October 2013 | back-issues, fiction
After hours traipsing through churches bogged down with cherubs and crosses and enough gold to filigree the planet, after hordes of us line up to clear the pathetic TSA amateur style provided by the cruise ship, in the elevator, the glass one overlooking the Mediterranean, I spot him.
“Professor Robert H. Raskin,” I shout. He’s at the back, pinned against the glass. To think I’d barely made it on before the doors closed. I’d know him anywhere. That bald head, that mole like a third eye lurking in the middle of his forehead. Next to him, his wife. I met her once, back when I was a freshman and he taught literature.
“It’s been thirty years! I called you Bobby then. We’d done it in your van that day, the day your wife showed up at school. That was a few weeks before the abortion. We were so literary. We compared my pregnancy to the girl’s in ‘Hills Like White Elephants.’ It was much easier than thinking about a real child, you being married and all.”
The elevator is silent. I imagine the others are thinking the view isn’t worth a ride up with a lunatic. But I’m not crazy, it’s just that at 48 my estrogen supply is dwindling, and testosterone, more of it now, is coursing through my body, like some kind of truth and freedom serum.
“Oh, here we are, stopping. Is this your deck, Robert? Making your way through the madding crowd are you?”
As he slouches out, an old man with his head down, his wife looks at me, her gaze direct, but disinterested, as if I’m one more relic on view, after a day filled with more of the past than she cares to absorb.
— Linda Lowe
Linda Lowe received her M.F.A. in poetry from the University of California, Irvine. A chapbook of her poems, “Karmic Negotiations” was published by Sarasota Theatre Press. Online, her stories have appeared in The Pedestal Magazine, The Linnet’s Wings, Right Hand Pointing and others.
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
doctor no
1. “escape addiction,”
the doctor says,
I wait out the pause
the dot dot dot
(three little indians, no feathers)
before I ask “how?”
“you misunderstand,” he replies,
“that’s the diagnosis”
2. “Nurse Scalpel?”
“Yes Doctor?”
“prepare yourself…”
[a painted nail
takes the pulse
the color,
a thin layer,
really just a cover,
on which we judge
this pornographic literature
(and we HOWL)]
3. “lycanthropy,”
the doctor says
the moon is liquid
the moon is a peephole
on indeterminate skin,
the watching animals
claw together
loose change
4. at some point
in american history
there was a mass vaccination
against imagination
we were spoon-fed
warm bits of plastic
blister packs
about wounded hearts
(are you safe
up on your hook,
behind your barcode armor?
we hear the squeaks,
from a distance ,
rats on christmas eve
are we the gifts
or the teeth? and,
how do you ever sleep?)
5. “ugly duckling syndrome”
he says
turns his head and coughs
and pisses in my water
(I shaved this morning
so in the mugshot I wouldn’t
look like a lamb to the slaughter)
small town murder
1. you are
a small town murder mystery
and you don’t know why
“don’t touch they body,” they say
but all the fingerprints
stack into a photograph
of a shifting desert seen static
2. we went to church
to interview witnesses
they held their tongues
like leather leashes
pulled taut by rabid hearts
(“this is the blood
this is the body”
this is the aural wallpaper
in the room where
they’ve painted themselves
into corners
with the rudimentary tools
of sunlight and stained glass)
3. we touched the body
found a map cut into the skin
the cartographer: the broken mirror
rumor suggests
it leads to the fountain of youth
rumor goes
that she faced that full length photograph
and tried to shake herself awake
4. we went
about the anthill
looking for witnesses
but all the secrets are kept
behind each white picket fence
every outward semblance
of a smile
(the grass is always greener
when treated with chemicals)
5. this is the blood
this is the body
you are
and you don’t know why
(you’re young
but you’ve been dying
a long time)
mars
1. in the beginning
god opened his crayon box
like a missile silo in the middle of nowhere
used all the blue for the sky
all the green for the earth
all the black for the hearts
the brown for the dirt
(left us with just the red and
and a rusted sharpener)
“in school today
we learned “mars” as a verb
we learned of class
separation
the science inside us
that fights and creates the energy
we harness in our self-destruction”
(the cliques, the clicks, the boom)
(in the beginning mars
was the god
of war)
2. she calls it a map
of the first place she lost
control and/of memory
once it all made sense but
once is never enough
the presents leave paper cuts as we grow up
the present feels like a sad song
in the movie credits, all the black and all the names
and just one voice screaming
she wears a razor on a silver chain
around the vase of her throat
flowered once but no
longer honey
-suckle(the smallest part torn out
for the littlest bit of sweetness)
3. and maybe it’s just training wheels
cause baby it’s all down hill
from here(hold on)
“a self-centered elizabeth bathory
in a claw-foot bathtub
razor like a sliver of a moon
in the sky of her blue hand”
-quote the private eyes in the police report
and the black and white photographs
show the slashes as silver linings
a clouded girl who rained
but watched it evaporate
4. in the beginning
mars
was habitable
(she called it a map
of the first place
she lost)
— Joe Quinn
Joe Quinn is a 33 year old poet living in Kentucky. Author of four previous collections, all available at stores.lulu.com/welcomehomeironlung, the most recent collection entitled “escape artist.”
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
the red line at midnight
on the subway
a middle-aged man
with scraggly grey hair
taps us on the shoulder
to show us a handwritten sign
which says,
I am deaf
please help if you can,
to some extent
causing a younger man behind us
to yell,
he ain’t deaf
he can talk
I’ve heard him
don’t fall for it,
also to some extent
so I shake off the beggar
and say, sorry, in the process
which he may
or may not have heard
the subway is always full of characters
and as each peculiar moment passes
under flickering fluorescents
another one is conceived
and soon it shall breathe life
for all us late night travelers to see
and occasionally
eye contact is shared
and held
between fellow strangers
only to remain held
as images
and preconceptions
unravel in the mind of two
cherish all of these moments
even the dancing man
selling sticky incense which smells of medicine
for they are real
and unflattering
and isn’t that what we love most?
half*mad
We move toward the mirage
with legs doused in sand
and sleeves rolled up into our armpits.
But it’s there—
oh, I can see it.
Shimmering in the golden haze
like the sine waves of air
behind a bbq pit.
Drench the coals in kerosene
and drop a match on the grill
so we can watch the flames jut towards the heavens
mimicking the sharp tips of the wooden fence
looming in the background.
The mirage is there
that much I promise.
And though our throats are dry
and lips chapped
and hands scaly with dead skin
those shimmering waves of air
are calling my name
beckoning me with curled fingers.
Can’t you hear?
You have to listen closely
for sometimes the whispers
are louder than the rest.
looking for what
Should we start?
What should we do?
Should we stop?
What should we do?
What are we looking for?
What are you looking for?
Why are you looking at me?
I don’t have the answer
and neither do you.
Does this overall lack of clarity
surprise you?
Welcome to the maze.
The infinitely
twisting
maze
of tomorrow
and the beast
of
yesterday.
Forget your trail of bread crumbs
for it has already been devoured.
mr. demille
Enough of science and art;
close up on purple stains & pale smoke,
the smiling Descent of Winter
and a woe weathered halfgone moon.
Close up on the flight of a human soul
surmounted by black and white heroes of the past—
life suspended between familiar blank fields
and rueful skies.
Close up on the uniform of intellect,
an insect’s unseen calm
and the skin of a ripe plum
colored blue from the languorous light of the sea.
When we’re able to outshine the pageantry of fear
those towering tombs with swiveling eyes
appear barren
as they are and have forever been.
victory
Phil Collins belts out his cheesy vocals
that echo through our kingdom
our 80s palace perched atop the hills of purity
the elevated ridges that lie above a fog of dissipating honesty.
Facades and lies and masks that hide the soul have no place in our
paradise of vulnerability—our sanctuary of truth and beauty and
childish courage that swims through the succulent veins of soldiers
hoisting loaded rifles with glimmering bayonets leading the way.
a collision of sorts
I was buying a cheap 40 oz.
with my dog in tow
when a young homeless man came up behind us
he was blond and tan
but his eyes were darty and distant
and immediately I knew
all of my change would be his
why?
I don’t know
because my pain runs deep with them
every single one
but I can’t give it all away
I can’t empty my wallet
at the drop of a frown
no matter how much I want to
so I restrain
I dissect
and I second guess
but always
every goddamn time
I’m left with a sickness in the pit of my stomach
that nags
and tugs
and tries to suffocate my happiness
but I won’t let it because I can’t bear to think of myself in such a
hollow position surrounded by such hollow souls with slicked back
hair and crisp lapels and legs that are trained to migrate away from
the uneasy stare of misfortune
hell no
I can’t let it eat me alive
I’m too weak
so I donate when I can
as often as I can
and attempt to move on
because I have to
but every now and then
one of the wounded come limping up
and try to pet my dog
but he’s growling
and I wonder why
but maybe he’s just scared
maybe we’re all scared
so I look at the wounded soul
and I don’t care what he’s done
for I’ll never know
and I don’t care why he did it
for I’ll never know
and I hand him all of my change
and walk away before his thank you reaches my ears
a walk up hillhurst
people pack inside the coffee shop
with their computers
and notepads
and wandering eyes
pretending to be infinitely important
and endlessly perplex
when all they actually want is to be seen
and to be comforted
by a group of strangers
who share the same insecurity
because those wandering eyes
aren’t meant to ward anyone off
or protect precious work
they’re lonely invitations
to a disappointing party
an empty beachside mansion
with the host asleep on the couch
watered down whiskey still in hand
so I get my coffee to go
and find a nearby bus bench
where I can write alone
until an old man
holding two bags of groceries in each hand
takes the open seat to my left
as I finish my poem
a nice walk can invigorate the mind
and inspire tired knees
but on my way back
I see a cat sitting on a windowsill
who pays no attention to me as I pass
entirely unaffected by my presence
I guess I don’t mean anything to him
but he means something to me
— Cliff Weber
Cliff Weber is 26 years-old and lives in Los Angeles. He has self-published three books and two chapbooks, all of which can be purchased on lulu.com and in select bookstores. His work has appeared in Adbusters, Out of Our, Beatdom, Bartleby Snopes, and Burningword, among others. He will begin the Creative Writing program at USC in the fall of 2013. Follow his blog, Word Meds (www.wordmeds.la), for your daily dose of literature.
October 2013 | back-issues, fiction
Ten minutes ago, I dropped you
at the airport, and you cried and I stared
blankly at the wall above your head, waiting
for the tears I knew wouldn’t fall,
not there, not then,
not when I needed them to.
Now I’m on the road, heading back
to the apartment you helped me decorate,
and there’s a hole in my stomach,
the air conditioner blasting right through it,
knowing that you’re sitting alone
in the terminal, trying your best
to bury your sadness but falling
short—way short, your eyes red like
the blouse you walked away in. But also
because I’m hungry,
because we ate brunch, not lunch,
and now it’s dinner time; and
if you were here with me right now, in the car,
we’d be discussing our dinner options,
flipping through our combined mental rolodex
of recently purchased Target grocery items,
each of us pretending to desire
what we suspect the other one does.
Ultimately, we would debate
over chicken stir fry or baked Swai,
and because neither one of us knows how
to make a decision, we would leave
that decision to chance and play rock-paper-scissors,
and you would win, like you always do,
so we would eat what you thought I wanted, which was the Swai,
and you would have been right.
I do want the Swai.
I want the Swai right now, but thinking of the Swai
makes my face contort
like a deep-sea monster,
my upper lip fat
and quivering,
my cheeks swollen, my eyebrows rolling
like the Nebraska Sandhills
we canoed through last summer. And of course
now I’m crying, now that I’m alone,
because how in the hell am I supposed to make Swai
when the only thing I know about Swai
is that I love you?
— Carson Vaughan
Carson is a native Nebraskan and freelance writer with published features work in Salon, Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, Orion, Truthout, the Omaha World Herald, the Lincoln Journal Star, the Wilmington Star News, and other publications. He currently serves as the nonfiction editor of Ecotone at the University of North Carolina-Wilmington.
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Joey
at the mercy of my feelings
in the palm of your hand
you’ve got me.
headlights float outside my window
like UFOs or the goat-drawn
chariots of Norse gods.
I’ll spell these figment cuddles
and kisses into stars
imploding, melting at my fingertips.
this has happened too many
times and my smile has found its crease,
but there are too few promises left
to group like marbles,
rolling in the bottom of a bucket.
Polite Love Notes
The wind whips, whistling
outside my window. Dirty laundry
strewn across the bed,
my thoughts of you
sprawling over every spare surface.
The chill of January
draws to a close and here
I am, my imagination
drawing you close, closer.
Kissing ghost lips,
wishing beyond wishes,
pronouncing every “please”
as clearly as I can
because my hopes are climbing
out of my chest
onto this page, a canvas,
whatever they can reach
ever writing and rewriting
the poem that keeps you near me.
My Heart Thrums Like the Radio
Happy is hard to hold,
fling a rope and do your best
to tie it up tidy
take the flood captive.
But you unwound the spark,
tapping a rhythm
amid the ordinary colors
a dance of pulses and pearls.
Stealing Kisses in An Art Gallery
Dropping I love yous like candy pieces
licking up scraps of affection
whenever they are spared.
Glorying in the sound of
my own name, eyes closed in
reverence, basking in
the thickest fog and prettiest paint.
Stow the memories, the needless nostalgia,
for this moment has me lighter than air.
Cold Calligraphy
Something delicate,
something I could understand
like pink petals cascading
settling soft on pale skin –
blonde hair,
glimmering eyes.
Not anything like this cold –
a girl carving sentences,
her friends to fragments,
herself to pieces.
I would hold her but for all
the edges. But for
my wounds being cut
just as fresh, just as cleanly.
— Sarah Lucille Marchant (twitter.com/flutterpulse)
