April 2002 | back-issues, poetry
[b]The Miracle of the Kisses[/b]
That night, the cock denied him thrice.
His mother and the whore downloaded him,
nails etched into his palms,
his thorny forehead glistening,
his body speared.
He wanted to revive unto their moisture.
But the nauseating scents of vinegar
and Roman legionnaires,
the dampness of the cave,
and then that final stone…
His brain wide open,
supper digested
that was to have been his last.
He missed so his disciples,
the miracle of their kisses.
He was determined not to decompose.
[b]In Moist Propinquity[/b]
Hemmed in our bed,
in moist propinquity,
’tis night and starry
and the neighbourhood inebriated,
in the vomitary of our street.
A woman,
my stone-faced lover,
a woman and her smells.
The yellow haze of melancholy lampposts.
Your hair consumes you.
[b]When you wake the morning[/b]
When you wake the morning
red headed children shimmer in your eyes.
The venous map
of sun drenched eyelids
flutters
throbbing topography.
Your muscles ripple.
Scared animals burrow
under your dewy skin.
Frozen light sculptures
where wrinkles dwell.
Embroidered shades,
in thick-maned tapestry.
Your lips depart in scarlet,
flesh to withering flesh,
and breath in curved tranquility
escapes the flaring nostrils.
Your warmth invades my sweat,
your lips leave skin regards
on my humidity.
Eyelashes clash.
[b]A Hundred Children[/b]
Tell me about your sunshine
and the sounds of coffee
and of bare feet pounding the earthen floor
the creaking trees
and the skinned memory of hugs
you gave
and you received.
Sit down, yes, here,
the intermittent sobbing
of the shades
slit by your golden face.
Now listen to the hundred children
that are your womb.
I am among them.
[b]Cutting to Existence[/b]
My little brother cuts himself into existence.
With razor tongue I try to shave his pain,
he wouldn’t listen.
His ears are woolen screams, the wrath
of heartbeats breaking to the surface.
His own Red Art.
When he cups his bleeding hands
the sea of our childhood
wells in my eyes
wells in his veins
like common salt.
[b]Prague at dusk[/b]
Prague lays over its inhabitants in shades of grey. Oppressively close to the surface, some of us duck, others simply walk carefully, our shoulders stooped, trying to avoid the monochrome rainbow at the end of the hesitant rain. Prague rains itself on us, impaled on one hundreds towers, on a thousand immolated golden domes. We pretend not to see it bleeding to the river. We just cross each other in ornate street corners, from behind exquisite palaces. We don’t shake heads politely anymore. We are not sure whether they will stay connected if we do.
It is in such times that I remember an especially sad song, Arabic sounds interlaced with Jewish wailing. Wall after wall, turret after turret, I re-visit my homeland. It is there, in that city, which is not Arab, nor Jewish, not entirely modern, nor decidedly antique that I met her.
And the pain was strong.
by Sam Vaknin, Ph.D. (c) 2002
([email]vaknin [at] link [dot] com [dot] mk[/email])
[b]Author?s Note:[/b]
Sam Vaknin is the author of [i]Malignant Self Love – Narcissism Revisited[/i] and [i]After the Rain – How the West Lost the East[/i]. He is a columnist for Central Europe Review, United Press International (UPI) and eBookWeb, and the editor of mental health and Central East Europe categories in The Open Directory, Suite101 and searcheurope.com. Until recently, he served as the Economic Advisor to the Government of Macedonia. Visit Sam’s Web site at [url=http://samvak.tripod.com]http://samvak.tripod.com[/url].
April 2002 | back-issues, fiction
a fiction short by Kimberly Townsend Palmer
([email]KimberlyTP [at] aol [dot] com[/email])
Patient A is a living museum of femininity, and serves as transitory evidence of extensive neo-geo-psycho-socio-eco-political movement. Designed and built in the second half of the twentieth century, she first gained philanthropic prominence with a cynical, witty, overeducated man eight years her senior, Charles F. She stayed faithful to Charles F. for six months, but the intriguing tales of his former sexual partners, then numbering in the several hundreds, irretrievably seized her imagination. She left, and never looked back. She shops for new men the way other women shop for new shoes.
She invariably rejects both the too-easy conquest and the too-stubborn resistance. Every season countless men flock near to witness her fleeting, hormonally-induced states of passion, and observe for themselves her classic “XX” architecture.
If it seems that everything has already been said about Patient A, then it is up to the curious investigator to discover her for himself, for she offers infinite variety. She is a woman for night-owls, early-birds, strollers, culture-vultures, devotees of high fashion, low-lifers, luxury-seekers, ascetics, flower-givers, wine-drinkers, the avant-garde, the old guard, fans of high times, fans of art, or just plain fans. Spend your time walking with her through parks, along leaf-lined boulevards, window-shopping, drinking coffee in sidewalk cafes, or overdosing on her sweet, flowery smell. Patient A is the sum of all the men who have loved her, described her, and taught her. She combines the unique with the humdrum — note her fine, trembling sensitivity, her bullheaded obstinacy, her spurts of unbounded energy, her fits of restlessness, irrational generosity, contemptible stinginess, as well as her innate proclivity for sleeping all day on the couch, unwashed dishes piled high in the sink.
In her twenties, following several remarkably disastrous affairs with high-strung youths, she gradually assumed supremacy over William B., an older, stolid man with a government job. Beautiful buildings sprang up around her person, the arts flourished within her living room, and she gained renown as the sexual capital of the household.
She was kind and good and true to William B. for longer than she had ever been with any man. She wanted to settle down with her mate and raise a herd of children. Justice was what she had in mind. As you sow, so shall you reap. She had a set of rules in her head, and she did not break them until she had no choice left but to live or die. Everything unkind her husband said was made even heavier by something kind he left unsaid, and the weight of his personality dragged on her like a universe. Omissions are not accidents — in this belief she is said by many to be unreasonable. It’s so unrefined to object to an adulterous wife. He could have tried to even things out. She held the cosmos on her inadequate neck, and how it ached at night!
For a long time after she finally left him, she was afraid of love and all things human. There was no one left to speak to, and the fact that she never made anyone other than herself smile didn’t help. She realizes now every woman fights her own private war, and what seemed like losing was really winning. Every good thing is for such a very short time — bring forth roses in haste from the rocky ground, the growing season will not come again. She longs to drink honey from the honey-flower. She is free of barbed wire, yet cannot erase the blood of the sacrificed. How can she love again, ever?
She must do the best she can. Her last romantic partner told her to find a good husband. He, himself, was too much of an adventurer and would not fit the bill he imposed. Patient A believes everything will be all right, if only she can find the right man. He must be rich, not in money but in spirit. He must allow her to travel the world in safety. He must be like the father and mother she never had. He must both take care of her and let himself be taken care of — the balance herein is extremely delicate and can sometimes even be spoiled merely by improper breathing. This is an order impossible to fill.
Patient A has developed self-induced amnesia as an art form. Patient A hardly remembers her Mother and Father’s arms, their hearts and minds — where are they, why did they leave, what did they expect of her, anyway? Even so, she prays to their memory, which resembles nothing more than a pair of white herons dressed up as guardian angels — she prays — please deliver to me wisdom, please deliver strength, on your snowy wings bring me goodness and bravery. She sleeps, and in her dreams never speaks. Footsteps must be paced to meet an obstacle at every stride. Stillness is hard, so much harder than words.
Beached whales keep on breathing, trembling as their skin dries and cracks. Unaffected people gather pine cones for adornment. It is human nature to stand in the center of a thing. The most faithful feeling always shows itself by restraint. A match, not a marriage, was made between Patient A and her husband, William B. It was an unfortunate incident, fortunately ended. To define grace with any degree of eloquence requires an inquisitive hand. The only stronghold powerful enough to trust to is love. In the end, Patient A will be as ordinary and egotistical and hard-hearted as anybody else. If you nevertheless choose to pursue her, she will not be gracious, she will not absolve you.
April 2002 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
the poet drunk at
three in the morning
mops out the
bathrooms
listens to
the sound of bleach
crawling into the
cracks on his hands
he peels potatoes and
cuts homefries
and hides in the cooler for
another beer
stepping out
he checks the clock
four hours
until he can return
to his typewriter and
his mind is a numb tunnel
filled with empty
rushing trains
[i]sleep[/i]
is a word that still
holds meaning
[i]surrender[/i] is another
the poet
hungover at noon
is too tired to
bleed
April 2002 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
[b]sacrilege[/b]
up close
you are anyone
and then even closer
no one
i sound like
my father
here
how long has this
been happening?
* *
[b]image of the virgin mary appears on a factory wall in juarez, mexico[/b]
which god
do you pray to
when the baby
is born
dead?
what does he
say?
what can he?
* *
[b]afterimage[/b]
walking through
february rain with
jonathon and
there is war
not mine
and not his and
he laughs as he
curls five tiny fingers
tight around
the sky
all any of us
want
is everything
April 2002 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
we approach the age of
possible cures slowly
if we number the dead
we do it backwards
and starting at one thousand
two will be the person
you hold most dear and maybe
you’ll never reach it
maybe you’ll be forced to choose
a child or a spouse
or even a younger sister and
what happens is this
we make love
on the living room couch in
the coldest part of april
the sky is a gift from magritte
the houses on this street
somewhere between obsolete
and sinister
you ask me again how
my father died and i tell you again
that i don’t know
he was alive and then
he was on the kitchen floor
he was hooked up to
competent machines and then
the machines were turned off
and it’s here that
the baby wakes up
and the story is forgotten
until next time
it’s here that the world of
barking dogs and ringing phones
reasserts itself
what goes left unsaid
is that no one has been saved
