January 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Sylvia
Sylvia’s not dead-
I saw her,
Just the other day.
She was wearing Converse sneakers
But her eyes were made of clay.
I asked her to say “rubber crotch”.
She laughed inside my head.
How can I say words you ninny,
When I’m good and dead?
But Sylvia
I pleaded,
I’ve got that fever too,
And I know it didn’t kill you,
Cause that’s not what fevers do.
See my son once had a fever,
His whole body burning hot,
But the doctor said the fever kills,
The virus that he’s got.
I heard you speak on YouTube,
And your voice was strong and
Fear
Did not creep inside it
But then,
You died within a year.
It had to be the virus
Not your fever like they said.
And now I know who you thought
You’d made up inside your head.
They all think
You wrote about,
A man that you once knew.
A man who must have let you down
And made your breath go blue.
But Sylvia just told me,
Not a man
But her instead,
That she thought she might have made up,
Inside that burning head.
Paper Goods
Say one good thing,
I’ll do it right.
I’ll crack my throat
And let my heart beat through.
But it must travel first
Down roads best left unspoken,
Of lately freed
And broken
Out their shackles,
To burst
Into the light.
I can say one good thing
If I just move past,
And let it come,
From the hide of my soul.
But good’s not good unless it’s best
Of bad I’m good at making worst.
What’s gray turns black
Most ’fore the white,
When my heart’s left
To speak through its veins.
These good things wait,
Most patient.
What’s good is paper,
Plain and true
Made up of all the good we do.
It’s paper made more
By the pen,
And never woken,
Never sent.
But read aloud it catches fire,
And makes even
This damn wretch
Rise higher.
The paper
White and smooth,
Puts words to all my wishes.
Of love and joy, eternal life,
Of children, telephones,
And Satan running-
He’s scared of me.
For good is great,
When good can be.
Mommer’s House
Enter to the right toward a candy dish.
Behind which there’s a small ladder
That reveals people,
Coming and going from a donut shop on a sometimes busy street.
When I’m older the ladder becomes a novelty.
How sad,
A useless ladder.
The television plays the local news,
Or Days of Our Lives,
Only,
Ever.
And for lunch
We eat nothing good like at Grammy’s-
Crabs, cookies, and the most moist cake,
More moist than my own tongue.
Here we eat peas or crackers
Next to the long, thin hallway,
Like my Mommer’s fingers.
And we don’t often go downstairs
Where the dead live.
by Karen Costa
Karen recently received an honorable mention for her short story “Charlie Shea” in the Glimmer Train Short Story Contest for New Writers. The Philadelphia Inquirer published her essay, “I Am an Island,” in their November 1st edition.
October 2012 | back-issues, poetry
First Afternoon
There are a million pebbles beneath my feet.
A small riverbed sleeps eight feet in front of me,
The wind circles my small chest.
First Morning
I rise to a full forest and a hungry belly.
A long haired father with three caught fish,
two Trout and one Steelhead.
First Night
Limbs of Red Cedars move at night.
I hear the Tree dream particles come out from underneath us.
Father wakes me and feeds the fire outside,
The trees then move again.
by Bradly Brandt
October 2012 | back-issues, poetry
No one comes. House lights burn
in the empty street, white oaks
shudder in all these silent yards.
She stands in October moonlight,
leaves swirling at her feet, opens
her eyes to another gravity’s
magic pull. How strange to feel
that pale yellow bath on her cheeks
and painted smile. She drinks
the darkness as an owl floats
by, its alien face round as another
moon dotted with black
stars, rush of wings and from
somewhere breath and a beating heart.
Maybe you’ll meet her some night
on the moonbeam road, when
careless dreams push you toward
the margins of a tired life. Feel
your own swimming arms pull
a body through surging sky.
Don’t fail to greet her with your
eyes at least, or if your tongue
unfreezes, speak to her in the unlocked
language of your weightless blood.
She might take your hand
then, lead you home to secret
pools where wolves lap
at secrets with their scarlet tongues.
by Steve Klepetar
Steve Klepetar teaches literature and writing at Saint Cloud State University in Minnesota. His work has received several Pushcart nominations and his chapbook, Thirty-six Crows, was recently published by erbacce press.
October 2012 | back-issues, poetry
So Long
When Chet’s going cold
turkey, can’t work
long solos, his trio must
rescue the slack
as Chet stalls and paces
and instead of resting
places his horn
on the barstool.
Spinning the seat
he watches soft light
ricochets off the brass
and a dim glow
of accusation play
roulette on his face,
Arm twitching
for the trumpet, he drags
long on a cigarette
before hoisting his horn
He closes his eyes,
brailles the brass,
as wandering lyrics
perch restlessly
on his tongue.
“Every time we say goodbye,
I die a little…”
Pistons like syringe plungers
shake him. Death jerking
horn to mouth, he blows and blows,
blows clear of wives, lovers
and children: clear of himself.
Lost in applause Chet wonders
how long art based on Taps
can last; he traces his lucky
vein, dwells on the spitty air
streams tricked into music,
tastes the words:
“Every time we say goodbye,
I wonder why a little.”
by Thomas Michael McDade
Omelet
The man who did twelve
years says he has two
Honorables covering eight
and a Medical Discharge
for the rest that does not
state a reason but he’ll tattle
after a minute or so gabbing
that booze graced most
of his sailor days—
take that, jump ship,
use some imagination.
A mongrel in the corner stares
at him head tilted quizzically.
Civilian-wise, he’s been
DUI convicted five times
and he’ll proudly name
states, cities, fines
and incarcerations.
All that aside, he’s been doing
pretty well, dry a couple of months
but a reunion revealed
that tipsy on memories is likely
to diminish per shipmate arrival.
No Taps or Reveille,
morning delivered him
animated and unwinding
amid strong urging to enjoy
the three-egg cheese omelet
dwarfing his plate.
Managing a bite, he halts and cuts
to his first liberty in the Philippines.
Holding up three fingers he says
Count them! All mine for a week!
My harem fought over rights
to little ole me,
butterfly knives settled
each day’s first possession!
Dangerous shit, he adds,
glancing at a pistol hanging
off a the host’s rifle rack
like a stepchild
and no one disagrees.
Many attempts to top that
account fail but a couple
of guys are too busy to compete
fashioning joints and tobacco
smokes using nifty rolling devices.
The Mongrel is named Jesse
and she barks her two-cents worth
and more as if all these sea and terra
firma tales pale against what
she could gush concerning
her existence before
adoption discharged her
honorably from a shelter.
A hunk of omelet overboard
passes for gourmet
among this howling dog
pound of a crew.
by Thomas Michael McDade
McDade is a former computer programmer living in Monroe, CT with his wife, no kids, no pets. He did two hitches in the U.S. Navy. He’s been most recently pulished in New Maps.
October 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Even now, as my fingers
Turn incised in time,
As my eyes fall upon
The dusting of artificial
Sweetener some careless
Hand forgot, I wonder
On the involute silence
Of empty space.
A never
Silent silence. Bespotted
Always with the stigmata
Of an omnipresent hum.
This hum is not unlike
The hum of industry
But for its source— its source
Lies hidden deep in the earth,
Or perhaps it originates
In my very skull.
This hum, this ceaseless
Murmuring, I think at times
To be existence itself
Sighing without end.
From here I can almost see
The opening doors and feet
And hands descending like
Locusts. Foreknowledge needs
Not prophesy. And I hear,
Now as then, the lingering hum
Deafening always and louder
Only in silence.
by Dan Pizappi
