July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Let it burn
until all that is left
is a black crisp
of dehydrated exoskeleton jerky.
What do I care?
I did not create this place.
I did not ask to play this game.
I did not stuff the coal shafts.
I did not dig the oil wells.
I did not clamor for the goldmines.
I did not manifest destiny
across the desert
with a mind obsessed
on material diversions of the flesh.
Let it burn
until the stars in the sky
have nothing left
to shine down upon.
Let it burn
until the sun extinguishes
from its own
existential exhaustion.
What do I care?
I didn’t build the Model-T.
I didn’t pave the asphalt road.
I didn’t plan the concrete jungle.
I didn’t send the ships
across the sea
with hopes of New Atlantis
in the distance.
Let it burn
until Sherman’s fire
pales like a glow light in comparison.
Let it burn
until the Apocalypse
rises up in molten magma
through volcanic outburst tantrums.
What do I care?
I didn’t write the Holy Verses.
I wasn’t the one
inspired by God
to lie false prophecies
into the hearts and minds of Man.
I didn’t slaughter the natives.
I didn’t enslave other races.
I didn’t stomp on Pagan grounds.
I didn’t erect churches
atop conquered lands.
I didn’t start the wars.
I don’t need to finish the job
that other animals began.
Let it burn
until the flag is stripped
of blue and white stars and stripes
and all that remains is red.
Let it burn
as a beacon
atop the flaming hill
as a lesson about the fall.
What do I care?
I didn’t taste the forbidden fruit.
I didn’t kiss the serpent.
I didn’t fuck the liar.
I didn’t drink the venom.
I didn’t suck the poison.
I didn’t breed the cancer.
I didn’t dig the shallow grave.
Let it burn
until the bones are ash
and the marrow evaporates
into a chemical combustion revelation.
Let it burn.
Let it cry.
Let it whine.
Let it bitch.
Let it moan.
What do I care?
I didn’t promise it
a single damn thing.
I didn’t ask it to love me.
I didn’t need it to want me.
I didn’t beg it to birth me.
I didn’t buy the ticket.
I didn’t sign up for the ride.
Let it burn
until the plastic faces
are melted
on the Sunset Strip
and the haughty egos
catch flame on Boardwalk.
Let it burn
from the outside in
so the rotten core
is the last space to smolder into oblivion.
What do I care?
I didn’t come here to save the world.
I didn’t offer a quick fix resolution.
Let it burn.
The Phoenix is waiting in the wings.
by Scott Outlar
Scott Thomas Outlar survived the chaos of both the fire and the flood…barely. Now he spends the hours flowing and fluxing with the tide of the Tao River while laughing at and/or weeping over life’s existential nature. His words have appeared recently in venues such as Dissident Voice, Yellow Chair Review, Calliope Magazine, The First Line, and Harbinger Asylum.
July 2015 | back-issues, nonfiction
I haven’t said my skin is ash. I hyperpigment where the band of my sports bra rests, where a racer back runs rigid between my blades, where my favorite strand of pearls wants to lay. I sliver tiny shavings of my skin where these polka-dots amass. I fragment, and I flake, but I fold myself in scarves and sweatshirts so nobody sees.
I haven’t said this collects on every person’s skin, just better on mine. It appreciates the four hours every weekday I spend outside, where it can absorb the hot, humid air. It appreciates that I sweat when I work out, that I moisten it, that I quench its thirst. It appreciates that I supply it with neighbors too—like asthma and celiac. Yes, this appreciates me.
I haven’t said my skin is scales. Fine scales. Pale scales. Pink scales. In the shower, when I exercise, after sunlight. My flesh courses itself into rigid plates. On my back, they look like uneven roof tiles arranged in concentric layers. Patches overlap from head toward toe. Between freckles, they sink their uneven edges like teeth into my ribcage. They indent and project and flex and multiply, and multiply, and multiply.
I haven’t said Malassezia furfur. Since this inhabits my skin, it will return. Since this can’t leave, I can only hope the pale pigment patches on my right shoulder and the russet spots on my spine blend with my natural Band-Aid colored tone. Since I can’t seem to shake this species that shadows me, I’ll keep itching.
I haven’t said my skin is rash. I apply lotion, shampoo, cream, foam, soap. I want to control this, to keep it from growing. Over-the-counter, prescription, topical, homeopathic, breathable, non-greasy, hypoallergenic, who cares. This is here to stay.
by Ruth Towne
Ruth Towne is an emerging author from Southern Maine. The Literary Yard recently featured her piece “Four Passages” on their website, and Blotterature published her short “This Is More Than Homesickness” in their Winter 2015 issue. She currently studies Professional Writing and Information Design but loves creative writing. When she is not working, she loves to visit her family’s camp and explore the New England woods.
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
A straightened line of cold rounded
sand still manifests itself in a
circular formation of lost
privileges and guarded chances,
falling, tumbling, surrounded in a
broken mist of past ignorance, sealed
by hot assurances of desire and want,
hidden by incremental degrees of solitude
and hope.
by Joseph Buehler
Joseph Buehler lives in northern Georgia with his wife Trish. He has published three short stories in the “Kansas Magazine” and a short story in the “Canadian Forum” long ago and three poems in “Bumble Jacket Miscellany” and a poem in “Defenestration” in December 2011 and have an upcoming poem in the spring/summer 2012 “Common Ground Review” and poems in “Theodate”, “Mad Swirl”, “Indiana Voice Journal” and other places.
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
and green and fresh as a cucumber pickle,
sharp in the mouth, and soft green too,
soft and new as the sweater you bought me,
holding me young.
As young as love, a humble sip,
the smallest sip of warm green tea,
grounded like gymnasts learning to stick
fast to the landing.
As young as a flock of parakeets,
chattering green, holding us up
to the air, clumsy blunders of green,
dashed into shivers.
As young as green in the eyes of a cat,
the eyes of a cat eternity’s green,
what we take with us after we’ve shed
what’s left of our thunder.
by Gwen Jensen
Birthright, Gwendolyn Jensen’s first book of poems, was published in 2011. Her second book, As If Toward Beauty, was released in 2014. The print and online journals where her poems and translations have appeared include The Comstock Review, Harvard Review, Salamander, and Stickman Review.
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
This blood is a waltz at dawn.
A soul splinters on the ground,
a thousand red vessels smashing
to pieces. The doctors take pictures
instead of putting it back together.
A human soul—the honeysuckle
leaking out. The janitor comes
instead, leaking capillaries brushed
away beneath a Bauhaus mop.
by Ruohan Miao
Ruohan Miao lives in Arizona. Her work can be found in Cicada, Aerie International, Cargoes, and Navigating the Maze. When not writing, she can be found marveling at the vastness of space.
