January 2004 | back-issues, Janet Buck, poetry
I question the empty page
like a moldy slice of bread —
it might have been a decent meal
in someone else’s hands.
The clock records a passing hour.
Still no verse worth printing out.
A filthy kitchen floor
sticks to my shoes
like an uttered lie —
I flip through yesterday’s mail,
stacking bills in heavy bricks,
thinking I’m an ad for grief,
ought to get different life
that dwells upon a butterfly.
Our puppy slams the keyboard tray,
pulls at my socks with rollicking teeth.
Her tail wags east then west —
pointing out with clarity the aching light
I’m missing in this clouded room —
all the blinds pressed
firmly shut like coffin lids.
She rolls upon her fluffy back,
offers me her tender skin
and clammy paws fresh from
morning’s dewy lace —
she knows somehow that suns
aren’t jars of mustard seeds
to stash on racks and never use.
December 2003 | back-issues, poetry
by Mike Boyle
No new worlds left
The streetlights roar by and
the cars just stutter
while I try to remember
terminal velocity
120 feet per second?
I look at the postcards
my ex-wife sent me from
Paris
and Mexico
as the concierge nods
Someone is passing a pipe
around the backseat
I can smell it
The driver and I pass on it
200 miles to go
Driver’s knuckles are white
around the wheel
as he grinds his teeth
We’re not passing as many
body mounds today
as the past few days
and the gunfire has died down
200 miles to the ammo dump
and we’re
running short
There’s still
some hide-outs
in Mexico
she says
And I think
Maybe in the spring
If I make it
She still signs
her cards
Love,
December 2003 | back-issues, Kelley Jean White, poetry
You have left your hat, but I do not trust it.
Maybe the sky should be stormier, its color the color
of my hair. There is a door. There is a doorbell. You
don’t ring it. I could not lock the door against you
but I have let you hold a key. Perhaps there could be shaking
at the foundations. Perhaps some plaster could fall.
The windows are stuck but I have not locked them.
I pulled the shades down but they are broken and torn. I have
cut the phone wires to your house now. I saw you push
them back through the wall. I have turned to sleep
but I hear you pounding. There is lightning. It was thunder.
That is all.
November 2003 | back-issues, poetry
by Joseph Armstead
The Alpha and the Omega,
unto ash they are made,
craven shadows, shattered
specters,
obedient hounds of despair,
huntsman gone a’haunting,
broken souls,
and they weep
acid rain.
The music plays…
1) Nergal’s Nightwalk
Across the barren plain, it echoes
Infinity, the naked impermanence of the species
gathers a thousand prayers into one hollow voice
and drops it just below the pitch of
Heaven’s ears,
unheard, unrewarded, lonely,
one fragile cry
from the orphaned hopeful
Sitting on a Rock of Ages, the Pilgrim
plays a ghostly tune
on a flute of carved bone,
a serenade for nightmares
played for angels with
deaf ears,
one gossamer-thin cry
from the cosmic traveler
Abandonment sings an aria, it echoes…
2) The Winter of Ahriman
Dreams of forever fall from darkened skies,
Autumn fades from memory,
the Season of Ice
turns the air to thin glass
The Reaver strides before the King,
a weary downbeaten monarch of tombs,
and announces with great pride
and a sneer,
“Slaughter-Everlasting is upon us,
and the armies of night
need a hero, a mighty master,
to inspire them in bloodletting,
canst thou mayhaps
pretend to be furious and fierce?
The furnace of war needs its fuel…”
The hollow King smiles like a
happy idiot, seeking to please,
afraid of truth, fearing his duty,
needing The Reaver to override
his command
and says,
“I am the wolf of war and I set loose
the pack upon all the prey of this world”.
The Reaver sighs and bows deeply,
hiding his disgust,
dreaming of assassination.
Over the many battlefields
scattered ‘cross the globe,
all the warriors feel a chill as
the Season of Ice
turns the air to thin glass
The Reaver hums a childhood
lullaby as he gleefully taps at
the fragile membrane
with a spiked iron hammer,
making ever-larger
spider’s webs…
3) Tiamat’s Thirst
She is a singing dragon
haunting the deep of night,
swimming in an ocean
of charnelhouse castoffs,
red meaty wine, hot coppery
ocean, cemetary vintage,
her song echoing across
the midnight vastness
with poisonous unhuman beauty.
She sings of an endless
sleep
brought to those who fall
before the rapacious raging
hunger
of the Devil’s Undead offspring.
The dragon sings to ensnare
the ever-curious and unwise,
and to attract The Pilgrim
as he wanders along
the beach of Time,
seeing all and part of none,
playing from a bone-flute
music
for the dead generations.
EPILOGUE
This is the Alpha,
this is the Omega,
craven shadows, shattered
specters,
unto ash they are made.
The music fades…
— fini —
November 2003 | back-issues, poetry
By Joseph Armstead
The sign on the hill
Has the marks of muddy
Boot treads on it and
It is sinking in the mud and ash.
Ageless eyes
that beheld the wonders
Of the endless spaceways
and
The glories of the cosmos
Blink back cold tears.
He is alone.
The wind fans his hair
And it smells of old fires,
Storms,
Wet concrete and rusted steel.
He listens for the silence.
His wounds bleed.
Here there once were kings,
in this place of shattered brick,
rubble,
and they held sway over nations
and armies of fearsome might.
He sees Time
Pass like the waters of
An infinite river, no stone
Touched
By the same water twice,
As the embattled world decays.
He is forever,
All that exists around him is not.
All that burns, smouldering, will fade,
Crumbling
Into dim memory for descendents
Of proud warriors and greedy lords.
Curtains of blood
Descend on the last dark act of
A passion play with no audience,
Applauding
The ghosts of war-torn history
And the sad last pages of the future.
Immortal eyes,
Like twin stars,
See the sign that lies in the
Wet ashen muck, and read
The words
“You Can Save”
and the tears that fall
thereafter are hot and bitter.
The sign on the hill
Is covered by gray ash and
Obsidian smoke as the
Mud swallows it whole.
November 2003 | back-issues, poetry
By Joseph Armstead
Breathe in, breathe out…
You can smell it in the air,
That scent of rain and regret,
The perfume of bittersweet
Memory
And old dreams vaguely
Recollected.
It imbues a strange feeling
In the soul, a stirring
Of melancholy for
Things that can never be,
And it creates its own
Moonlight, transforming
The harsh metallic silver
from the gloomy evening
sky to the color of
gun-metal when you stare
down the barrel.
It’s there, that feeling,
That smell, that sound,
That music without
Melody.
It stays with you long past its time.
The ticking of the clock is meaningless.
There is only that
tremorous feeling
just before the tears
begin to fall.
Despair a’birthing.
The mind becomes a
window on the world
and the world is a large
wild forest of midnight,
full of night-magick and
mysteries and it is both
a refuge and a prison.
A wind birthed from
Nowhere
Springs up and rattles
The dry leaves of the
Forest of shadows
And you swear that in
its rushing hush you
can hear your name and
that breeze brings with it
an aroma, the
perfume
of a broken spirit.
Imagine that…
Breathe out, breathe in.
