January 2011 | back-issues, poetry
New Somalia
Wherever she walks
that is Mogadishu.
Her ruby-colored veil cascades to her knees.
Her posture is not left to nature’s vices
like these impressionable
sidewalk-tamed and -framed trees.
The crosswalk blushes beneath her feet
for she weaves a red carpet out of its common,
striped concrete and, as she glides past,
cars stand at attention on the street,
giving her all but a military salute.
As she forges ahead, resolute as a general,
the mind conjures the flourish of a trumpet
and a desert wind is felt, carried inexplicably
upon an ocean breeze. Meanwhile,
seagulls on curved lampposts sit still
and the second-story dentist looks on,
mesmerized, at his window sill.
The traffic light gives green cards
but not all take off at once.
Somalia, for one, is still learning the roads
but she is with strength and drive replete.
I do not worry about her, that Somalia,
for, though she comes as a surprise to this town,
this town doesn’t surprise her in the least.
the (snow) globe
an arab who looked up to the west
until she looked it up
got the rundown
got run down
now looking up at stars
a female under males
trying to understand them
trying to get around them
without getting around
an american idolizing
the rising sun
but damning its horizon
a zealot searching for absolutes
in a chain reaction
a civilian hoping her soldier
will not be killed
by friendly fire
his memory steeped, dyed
in cold blood
people building up walls
walls tearing people down
human aliens invading
old stereotypes gracefully aging
actors without stages staging protests
picket lines shouting for an audience
lines of itinerant workers
for hire
and hopes for higher wages
falling to the ground
foreigners working as domestics
brown eyes becoming statistics
children whose existence
is resistance
unsympathetic weather
unnatural disasters
parents beating each other to pieces
trying to stay together
a family dilating and constricting
as the light comes out a rainbow
a human trying to be humane
a predator climbing down
the food chain
a storeowner resisting a window sale
a dog chasing after its own tail
an independent girl
still a dependent
a prisoner escaping
to confinement
a misguided man who considers
all but himself lost
another religiously secular
an atheist who wants to believe again
but has forgotten how
a virgin who always chastens herself
but wants to do it now
a millionaire who flies coach
a poor man with a porche
a liberal with a crocodile purse
a mercenary unattractive nurse
innumerable iterations of 0 and 1
wars both peoples lost
ones both countries won
ignoble nobel laureates
a disunited united nations
an inoperative surgeon
leading countless operations
sky rises raising eyebrows
not standards of living
and standards waving
over double-parked cars
over double-doubles
over double standards
i stand sometimes looking
at this small curious world
in a snow globe
sometimes
in the snow globe
looking out
curiously
at the world
Epitaph
I didn’t know what to do, at first,
with their last remains
so I lined them shoulder to shoulder
and ran over the bodies.
If burning a book is sacrilege, then what of human flesh?
If burying is cruel in life, how much more in death?
This way they’ll not repel the eye should they be unearthed.
This way not gods but simple men will trigger their rebirth,
and if a chance puff of dust tempts from you a sneeze,
it’ll be a comfort to know that those weren’t arms and knees.
So bury the urn and burn the blasted coffin.
I want to be the death of a few hundred trees;
I want to be a character in your memories.
January 2011 | back-issues, fiction
by Joe Hillenbrand
Man, was I hungry. There was nothing to eat in the house so I ordered a large pizza and ate the whole thing – but I was still starving. So I searched for something, anything, to eat. Couldn’t find a thing. Not a slice of bread. Not a cracker. Not even a crumb. I scoured the cupboards, the fridge, the seat cushions, the floor, behind the stove – nothin’. I had to look elsewhere
That’s when I ate my pride. It was too hard to bite or chew, so I swallowed it whole. Nearly choke on the damn thing, but I managed to get it down. It wasn’t enough though. I wanted… needed more.
So I boiled my hate. Each mouthful more bitter than the last. My stomach growled for more.
I whipped up a bowl of pity. Creamy and sweet, it went down easy.
Love? There hasn’t been any of that around here for a long time. No… I stopped looking for love. Instead, I drank my tears and belched my apologies.
Then I found a bit of hope. Stale and moldy as it was, I took a bite. That was a mistake. I couldn’t keep it down. Just made room for more.
Confidence was a tasty morsel: meaty and juicy.
That was it. There was nothing left. I’ve eaten it all and it’s left me so I can’t get out of bed (having doubled and redoubled my size). But that’s OK; I don’t need to go anywhere. I’m not hungry… for now.
Tomorrow, it starts all over again.
January 2011 | back-issues, fiction
Beyond and above –
no fear.
I crumbled.
The darkness invited the light.
Tender and trembling.
Uncertain and fading.
Surrounded by hideous giants…
A moment.
A sigh.
Departing from previous lives.
Defrosting
and pouring
over a bottomless well.
Awaiting.
And breathing.
Involved with no will.
Too late
or too early,
but never on time.
Suspicious.
Attracted.
Stuck to the ground.
Withholding one hand,
pulled by the other.
Survive or surrender –
above and beyond.
January 2011 | back-issues, poetry
The chocolate-covered calendar read August
yet the citrus pork bellies lounged
casually on Christmas china waiting
for their escorts to the table, pigeon peas
freshly picked and still boiling
in a pot on the iron stove
the iron as black as night
the coals singing below
while nearby they lay
the potatoes quiet and still
meticulously scrubbed
carefully dried and seasoned
now asleep in a glass bowl
the red Idaho’s peeled
and poached in white wine
as the blind man sniffed the air
surrendering to the smells, succulent smells
pungent like cloves or tar;
the aromas escaped from the kitchen
entered the dining room, then hovered
like an eagle over the table
right above the midget squirming in his chair
his eyes fixed on the Christmas tree, an old wood pole
with branches made of toilet bowl scrubbers
their green bushy heads as prickly as pine needles
their arms draped in Christmas lights
trembling, shimmering, blinking rhythmically
to the music seeping into the midget’s head
the sound escaping from him, an iPod perhaps
as he sat on a high chair, his legs swinging
his mouth chewing on chocolate
his hands creating hills in front of him
hills of chocolate raisins
hills of M & M’s
hills he will hide in
when the pigeon peas appear.
January 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Far worse than being unemployed,
in some respects;
Employees with nothing to do.
The Dubai street sweeper polishes his sidewalk,
that is already polished.
His mate pretends to pick up garbage with a pole grabber,
the streets are absolutely empty.
Ana, my hotel tourism saleswoman
sits at her little table by the exit,
tries small talk with the Pakistani bell boy
to no avail.
She stares out the glass door at the rain.
Muhammed at Fish World has fish sandwiches to sell
but no one is biting.
With his blue collared shirt, yellow vest, and sailor’s hat
he scratches his arm,
reads the menu for the thousandth time,
stares out at the rich mall rats who are free.
Wishes he could be beautiful,
like the azure-suited Chinese in Chinese Palace
or at least popular,
like the baseball-capped Filipinas in Burger King.
At last, the fish-eaters have arrived,
he smiles.
Bio note: Brian Briscombe burns wood in Falls Church, Virginia, USA. He’s never been published before unless you count his 60 Facebook Notes or the 600 US Government publications of his economic analysis. Recently Brian edited four painful papers that analyzed the costs and medical benefits of conducting male circumcisions in selected African countries. Although those papers might never be read, at least they paid better than Burning Wood. Brian likes it when strangers email him, so long as they are not Nigerian scam artists.
