July 2014 | back-issues, poetry
It’s Strange
It’s strange,
What we can turn ourselves into:
Put yourself on a bender, become an alcoholic—
three days, maybe four.
It’s easy— just a little effort, that’s all it will take.
I’m lucky, I suppose, that it’s just booze:
Imagine what I could do to myself if I really got adventurous?
There’s so much out there to get twisted up in—
Drugs, guns, girls, gangs;
Revolutions, continental drift,
Exotic animal testing and tasting;
The Ice ages, war reenactments, bartending classes;
Time travel, the Butterfly Net Racket, MIA rescue, aquarium diving;
Making movies, the Halloween mask syndicate, the Asian market toilet dash—
The Air Turbulence Temperance League?
So many dangerous occupations—
And all the hazards of just waking up and breathing in.
So, what’s so bad about just sitting in this comfortable chair,
Counting the drinks I’ve had,
Making comets of the songs I sing,
ghost stories of my own history?
It’s a Wonder
It’s a wonder,
how I lived so long without
the sound
of a harmonica and scratching strings
on a slightly out of tune guitar.
It’s a wonder
that it took me so long
to hear the words
buried under the noise of that song
that I always said I hated.
It’s a wonder
how I haven’t started yet
and that I am still here,
drawing circles in a notebook
and tapping my rhythmless fingers
onetwo, onetwo, onetwo—
The tiniest, hollow thud
on a tabletop
could fire off earthquakes
in a silent room,
in a silent house,
that knows nothing at all
about the rhythms of regret.
Andrew LaRaia
Andy LaRaia is a Literature and Writing Teacher in Istanbul, Turkey. He has an MFA in Creative Writing from George Mason University, where he studied with Richard Bausch and Alan Cheuse.
July 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Today was hot and sticky in the way
only august could be, and as I cut cilantro and strawberries
I thought of how plants only flourish when you take care of them,
and that the halves of strawberries look like hearts
when laid side by side
I’m sorry that my grandma taught me how to
be patient at a young age,
and in retaliation I became reckless with
everyone around me.
So please know that I never meant to push you away,
I only wanted to see how far I could run before you chased after me.
I’m sorry that my mother trained me how to
be passive-aggressive
by always getting her way without ever asking for it.
So please, don’t be upset when I can’t make a decision,
because we both know that I’ll chose you every damn time.
I’m sorry that my dad was never around,
and let me down more times than I can count on my fingers & toes,
a contorted game of Pick-Up-Sticks,
ignored.
So please, bear with me as I try to make our time count,
Tallying up every moment your lips touch mine
If the wrinkles in my sheets were the miles between us,
I’d pull them until they lay flat, bringing you a little bit closer
and wishing for the thousandth time tonight that it was you
in the space in between my
sheets
and the heat between my
thighs.
Tatiana Goodman
Tatiana is a student on the west coast with a love of travel. She is beginning the study of psychology.
July 2014 | back-issues, poetry
webbed, goose-white
nut-broadened bird.
He could green-water
scum-break and wet-
feather-waddle from the shallows.
He stumbled through lives, wives,
fragrance and faux pas,
yet by boat or bank, under bridge,
elegant he was, easy
legged, otter-elan,
loafing, lollygagging
log-light, drifting
towards senility
with a watery grace.
Once he challenged the current
near Dubuque and came across
a quarter-mile downstream,
and once he pushed it north
against the choppy grind,
kissed the lock’s locked door
and felt the wild whiskers
of a big-bellied cat
checking his calves for lunch
and with dawdle-not
fear kicking his feet
like a steamboat’s paddle
went south and never returned.
Jeff Burt
Jeff Burt works in manufacturing. He has work in Rhino, Nature Writing, Windfall, and Thrice Fiction, and forthcoming in Mobius and Storm Cellar.
July 2014 | back-issues, fiction
That autumn morning as we neared our tree, Grandpa stopped hard and pressed a meaty finger to my lips. A snowshoe hare had taken refuge under our Sugar Maple, shaded pistachio and apple.
“God’s little creatures need heartening too.” His voice was like gravel, even his whispers were wieldy.
I was nine, unwilling to share. So while he watched the young leveret frolic and scout, I pursed my lips, folded my arms and forsook the blessed gift.
Eventually, the hare scampered on, “One day boy, you’ll find peace in others’ joy.” We strode to our precious tree and sat beside each other in the stillness. Her seeds had fallen early – they were crisp like toast. Grandpa swept some kernels into his hardy hands and flung them high; they rained down like tiny winged horseshoes…
“A Sugar Maple seed carries partners, a boy and a girl. See?” Every Sunday walk included lessons in nature – but I didn’t mind. “Through mighty gales and sweltering heat, they are bound.
“If they break apart?”
Grandpa culled a samara and split it, “Then it was meant to be.” He blew its parts into the wind, “Sometimes, a seedling flies higher alone.”
He died that spring.
…
Ma daubed at the grief on my face, “the foliage is striking this year.”
Our maple stood prodigious, her branches reaching out like a prayer. I perched beneath her.
There’s such betrayal in her eyes…
The leaves crunched like paper under my feet.
But suspicion is folly…and sinful…
To the right, a silver hare peeked around a mossy stump then continued grazing.
I ambled away but glimpsed over my shoulder to behold the elfin critter, carousing under our tree.
“Enjoy.” I grinned. A sole seedling danced in the solace.
…
And my wife bedded down with her lover.
Chad Broughman
July 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Here’s to staying up late
and watching Pulp Fiction
instead of staying up late
because your mind is cycling with stress.
Here’s to eating the best
oven pizza you’ve ever had
after days of not being able
to keep food down.
Here’s to harsh cigarettes
and a longneck lighter
on a metal table
while winds howl at the moon.
It’s talking about it
so you don’t need to drink about it.
Knowing and being known is
saying “fuck” instead of pretend smiling.
It’s being touched without jumping,
and unbraiding and fading
with heavy eyelids
that can safely close.
It’s not about waking up,
it’s about falling back asleep
after a glance to ensure
not everyone disappears.
Hearing one person say,
“You aren’t as dark as I thought.”
Hearing another person say
that they pray for you
and hearing yourself say;
“I’m not a whore.”
Here’s to all that.
That’s what today is.
Amanda Ramirez
