t true that mice prefer cheese. They would rather eat crunchy peanut butter or Purina brand dog food. I should never have told Don.

I work at Exxon. My grandfather has stock in Exxon. That’s why we buy our gas here. I’m on bathroom duty. December 14th, 2:04 p.m. My initials: JM.

My hands sweat as I poke the trap with the toe of my sneaker. The tail jiggles.

Toilet paper gets expensive, Don tells me. We can’t afford to keep donating it to the mice. His lips are stained blue from free raspberry Slurpees. He has zits on zits.

In gym class we had a visiting Tai Chi teacher. He tells us we should stand like sponges, hollow and absorbing. Absorbing what, I want to ask. We are straight lines from mouth to anus. I try not to laugh. He says this after Ellen farts. A long drawn-out fart. The kind that smells.

I think I should stand like that now. Deep breath, sunken chest.

No fart.

I bend and pull the lever back, the body jerking. Its whiskers are as thin as a spider web.

There is peanut butter smeared on its small paws.

I touch it with one finger -- still warm. I wonder how long does it take to get cold?

I wipe my hands on my jeans and pinch the tail between my thumb and forefinger. I dangle it over the toilet bowl, close to the water.

The neck is squished flat -- a joint with no bone. I feel a beat and a breath and the mouse blinks so fast I think I must have dreamed it.

I drop it into the water.

I am a sponge.

A whisker twitches.

Sponge.

The toilet handle is slippery like Don’s lips must be.

I flush.

Allie Dresser

2009-12-01T20:10:00.000-08:00

Roommate

One angry, muggy day I punched a hole in the wall. I blamed the fly that decided my kitchen was an acceptable alternative to the unbearable out-of-doors. He lived simply enough and didn’t mind sharing with me. Soon he was usurping my dinners, getting big and fat on prime rib. That night, though, he went too far when he devoured half of my chocolate cake. Despite his newly acquired girth, he was a quick fly, darting around the kitchen, landing only to gleefully watch inertia overtake me as I spun in concentric circles. Bulbs splintered and screamed, caffeinated mugs hovered and jetted, papers folded themselves into airplanes to escape.

Still the fly lived.

I stared at the hole and wondered if I might lure him in there and plaster it shut. Murderous thoughts took hostage of my patience. He smartly disappeared as I settled in to watch the news. But as Letterman wound up for his opening, the fly was back, buzzing around the TV. Louder and louder, faster and faster he buzzed. I knew what the cake thief wanted and I wasn’t giving in again. Finally he landed and crept across the guests’ faces, sucking the sallow pixels until I could take no more. I flipped to Leno. My fly settled in on the armchair beside me.

Stace Budzko

2009-12-01T20:05:00.000-08:00

Space Monkey with Boo

Because they are kids and because that’s what kids do, play Space Monkey with kids like Boo, who use words such as whatever and meh in the company of grownups, things are bound to happen.

Tom James would be the first to admit this, if he was still breathing. He would probably also tell you he enjoyed the high especially when Boo did it to him because she was the most caring. She held his neck the longest. Never with an obvious belt or ordinary rope. Always with hands.

In the hours leading up to this event, Michael Roy challenged Tom James to a winner-takes-all of Rock Paper Scissors to see which of them Boo would choke first. Both were wanting. Roy lived with his mother in an apartment above a convenience store. James lived with his dad in a house built with construction scraps. Both were 13.

When Boo first arrived at school prior to this happening, the other schoolgirls took notice as well. Soon they knotted their shirts in front like Boo, their bellybuttons exposed, their breasts appropriately accentuated. In time these schoolgirls are walking the halls as if adolescence is one glamorous runway.

Before that, when Boo moved into the neighborhood, the local girls noticed. Soon they were wearing makeup the way Boo wore hers. Eyeliner, thick. Eye shadow, dark. Lipstick, MTV glossy. In time they are pouting and preening as if sex is just what you do after Hide and Seek and Kick the Can are no longer interesting.

In the weeks leading up to her arrival, Tabitha "Boo" Harris spends her days in a gated Westchester County community suggestively called Cloud 9. Afternoons while her parents work in Manhattan at important jobs with titles like CFO and SLA she undresses at her bedroom window. Instead of completing her honors homework, she poses for the neighbor. When done, she looks through college catalogs her parents have left out for her on the kitchen table. They are splayed like a deck of cards. Next to them is this note:

Dearest Tabs
What you witnessed last night was not what it seems. I meant no harm to your father. Although it may have appeared I was trying to hurt him, in fact I was not. I love your father with all my heart. I'm sure you understand.
Mom

Fredrick Zydek

2009-11-01T12:25:00.000-08:00

Letter to Minturn About His Poems

Dear Brian: I've read these poems
with a covetous jealousy
that has nagged at me all week.
If you don't publish these things
I plan to steal at lest four images
and probably seven whole lines.

You asked for advice: I say write
until your bones ache. The only
real difference between a writer
and a nonwriter is that writers
write and nonwriters talk about it.
If the mind's work remains invisible

as wind, how shall we understand
our toes? Thinking would be less
dangerous if thoughts could be seen
clearly as a bridge or thumbtacks.
But to be pedantic, let me warn
you about long lines. They can sag

in the middle if you're not careful.
Watch your step with adjectives.
They can clutter a good line
with so much debris, your readers
will get lost along the way.
Don't be afraid to move in and out

of the dream state. Words become
elastic when we dream. Plant seeds
but remember that weeds often bloom
better than anything we try to sow.
Lastly, if you must have muses, learn
to dance without stepping on their feet.

Letter to Ranek Living in the Land of the Short Sun

Dear Jason: I have finally had time to read through
the last collection you sent for consideration. It is easy
to see how living in the land of the short sun has helped
you capture other forms of light with nothing more than

a few dark marks on paper. These poems remind me of
how social the literary arts can be. So many dedications,
so many poems spun from the bone and marrow of old
friends and the new lives you and Terese are setting out

into the universe to find ways of fending on their own.
I am taken by all the God and journey poems in this group
too. The question poems are among the best I have read
anywhere - and if you recall - my personal library of poets

and poems is the best in town. Nothing and everything
seems hidden in these poems. They prove that none of our
genes must trek through space, matter and time alone - but
without some solitary downtime we can't plug into enough

of the process to feel ourselves pulled toward its center.
These are poems that know how to revive drowned moons
and have peaceful last encounters with one's enemies. I am
writing to tell you we are going to gather them together,

even that little three-line number toward the end of the book.
What the hell. If a collection of poems can celebrate Thor
and Buddha without falling apart, why should it surprise
us to find the sonnet and the haiku nestled so close together?

Laura LeHew

2009-11-01T12:20:00.000-08:00

Document 8

if the bed is unmade, if the laundry is undone, if my octo cat children are unfed, if there is no more coffee left in the universe, if alpacas knit pashmina wings, if the Internet implodes, if my fingers are severed, if the swine flu mutates, if my sister remembers—would the world end—if I wasn’t composing, if I didn’t submit

Paul Fisher

2009-11-01T12:15:00.000-08:00

Letter to a Lost Brother

Forget about the weather
and whether or not the two of us
threw sticks and stones,
or spat words at childhood's bones.

Bribe an angel, tap a message,
smuggle out a sign.
Silence is the granite
I'd roll back from your grave.

In case you don't know, I'm older,
the world's warming,
and we're not on standard time.
In case you care, I'll stay awake

burning this letter
in some windless recess of my brain,
burning till, through the smoke,
your distant planet shines.

Thirst

A tree made only
of stars
towers above us.

You:
half a drop
of water,

me:
infinitesimal,
dry --

no thing
but a thought
rattling in an atom,

no ocean
but this notion
split open like a seed.

Alastair Wilson

2009-11-01T12:10:00.000-08:00

exterior cutaway of the planet earth induced by love
a cough on the round trajectory of multiplying lives
the bright arrows of geometry spear the planet to reveal its inner geometry
the sun winks an astonished eye

thunder migrates through tectonic plates continents tug at rubberised sky
the glittering lakes of europe declare war on space
papuan grass creeps round low mountains
north american owner occupier plains shift in colour

carpets of tundra roll out across russia
somewhere in all of this someone pads barefoot from room to room
somewhere gardens fidget underneath their fences
somewhere insomniacs listen to silverfish colonising floorboards
somewhere there’s talk of a wife and kids
somewhere they’re changing the area code
somewhere they’re buying rowing machines repainting garage doors
somewhere journalists’ cameras flap like an upward roost
somewhere the traffic swerves violently
and all the dwarfed cities wash themselves lilac with sunrise
and the drowned pulp of bathtime turns papercuts into gills
and warm fat rainwater drips from skins of peaches
and someone somewhere is finally happy after all this time
and now it’s exposed in all its microbiology
and hope bursts out of throats

Neila Mezynski

2009-11-01T12:05:00.000-08:00

Davenport, Ca.

Benji
Benji hardly ever left that damned sofa.
He lived on it as a matter of fact.
It had a permanent Benji imprint.
“What was it I was supposed to do when I remembered it?” he asked.
Remembering the truth best to forget.
“I don’t know him anymore,” she said.

Peggy
Peggy was a tall thin blonde with no hope of ever getting a man.
“With hope, I can dance the night away and dream of love again as before long ago.”
Tense, irritable and opinionated.
Men don’t like that.
Like soft loose-lipped, doe-eyed.
Blonde hair both upstairs and downstairs and lots of questions for big and strong.
Too many opinions for a blonde.

Meredith
Meredith tended her garden for tenderness which was almost always needed.
Head in the clouds when touching and planting the various sweet smelling bits of color here and there.
Tiny chairs and brightly colored red and green glass apples, ceramic bunnies and metallic Suns interspersed among the roses and peonies and trailing vines of color for funs sake. For the child’s eyes to light up.

Steve
Steve rode into town with his tin horn hat stacked high atop his head.
Sitting with a swagger on that black stallion as if he was born up there as comfortable as you please.
He had an air of mystery, very appealing to the ladies.
He was a thoughtful guy more intelligent than most with an air of refinement about him. Riding so high on the black horse.
He knew a fine woman when he saw one and he came to take her away into the sunset. An idyllic life as long as they didn’t let their feet touch the ground.
They stayed high atop the black stallion forever riding into the golden sunset.

Rose
Rose stayed by herself.
She had work to do.
No time for others.
Like the work of a marriage once with just about as little thanks. No place for a Serious minded person.
Keep those sweetnesses unbothered, unused.

Pink Girl
Hair the color of cotton candy and pants so tight you don’t need no imagination.
See the hip hoppin’ gum crackin’ smackin’ double mint packin’ candycane pink girl Walking with one of those nervous nellie kind of dogs about as big as a minute and cute As a button attracting as much attention as she wanted to.
“I told that girl not to wear that outfit out”, said her mama.
Don’t listen to a mom’s lament of sadness and grief.
She come home all knocked up, ripped and torn to shreds.
All those pink misunderstood clothes.
“I told her not”, she said shaking her slow head.

Jeff Crouch & Nicolette Westfall

2009-10-01T21:20:00.000-07:00

patrol

angry march
say it, peace
give it to me

from you?

NO!

bring it here
let it go
white knuckled
respect
to the floor

gasping in
out crawl

angry patrol
say it, peace
give it to me!

peace, crawl!

anklet

jagged nail
sandal strap
unheard of
feet keep
keep keep

lumps

lump atop the ancient
lump
moans a lump for not

neither concrete
nor cement
her milk is heavy
earth

but milk spills
drip, drop
like a fleshy faucet

the soft

squirting

the soft

forms form
a lump a lump
a lump

lumps cool and fresh and hot

the doe the buck the bread
a lump filled lymph
streaming lump of snot

for landfill lumps
and glands and
lumps clogged up

indentured lumps
and a dirty water colored lump
and lumps
by the serving cup

while the cleaner lump and detergent lump
release and sink
with the tug of a heavy lump
and a slurp

forefather as much an ancient lump
in with lumped together lump

take or steal or take the hump

while there are
lumps like earth
and tits go limp
when sucked lumps
promise
sugar and skinny milk

Richard Parks

2009-10-01T21:15:00.000-07:00

"Poem for a tiny felt cap"

If a swift nibbling
my element would deride
and larks take flight
in cartoon colors
light night light tights.

We say goodbye
but we do not mean it
we freight our shit
our thoughts upon a trestle
way the fuck up in the sky, atop a cloud
and we just let gravity push us down
gravity's pinned minions
ain't that sweet
—no
—what
—shut up
—I was only asking if—
and ellide a larconaire, a female jacket
we both ride.

"No trees"

No trees 
only makeup 
and trashbags 
disconglomerated 
inches and inches 
an awful fragment 
fulfilled 
a tower rising from the sand 
sinewy and bent 
upon which 
monks might genuflect 
or cozy cities 
be laid down—
 a pastry on a pastry pad

A pastry on a pastry pad 
a pastry on a post-it pad 
a penis on a pantry post
a pen cap on you, mom and dad.

"Edwardian untethering, now"

To mull about, and mulberry— 
like the tree we had when we were young. 
To Martin Mull and mulled wine ,
to Andy Trammell (did I dream him up, baseball fans?).

Easing off my slip (I am a woman) I slow up and prepare to get drunk 
again 
like the tree we had when we were young. 

If I were a tree
with branches unconvincing and long 
I would chop myself down 
with some swag-like butterknife from Disneyland 
and mulch myself 
a million times over.
Mulch, mulch, 
and mulch .

Does this poem make me sad? 
Would it, if it were printed on my mulchy stomach 
and me, if I were splayed out on your soiled dormroom desk?

"A new international poem"

If I wrote this poem on a lil slip of paper
and managed t gitit
t slip it
t sneak it in
t your pocket, ma'am
would you trundle it down to Mexico?
would it still sound the same in ole Mexico?

My lil poem
warm
bendy
because of all that travel
so much sandwich meat
between ass/jeans and transit seat.

Would Chiapas make my poem strange to me
or would it remain
—would I be the same?

I could still sneak in there
my persona
my fat face
a lil ass curtain-obsessed youngster
writing poems on the back of liquor store receipts
about ass curtains?

Hey: what's the Spanish for "ass curtain"?
—Perhaps, is there some dude down there thinking
the same thoughts as I?

j.a. tyler

2009-10-01T21:10:00.000-07:00

Inconceivable Wilson

We teach because we want people to know, to follow us, to be a mirror, stumbling blindly in our wake. We trail. We want fingers of people following us, lingering in our shreds, attempting discovery in our footprints, our bones. They pulverize bones and drink them in warm water, the solution of trees cut and carved out, the insides. I am inside. It is a collection of scenarios, these environments, the places they exist, these people I have found who were, until I mentioned them in my whispers, in my sleep, without. And here, under palms and in desert, where the trees change from Serengeti to pine forest, these people wash my outsides with their blackness. I remain moon-white. The last plane was a bi-plane or something wooden, the wheels not wheels at all but floats that somehow touched earth with a wind. I became a spot on a speck of light that was diminishing circles. Everything circling. I was nauseous and dizzy, forthright in my fear, dipping into my own panic. I blacked out and was resuscitated by careless pilot lips that kissed before blowing back out. I was arrived. Planes boats and the way in. The last set, the final line before I broke, made the center, them, they in their last line locked arms, elbows as shields, knees as spears, guarding me out, boxing. They were not protecting the inside, they were protecting me. I did not listen. I never listen. I wanted the center. I made the center. I am the center.

John Yohe

2009-10-01T21:05:00.000-07:00

The special ring decoders of our youth

When we were old enough to know
that things did not make sense
but young enough to think
that there was something
that could make sense of them
something that came from outside of us
but was from us
invented by us
and
we were old enough to know our parents weren’t the ones
to know
but young enough
to think someone
somewhere
would
we had
the special ring decoders of our youth
available in five different colors
red
green
blue
orange
and pink
for only three cereal boxtops
and two dollars
but
when they arrived in the mail
they soon broke
or were lost
and mostly
forgotten
along with our two dollars
they were small
didn’t fit very well
made of plastic
and when we held them to pieces of paper
or our parents
or the window
the same messages appeared:
BE THERE SOON
or THE CODEWORD IS DOG
or GOOD WORK SECRET AGENT!

Oh I don’t know

Can’t we
and why not
go snorkeling at Cabo San Lucas
and find drug money

that smugglers had to ditch
and take it
and have them chase us north
at high speed

over the Mexicali border
and into the Mojave desert
where we could make love
in spanish

at night
in one sleeping bag
while coyotes howl?

It’s five dollars
for another dance
—she said—
or twenty-five
for three songs
in private

(for Robert Creeley)

Ileanna Portillo

2009-10-01T21:00:00.000-07:00

Lemon and Salt

I’d be reading a book
and she’d walk up to me,
my grandma,
and silently place a bowl of
carrots with lemon and salt
next to me.

I’m looking for you now,
the way I would feel for the bowl
of carrots without taking my eyes
off the page.
But you are nowhere in this
city of dry heat and fast food.
Not in my house that gets hot
by midmorning and chokes me with stale air.
You are not in the sunflowers that
died while I was away because
I wasn’t here to water them.

You become a face printed on paper.
It’s difficult to conjure your hands,
how they wrapped roses in paper for me.

Sometimes a breeze will blow in and
it seems to carry your unguarded laugh.
I’m not as sure of myself as I was when
I knew the bowl of carrots would be there.

Alan Catlin

2009-09-01T12:45:00.000-07:00

Still Life with Frigidaire, East Rockaway, N.Y.

Inspired by the static spaces
between channels, she learns
the message of white noise:
Magnetic fields are where old cars
gather among long grasses to rust,
as magnetic waves are what draws
land bound creatures to the sea.
That you will see the secrets of other
worlds comes from the currents
that are carried in wires and similar
transmitters revealed by test patterns
affixed to certain channels.
Seeing the soft electric glow
of snow that follows transmissions,
she is drawn to dark arctic wastes
contained by Frigidaire.
Staring inside, she feels the sudden
chill of absolute zero, numbing her
frost bitten eyes, closing inside
an endless night, this all enveloping
chill.

MK Chavez

2009-09-01T12:40:00.000-07:00

Mammon

You never stand still
Everything is black
or white
You have mistaken
the Albatross
for a stone
and put an arrow
Though its heart

The chromatic sunrise
has been left alone
and the peach-headed
Gannets are diving
into water
and no one
is watching.

Ania Vesenny

2009-09-01T12:35:00.000-07:00

Monotonies of Winters

The eight o'clock door thuds are tight and measured. Wrapped in a tea towel I open the door. It is not the mailman.

"Excuse me, let me get undressed." I glide into the bedroom, pull the sheet off my bed, and drape it over my shoulders. "How can I help you?"

"I am very sorry, Miss," the man taps his fresh-shaven chin. Pieces of toilet paper are pasted to three bleeding cuts -- three maroon pistols, white petals fluffed up by his fast breathing. "I hear you are expecting the mailman."

"I am."
"I will leave then."
"Please do."

I lock the door behind him and stare at the top of his head through the peep hole. He has rusty wild hair with snowflakes in it.

#

Susanna and Phyllis come over for tea. They perch on the sofa and chirp, and loop the air with their pinkies.

"We heard you were expecting the mailman today."
"Yes. At around eight o'clock."
"What's in your tea?" They wipe their foreheads with tea towels.
"I added wild berries, some red and some blue."
"How lovely."
"How lovely."

#

The gray hardened snow banks have grown since last week. They press into me as I squeeze between them. Someone has painted ice patches with beet juice. The door to the post office is locked.

Tim Conley

2009-09-01T12:30:00.000-07:00

Up and Down

want to dress / the dark street
bring it all / where you lay
find out what's / with my friends
for what goes / by the bay
turn and look / with a cold
he got beat / drinks with her
when you feel / to my place

Simon Perchik

2009-09-01T12:25:00.000-07:00

*

Even the Earth keeps its clouds
on the move though you have forgotten
all gestures begin with a train

setting out --you expect change
and the constant far-off glow
still trying to connect the nights

with nights once caves and distant herds
--you know how it goes, the grass
was always greener so you sit

let a million years slowly recede
till the ice carries you back
where tracks had already taken root

in silt beginning first as a creek
then trickling toward another
--you can hear the hooves

and along the gravel bed --be sure to wave
touch nothing! let your still cold breath
lie down beside you on its way for water.

*

And step by step this cane
scratching the way the dead
plant their scepter in the darkness

--they never forget which end
takes hold so you limp along a path
or perhaps your shadow overflowing again

--they rule the ground, commanding it
to rise slowly, let you lag behind
while their castles drag you on

--even here there are nights
warmed by walls and longing
and one knee is always colder

--you make yourself lame
are helped into the turn
years ago pulled down to make room

for the rain that no longer falls for you
only these stones that have the speed
are always in front, taking you back.

Damon Falke

2009-09-01T12:20:00.000-07:00

Once

beside the ocean
at Montauk
he watched
red chrysanthemums
floating
on waves

Ah dear uncle,

how many fish
did we lose
that autumn?

Gordon Torncello

2009-09-01T12:15:00.000-07:00

"PLANET_RESPECT"

0.00
0.00

0.02

, seems to me
seems to be a lock o
respect,

, unfortunately
the heart is not more
important than the brain

, neither
is the lung more imprtnt
than the blood

, or
testes.

PS. KEEP IT CLEAN, TH
PLANET!

Fredrick Zydek

2009-09-01T12:10:00.000-07:00

Letter to Grangitano a Few Years Later

Dear Michael: I'm writing to apologize for having
a large blown-up photograph of your face printed
on the pinata they filled with candy and money
on my 65th birthday. I did my best to smash it.
I figured I had earned the booty. Nothing I did
broke the damn thing open. Not even David
Shurter, a much younger man than I, could crack
open your skull so the candy and money would
spill to the floor. Retired General Jim Murphy
(his wife Rita was once a greeter at our church)
was unable to smash the papier-mache globe of

booty that hung from the living room ceiling,
and he's had the best military training available.
In the end, it was a nun, the head of the local
Gandhi Peace Foundation, who cracked the pinata
open. When I asked her how an old lady like
her ended up with more muscle than the rest of
us, she said, "Honey, you can't hit knuckles with
a ruler for twenty-five years in the classroom
without developing some pretty worthy biceps."
She finally turned to a life of peace. I sat in
rapture the night she took me to listen to Gandhi's

grandson talk about his life as a child with the
great man. It was his talk that helped me under-
stand it was time for me to forgive the money
changers and return to the temple. I went back
ready and willing to forgive any of the trouble
makers still on the property. To my amazement,
I didn't have to forgive anyone that day. They
were all gone. I went to a burning-bowl ceremony
anyway. Instead of writing each of their names
on a piece of paper, I just wrote, "Lord, forgive all
those assholes, and help me do the same someday."

Sally Van Doren

2009-09-01T12:05:00.000-07:00

Would

it be possible to write over the
sketch, the ink covering

first his drawing, then my
scribbles, Twombly-esque or

far from it, real words with
spelled meanings, caffeine-

generated pronunciations,
emotion served over a puree

of cocoa and egg yolk, vertical
lines carving ahead of time,

curlicues added after
the burst stamen, the golden

pistol, the implement goddam-
mit, of the spirit?

Louis Daniel Brodsky

2009-09-01T12:00:00.000-07:00

(Sounds of garbage trucks,)

Sounds of garbage trucks,
diesel engines,
pneumatic hoses screeching
and blowing off steam

Smells of Plaza horses,
garbage trucks

Homeless,
Those rifling through black plastic bags
huddles on street curbs
for cans, uneaten bread heels,
potato, orange, banana peels,
the unused butt-ends of moldy lettuce heads

So ends Issue #19 of Snow Monkey. Issue #20 begins September 2009.

2009-07-01T06:30:00.000-07:00

To guide your future offerings, here are 10 lines from Issue #19 that left footprints for this editor:

Death revolves slowly / in my head / when you are not there. Denis Emorine
Todd, you want another beer? Bryan Coffelt
My languid window-ward glance / saw a many-winged angel / on a rooftop Katherine Holmes
It's got rhythm, it's got music, it makes me want to dance. Anonymous comment to Anita K. Boyle
There is a voice without a body within me Duane Locke
perhaps knowing in their bones that eternity is / beautifully pointless Howard W. Robertson
My mother knelt, coatless in the snow, trying to suck gas from the broken-down Chevy’s tank Sarah Seybold
Tom said "Frank O'Hara will plant a poem in your head" Title by Lisa Nickerson
The land was scoured flat or buckled into glacial warp; I ate the same fish stew for dinner; I introduced the local punk band to the Misfits. Mark Cunningham
Now meet what they mete. Lisa Albers

--jb

P.S. We've read your submissions through May Day. Hang in there, snow monkeys. We'll be reading on any rainy days we get this summer. But on those hot, sunny days look for us at the higher elevations.

Pablo Larios

2009-06-01T17:50:00.000-07:00

Bonnie and Clyde: Five Dialogues

i

BONNIE(the lady is knittting together her fingers
nefarious and many-colored strings)
"my stomach hurts" i said "must be intestinal" these
woods

she says words unclotting them
the lady's fingers are wailing as
(CLYDE)she reaches in me saying i can
touch them i can (BONNIE)look
so good

BONNIEdeftly we took refuge in each others necks
ate with
out hands trying and trying to ignore
the other people in the next room how they wallow
into obsolescence but subside
jus take it now my hand is
small you'll forget
it clyde barrow but you can mark my neck there'll
always be someone
in that next room

CLYDEyep in that chamber where the money is
men collapse each
other collapsed and stole
my heart hon is worth nothing
it is hardly a timepiece or
you must wind it and if you remain insolent and
spin and if you
wont spin it
wont gallop or
waltz and honey lets leave
or tornado well on out of here to smithereeeeee

ii

CLYDE*[IS WATCHING HIMSELF ON FILM]Never telling what you're going to do or say or if I'll be caught with my pants down, gun-shy, in front of everyone's damned checkerboard glances. I've frequently had problems being out in public with you. Now I can't see you save for, peripherally, a little blue glow on your cheekbone and patch on the nose, from the screen-glare. Double-jump and it's me or both of us.
Faye Dunaway you are gorgeous. You comment on it, sitting here, watching this, with me and my arms tied, and I wish to tell you you are more beautiful, yes you, my Helen, my Juliette, my Brigitte Bardot, but all that would be unfair to Bonnie. You can't compare movies to real life, it would be ludicrous people
just don't rob banks like that.

*[WARREN BEATTY]

iii

BONNIE(he spoke imprecise it
was his tongue running round
on wool and here's us trying to have and escape exper-
ience both i said to him you
can't stick a fork in
the machine it's both of us
he said youre still on that aren't
you i said "Sweaty hands, you could drop the gun and it'd be me and you both."
and he said as if out to woods GET MY POINT, YA DAMN CAR bonnie parker
precisely there is no
ne so i skipped town

iv

CLYDEhoney it's over now i
can't find any them any-
more than the cows sing to the stars
and the evening's a saddle to take us
["You know what, when we started out, I thought we was really goin' somewhere. This is it. We're just goin', huh?"]

v

"come i'm lost now bonnie"
"that is not my concern"
"i need a hat to keep goin"
"thats not mine either"
"good luck finding one well have --"
"to steal it and each -- "
"others hearts fuck keep -- "
"looking out for the turn -- "
"pike there was one second--"
"s ago"
"'s-soon's awai- --"

John Fitzpatrick

2009-06-01T17:45:00.000-07:00

Fourth from End -- ZYXW

that which hold door
open even when no reply, wedge

water wheel turns and turns
for energy antagonisms generated, guilt

dirtied excesses of the heart
called wanton use of self

whack of thin hammer on ice
distributes unevenly broken fingers

language of Nootka, Wakashan, one of many
tribes to communicate sounds of understanding

aroma caused potion to turn into bitterness
something words do every day, wormwood

another name for closure, womb, which in time
causes need to break out with cry of freedom

wadi, a desert in puddle of water galoshes
splash yellow with green slicker reflection

misalignment of scale between us, whiplash
the strain of delirious vibrations to the nerves

wicker used to hold heart and song
the one carried well, the other

weaseled out of trap taking love
and leaving only frame to try again

twisted wood wrung into beautiful spindle
ventures writhing through wonderland

the whoosh of wind created flurries of stars
vibrating chords and dazzling poets

Duane Locke

2009-06-01T17:40:00.000-07:00

Not Piecing Together the Little Parts

The clouds looked like smoke signals
Sent up
Without intention of conveying a message
Or expecting
To have interpreter.

The evening's conflagration, spots of illusory fires,
On the white sand shore's driftwood,
That was wet, dark, and cracked. The fires
Went out as the sun sunk,
Leaving only strands of red hair on the horizon.

Now only a tip of red hair,
The head, the body has disappeared.
I am alone,
Except for the apparition
Of a tip of red hair.
She is probably standing among umbrella pines
Where a path curves through trees in Fregene.

There is a voice without a body within me
That tells me I'm extremely happy
In my melancholy among sea oats
On this white winding shore line.

Jenny Lederer

2009-06-01T17:35:00.000-07:00

Relay

A man is walking down your street pushing his sleeping offspring in a stroller. Coming toward him is a pretty girl with dark hair and headphones on both ears. The sidewalk is not wide enough to accommodate both. At the penultimate moment, in a paroxysm of helpfulness, the man swings the stroller off course toward the street. He misjudges the distance and one wheel goes over the lip of the curve.

The baby is bounced against the side carriage, awakened rudely. She stretches her petal pink face and begins to scream. She will grow up to trust no one. The girl with the Walkman, meanwhile, having jumped lightly up off the sidewalk onto the low wall running alongside, continues without looking back.

The man looks back, once, ruefully, before tending to the squalling baby. On the way home he passes a sidewalk cafe. There a young man and an older woman are having coffee together. They pause to watch the father and his child pass. The woman is smoking, leaning back in her chair with leonine grace and assurance. The man is hunched over his cup considering what she had just told him.

"I hope your new boyfriend gets cancer in his dick," he says finally, and her composure cracks just long enough to knock her spoon off the table.

The small sound of it hitting the pavement is lost in a swell of Peter Tosh from a car rounding the corner. Inside, four people, each monstrously obese, are each smoking a joint. The driver pauses at the stop sign then peels away leaving a patch of steaming rubber on the road.

A man from the neighborhood walks over to inspect it. He holds his hands behind his back and moves deliberately, with the gravity of a gentleman surveying his property. When the 409 bus drives by, he looks up and runs after it, screaming "Wait! Wait!" One passenger after another spots him and alerts the driver. When the bus stops, the man turns on his heel and resumes his survey of the gutter and its contents.

In the tree above the bus stop a hawk is ripping the insides out of a small brown bird. The air fills briefly with a shower of feathers, more than you'd expect, which covers the ground like a carpet. Soon afterwards you pass underneath without looking up and a feather is stirred from the sidewalk. It flies up and sticks to the back of your head. When you get home you find it there, maybe while you're sitting on the steps taking off your boots. You absentmindedly stick it in your pocket. Your bare feet make a soft friendly sound on the linoleum that I know even without being there.

Philip Byron Oakes

2009-06-01T17:30:00.000-07:00

Head of the Class

The noggins of the heady
ride spin cycles, to the
crowning of last rites
in a chaos that is upside
down all over again. An
inevitable blur assumes
credits best left to fate
and her little sisters. The
balancing of acts in the
play on words never to
be spoken in haste makes
waste the standard by
which broken men are
called to serve.

Joseph Zozaya

2009-06-01T17:25:00.000-07:00

The Vestige of a Nostalgic Inferno

"But, do allow yourself the inward stare of that eye which is exterior to you," the man stated, looking at the shoes of people who passed by in the distance. The other man, whose appearance could only be described as something awkward, or of a nature tangled, at first did not respond but as he readjusted his grimy spectacles and looked at the train in the distance, he allowed himself to utter something. "My perturbation with this 'act', which I shall commit regardless, is merely a part of life, a segment in which I shall always find myself attached. I must be bound to something besides this irrelevant skin."

Smoked drifted into the stagnant air, no one seemed distracted at all by the occurrence, it was long ago accepted, people went about on their way, into boulevards and designated streets, disappearing at disjointed intervals, and in those few minutes the clock tower was entirely shrouded by black train smoke.

Both men grew in apprehension of something, apparently unperceived even by their cognizance.

"You realize that I can not exist any longer, once you relinquish the composition of your very nature!" The awkward man did not seem to pay any diligence to the other man, who was by that time, uncontrollably nervous. "Why is it that you shall even be upon that train, you yourself said that you did not believe in destiny, or anything similar to human fortune, you, filled with a thick set of lies, an utter nihilist!"

Crowds emerged and embraced both men, consuming them and then relinquishing them once again to the proper solitude found in that city.

"To me, you never existed, I myself could not exist within this barren framework, all life is regurgitated."

"No, not at all, it is of course set upon by limits, but each new configuration arises to reclaim that part of emptiness and make it into something else."

"You are nothing to me, you, a mere mirage of my conscience, you are not even a man, look at you, you are the idea of some rigorous student, you have existence only within the limitations of my own mind!"

The awkward man moved towards the station, not even looking back at the other man, who was slowly beginning to decompose, his clothes crumpled like a dusty leaf, then his skin fell to the ground and eventually his skeletal framework was obliterated by the passing steps of people and while surging towards an immanent crowd, the awkward man activated the mechanism of that crude bomb attached to his body, he did not even resolve to smile or look at anyone, he was by then already consumed by another configuration of some lingering discourse within his isolated memory with a man who did not exist.