October 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Gurgling, squinty-eyed
life form trying to make sense
of the alien sights and sounds
of a double date. My still-together parents,
weary from nightly feedings,
out of the house for once.
Another young couple in seats beside,
a good three months removed—as the stork flies—
from their own life-altering arrival.
The loud noises, a tub of new smells
being passed back and forth,
the incomprehensibly large screen,
whereon another scared, puzzled life form
comforts himself with Reese’s Pieces,
tries desperately to
phone home.
The darkened atmosphere
is my only reassurance. The dark,
I recognize. The dark, I know and love.
Which is why I’ll scream and shout
and cry and wail
until I’m taken to a place
free from strange noises and smells
and bright moving pictures. Back
to the familiar cotton embrace,
the faithful shimmer and twirl
of mobile constellations in the over-crib sky,
the sleep-inducing scent
of powder and safety.
Back to my home planet.
by Ryan Frisinger
Ryan Frisinger is a professor of English, holding an M.F.A. in Writing from Lindenwood University. He is also an accomplished songwriter, whose work has been featured in numerous television shows, such as America’s Next Top Model and The Real World. His non-musical writing has appeared in publications like Foliate Oak Literary Magazine and The MacGuffin. He resides in Fort Wayne, Indiana, with his more-talented wife and couldn’t-care-less cat.
October 2014 | back-issues, poetry
This city is full of the dead
(I’m told by the living).
The Irish know their dead well,
6000 years of skeletons and coffins
and unmarked graves,
according to the living.
Here I am, alive in Dublin
drinking tea and listening to church bells
resounding like drunken teenagers
from a Cathedral older than my family name
sitting amongst the dead.
What good is life if we avoid
familiarizing ourselves
with the ninety-nine names of death?
She walks hurriedly around here, I think.
Death scurries from convent to church to pub
in order to meet her demands.
I’ve often considered inviting her in,
the poor thing,
for a cup of tea, or a pint,
or whatever it is death enjoys.
It’s not that I’m insane or anything.
There’s just something about this hallowed city
where the living manage to keep track of the dead
the way stockbrokers keep track of markets
and musicians keep track of the beat
that makes me pity death. She seems lonely
but far from idle. I sit here drinking tea
wondering if death would accept my admonitions
and take a nap in my bed,
curled up like a snail in a shell,
as the church bells howl
and construction workers laugh
above a slab of concrete where a man was shot,
whispering in her sleep about her many tormented lovers.
by Keene Short
Keene Short is a life-long resident of Flagstaff, Arizona. He currently studies English and History at Northern Arizona University, and when he is not writing or reading, he hangs out with folk singers and wayward preachers at local coffee shops.
October 2014 | back-issues, poetry
“Minimum-wage workers are older than they used to be.”
The New York Times, June 9, 2014
Yes, it’s true.
I have confirmed it by close personal observation of the girl behind the counter at the Dunkin’ Donuts on Union Turnpike.
I go in there twice a week for a glazed donut and a cup of coffee
And I always leave a $7 tip on top of my $3 tab.
And no, it’s not because she’s so cute
Although I can understand why you would think that.
It’s because she always refills my cup when it’s running low and because she lets me linger for hours sipping coffee and scribbling poetry and because I like to add a little supplement to her measly minimum wage.
Lately I have noticed little lines forming next to the corners of her eyes.
Don’t get me wrong, she’s still just as cute as ever, the little lines become her,
But they do lead me to conclude that she is indeed older than she used to be.
And it’s not just the minimum-wage workers.
I have also observed the manager of the Dunkin’ Donuts.
I see that his paunch has expanded,
Which could just be a side effect of the donuts he ingests,
But I also see that his hairline has receded,
Which I think is clear evidence that he, too, is older than he used to be.
And then there’s my dentist.
At my last annual cleaning, I noticed that his hands were shaking slightly when he stuck his instruments into my mouth.
I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by saying anything so I closed my eyes and pretended it wasn’t happening.
(I have found this to be an effective technique for dealing with the unpleasant or dangerous situations that come up in my life.)
But afterwards, when I was safely home again, I had to admit that my dentist is probably older than he used to be.
Hillary Clinton is definitely older than she used to be.
So is Derek Jeter.
Even Uncle Alvin.
There was a time when I believed that Mom’s kid brother would be forever young
But that was before Aunt Debbie died.
In just the six months since Debbie left us, Al has become noticeably older than he used to be.
His sparkle has diminished.
And that breaks my heart.
So it seems that just about everyone is older than they used to be
Except for the poets.
Not all, but most of the poets I know are younger than they used to be.
I don’t know why that is.
I think we need a crack investigative reporter from The New York Times to look into this phenomenon and find out what is going on with the poets.
by Pesach Rotem
Pesach Rotem was born and raised in New York and now lives in northern Israel. He received his B.A. from Princeton University and his J.D. from St. John’s University. His poems have been published or are forthcoming in Voices Israel, the Deronda Review, Constellations, The Saint Ann’s Review, and East Coast Literary Review.
October 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Gardenia hues
A Gardenia
changing hues
in the summer temper
What color am I
when I am mad?
The toad is lonely too
A fallen tree
and a toad
following my heels
as I carry the weight
of both our loneliness
Leg ashes
Shadows glide across
her white face
as she stands and observes
the motion of my blistered feet
that walk across the ashes
of her legs
Grief and the gypsy dancer
Someone grieving over me
as I stand on the roof
and watch the mysterious movement
of a gypsy dancer
Bat flames
A pile of bones
and the ghost of a bat
circling the fire
I have started
just to dance
and feel exciting
by Ashlie Allen
Ashlie Allen lives in the east coast, where she plans to attend Literature school. She also has plans to study photography.
October 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Damage, today I’m obsessed with damage.
The cored-out heart of the rose, not the bud
or the bloom, but root to flower—
whatever’s maimed, blemished, blistered, harmed,
this skin the talon, the thorn has hooked—
morning’s minion, ha—
and those shreddy clouds the sky assembles
only to have something fun
to tear into pieces. I remember Vuillard’s painting awash
with parlor knickknacks, his floral decor so chintzed
you can’t tell carpet from chair from curtain, can barely see
the old woman dying quietly in her rocker.
Down the street, in the corner shop the hollowed slabs
of ribcage swing. From the café radio
Janis Joplin’s ropy voice,
almost present, then static, then gone.
Something gleams from the hubcap, saying,
It’s evening, you lived so long,
what have you done? Answer it back, oh hubcap,
some things can’t be lived through—
the bolus we grow around—but there is
some endurable affliction,
the abscessed hoof sliced back until it bleeds;
we pack in the mud and wait and hope
enough foot grows back to nail on a shoe.
The long days are marked by waiting by the phone,
by the door, by the mailbox, and the sense
that the days themselves are passing.
by Helen Wickes
Helen Wickes lives in Oakland, California, and worked for many years as a psychotherapist. In 2002 she received an M.F.A. from Bennington College. Her first book of poems, In Search of Landscape, was published in 2007 by Sixteen Rivers Press. Her poems can be read and heard online at From The Fishouse. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in AGNI Online, Amarillo Bay, Arroyo Literary Review, Atlanta Review, California Quarterly, The Citron Review, Confrontation, Corium Magazine, Crack The Spine, Eclipse, Evansville Review, ginosko, Pirene’s Fountain, RiverSedge, Sakura Review, Sanskrit, Santa Fe Literary Review, South Dakota Review, Stand, Talking River, TriQuarterly, Runes, ZYZZYVA, Zone 3, Chicago Quarterly Review, The Collagist, The Hollins Critic, Jet Fuel Review, The Journal, Natural Bridge, Qwerty, Santa Clara Review, Folly, Forge, Green Hills Literary Lantern, Limestone, PANK, Mary: A Journal of New Writing, The Spoon River Poetry Review, Cloudbank, Bryant Literary Review, Eclectica, Ellipsis…, Southwestern American Literature, Willow Review, FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry, Hanging Loose, Prick of the Spindle, Boulevard, Soundings East, Verdad, The Coe Review, Concho River Review, Crucible, The Jabberwock Review, Kaleidoscope, Pleiades, PMS poemmemoirstory, SLAB, Visions International, The Griffin, Salamander, Splash of Red, Epicenter, Barnstorm, Poetry Flash, In the Grove, Freshwater, Schuylkill Valley Journal of the Arts, Weber: The Contemporary West, West Marin Review, Whisperings, Softblow, 5 AM, the Bennington Review, Picayune Magazine, Delmarva Review, The Tower Journal, Sagarana, and the anthology Best of the Web 2009.
October 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Daniel said once that the clouds in Kansas look like giant gray brains.
Their thoughts all big and drifty and slow like ruminant sky gods.
Brains that hover over wheat fields and ineffable highways stoned
on the grandeur of their high seat until they die a raindeath or blow away.
Tonight though the sky looks hungry. Not brains but intestines.
A stomach twisting and digesting whole football fields of nimbostratus and dark Latin.
Birds scatter from wires leaving utility polls behind to hum and spark in the lesser acids.
We hear via radio of a possible tornado along I-25.
A black esophageal funnel that may or may not swallow.
The dogs come out with me onto the deck and bark death threats at the sky.
Low rumbles of famished drought-stricken thunder.
Water sits bubbling on the stovetop, forgotten, next to a package of dry spaghetti.
Only the wine makes it outside. A blood-red South American scud cloud
in a heavy glass tumbler. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight, they say.
And though I am no sailor, the wine pulls me further and further into the clouds.
by Michael Young
Michael Young lives in Fort Collins, CO. He studies microbiology by day and edits Rust + Moth by night. He has been published in Aries: A Journal of Creative Expression.
