January 2014 | back-issues, poetry
A Response to Charles Bukowski: Yes I’m Drinking Today
booted-up, in the makeshift office/mudroom, my old laptop
out again.
I write from my drinking chair
as I’ve done for the past seventeen years.
will see my psychiatrist,
Monday.
“yes Doc, the Xanax helps my anxiety.
but it knocks me out,
I mean it really knocks me out.”
“you’re not getting rest,
are you?
I know what you need,
maybe some Ambien.”
more meds,
that’s what has defined my life
at age thirty-nine.
even at work,
it all seems so futile.
like a throwaway plastic knife,
it’s only sharp enough to cut so deep.
janitor often knocks on the door to my classroom,
“you still here boss” he asks?
while rubbing his persistently
arthritic left wrist,
too swollen to even wear
a watch.
I tell him,
“yeah, living the dream brother.”
he gives me a noncommittal nod,
knowing the well-told lie like the crease in his neck.
so here I am
just a middle-aged joker,
an amateur writer at best trying to emulate
trying to copy because I’m too tired to create,
with my cracked-screen laptop.
something is coming
across the floor
toward
me.
wait
oh, it’s just
my can of beer
this
time.
by Kurt C. Schuett
The Bohemian Waitress
Accent thick,
Traditional Czech dress,
Red and black,
Brown nylons tucked into
White gym shoes.
“Hello, can I take your order?”
We say,
“Becks, apricot stone sour, Becks, Chablis.”
She says, “Okay.”
Grandma says, “Oh, I’ll take an apricot stone sour, too.”
“Better make that two,” Father jokes.
Bread basket,
Rye bread.
But Cousin Becky eats the crackers,
Plain,
A thirty-two-year-old
Drinking kiddy cocktails because of the
Wellbutrin,
And eating crackers.
Butter,
Real butter,
Not margarine,
Sitting at room temperature,
Soft.
“Beef noodle, liver dumpling, or goulash?”
Soup,
Sitting in cups
Sitting on saucers
Sitting on the circular table,
Hot.
Uncle Bill says,
“No soup, prune juice please.”
Probably because of the
High blood pressure.
Main course,
Breaded pork tenderloin,
Capon,
Lamb shank,
Or duck.
Dumplings, mashed, or rice,
Sticky-starchy,
More brown gravy,
Please.
“I’ll take the cucumber salad.”
“That will be one dollar more.”
“No problem.”
Chitter-chatter,
Chitter-chatter.
Forks and knives scraping plates
Like forks and knives scraping plates.
Dessert,
Apple strudel,
Apricot kolacky, cheese kolacky, raspberry kolacky,
Pudding or ice cream.
To go boxes,
“Sure.”
Until the next birthday,
Or the next funeral.
But the Bohemian waitress,
She’s
Always
There.
by Kurt C. Schuett
Kurt Schuett is an ward-winning writer and educator. Insurgency is Kurt’s debut novel, a speculative work of fiction that encompasses elements of urban suspense, thriller, and horror, and it is set to release during the summer of 2014 through Assent Publishing. In addition, Kurt’s short work of fiction, a southern gothic ghost story titled “Calamity James,” will appear in the Belle Reve Literary Journal on Monday, October 28th, 2013.
January 2014 | back-issues, poetry
That road through the country
Unspooling under a dark mountain
Massages my shins like wine.
Rose-colored cliffs protest
My black-and-white ideas.
The day in the city is over.
Old trees on the hillsides crack
Their knuckles into the air,
Pulling at lyres of light.
Birds glide on updrafts
Of the wound I released.
The day in the city is over.
Grasses bend in stress,
Winds unknot muscles,
Leaning hard as a masseuse.
Wheat, a promise panting
Through the throat of the valley,
Nods. The day in the city is over.
We wait under the sun,
Enduring impossible delays
Of this growth. If
The thresher holds
Our heads up to the sickle,
The day in the city is over.
But all is well.
Still on the way, believing
Earthbeats know their sway.
Brentwood
by Ryan Gregg
January 2014 | back-issues, poetry
but beauty is a living room
in a warehouse.
It lies in glass houses
measured in square footage.
Beauty is but a bird
Silk screened,
“only ninety-nine,
ninety-nine.”
My art is the pain in touch,
sanctity
Sucked from the pope
Screaming.
It feels like
raw chicken,
eats like my lovers
ate me,
so feed it.
by Brittney Blystone
Brittney Blystone studied creative writing in the United States at Northern Kentucky University and in England at University of East London.
January 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Today, I held you within reach of your mother
when you reached down the front of my shirt
and said, “Nana,” your pronunciation for nurse
and a name for what? You grasped at straws—
as if recalling my grade-school shame around girls
at the Y, when I crossed my arms or draped a towel
over my neck to cover up
—before you finally withdrew,
but only to tug the collar of my tee to peek in.
“Nana?” you asked this time but told plenty:
Love long before you take.
by Sidney Thompson
Sidney Thompson’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in RHINO Poetry, IthacaLit, A capella Zoo, The Fat City Review, and The Fertile Source. He is the author of the short story collection Sideshow (River City). Sidney lives in Denton, TX, where he teaches creative writing at Texas Woman’s University.
January 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Soles blue,
numb from the snow’s fall,
I stood reflecting
at the reflection of the moon
in my dry Sherry wine.
Small circles
counter-clockwise making waves
crying, reflecting
at the reflection of the moon;
an infinite snow dons the backdrop.
What was her name that questioned
my heart’s motive for trust?
A quivering hand
presents me with a million moods
breathe….breathe….breathe…., I must,
be dissolving
in to the reflection of the moon.
In the numb I felt home.
At home I felt numb
to the desired fire
that now rents a once vacant room,
no higher,
than my brain will allow.
Like a crime scene
on the day of our Independence,
that glass shattered,
cutting, falling, reflecting
a million moons that fell upon the snow.
Don’t say my name
for it is a worthless name
no one person should have to carry.
I, who will die alone inside,
fall to pieces daily,
wanting to know why you married.
It’s all coming back to me,
in the wine, in the snow,
in the last dissolving reflection of the moon!
by Warren Frieden
