July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
low voices
God and i talk all day
in low voices. i’m driving
and he says something like
“did you know
the air pressure in one of those semi-truck’s wheels
is so great that they sometimes explode?
and when they do, they shoot off the axel like a rocket.
if you happen to be driving beside one
at just the right moment,
three hundred pounds of steel and hot rubber
comes smashing through your window
and takes your head clean off.”
“jeezus.”
“yeah. it happens every day, only
you don’t hear about it.
and do you know why that is?
because no suit makes a dime off random tragedy.
we’ve got home security systems,
public service announcements
for the endangered polar bear,
your choice of six dozen drugs
to keep you from bathing with your toaster,
but when it comes to those “unpreventable” events,
those deaths which have no patented and affordable cure,
mum is the word.
it kind of makes you wonder about things, you know?
like the connection between governmental policy
and the booming industry of medicine.”
“holy shit. take it easy on me, big guy.”
and he laughs,
“what i’m saying is that life is a gift,
and there’s really no time to shake the box or guess
at what’s inside. rip off the wrapping.
become a rock star, a monk, a father, a junkie
if that’s what you want. stop trying and just do.
roll down the windows, stomp the pedal,
but for Christ’s sake enjoy the ride.”
i’m feeling almost convinced
until some daft bitch cuts us off
in traffic, i punch the dash hard and
damn everything to hell.
a man picks up a lady of the night
a man picks up a lady of the night,
pays her to lie in bed beside him
’cause i’m afraid to die alone, says he,
pulls a gun from the pillowcase and
paints red the rented room.
he said [she says]
his dog don’t like loud noises
he wrote
the only end for me would be
to be dragonflies whose wings beat
in perfect and effortless syncopation
toward a torn-open hole in the sky
[six legs wave goodbye]
hauling down monuments to the tune of our instruments
blooming, but still asking why
lord God bless and curse the martyr who
fell madly in love with his own reflection who
[drunk with pride] dove headfirst into shallow water who
came face to face to face his sorry self
and the bottom of thy swimming pool in autumn
[for he was]
lost in thought / buried by leaves / reborn into the light
may the dog eared pages of his volumes speak
boldly through the throats of future ghosts forever
and ever amen
–Elias Van Son
Elias Van Son is a young artist living in the Catskill mountains of New York. His writing has appeared in ATOMICA, In Preparation, The Angle, and elsewhere. His first full-length book of poems Little Feather was published in 2009 by Some Blaze Free Press, and an EP of his language-based music is forthcoming from Steak and Cake Records.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Life…
“Life is what you make it,”
They told me. So
I made mine
sit down and
shut up.
I stuffed it
into a small, neat,
square and shiny
box.
I crammed a
ball gag
in its mouth
lest it embarrass me or
scream for help.
I chastised it
for coloring
outside the lines,
for singing too loud
in the shower—
for thinking for itself.
when my life
dared – to fidget,
I tied its hands together
with good, strong rope
made of moral fiber.
It starved—
became
weary and pasty.
Its limbs & lips
are now
colorless, dead.
Its eyes
faded and sank.
That neat and tidy
box is now
its casket— its tomb.
Found
Gauzy fibrous pipes –
melded pinwheels, or
lacy doilies crocheted by the sea.
Interlocking, united, porous
caverns
where invisible beasts
seek shelter.
Formed by the hand of Poseidon’s
own grace
joined by his caress
forged by his wrath.
In this universe
unknown & overlooked by
militant waves, these
miniscule worlds
rise & fall—
are created & destroyed
Information Inspiration
Invitation to…
Contact
Reflect
Release
Save a dying world.
Learn about:
Ecology
Conservation
Coral reefs
Rainforests
Ecosystems
What’s up.
Here’s your chance.
Experience Happiness—
Inspire Curiosity—
Art & Music
Fiction-Inspired Learning
Ensure continued access.
Upgrade your network.
Nominate someone.
Friends & Family welcome.
Here’s your chance.
Have and idea or
Ask a question.
Here’s your chance.
Enrichment
Quality
Culture
Do something
You’ll remember.
Here’s your chance.
Do something.
(Don’t miss out)
Deadline—
DO something
DO SOMEthing.
DO SOMETHING.
–HollyAnn Walls
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Sick Day
I’m taking the day off
to mourn my life
which is not something
I can do at work
surrounded by computers
and codes.
Grief and regret – that one
we’re implored to deny –
can’t be codified.
They can be washed in tears
or taken for a walk
to the park, in the rain.
Or written down and out
in the hope of freedom
or better yet, redemption.
They can’t be summarized
into a memo to a choice few,
and copied to a few more.
Written quickly
and typed from memory,
that memo would be
an embarrassment
to the Professionals.
They would think, well,
she’s really lost it now,
telling us this. All the while
keeping back their own tears
welling up inside.
The Color of Wind
The end of his fingertips are pressed tightly against his eyelids,
praying for a color, a pink, a deep blue –
he knows nothing of pink or deep blue.
He knows the smell of watermelon
on a hot, humid day.
A seed gets spit onto a paper plate.
He knows the feel of seersucker against his legs –
that soft, corrugated cotton
moving with the breeze.
A bell rings on a quiet porch.
The wind blows an easy hello while he
makes his way through the living room.
Sitting on a chair in the shade
he listens to the bell chime
for his sound heart
and his telling tongue.
The wind greets him across the morning
through the wildflower fields
filled with the deep reds of poppies
the purple of flowering salvia.
Review of a Lifetime
There are angels in this city
with cameras slung round their necks.
Disguised as tourists, they take pictures
of us. Documenting our time on Earth.
Did you give the bum
a quarter or a smoke?
Did you cross at the light
or run when you could?
Did you smile at the stranger
as she snapped your photo
taking it to God for the review
of your life?
There are angels in this city
on the sidewalks, in the streets.
They are the cabdrivers, the waitresses,
the docents at the museum.
They are the clerks at Duane Reade
and the millionaires in their town cars.
They are the journalists of heaven
under the cover of humanity
watching over and watching us,
making sure we keep the pact
made at birth.
The deal of innocence
played out over a lifetime,
a wingspan, encompassing
all the hours
from birth to death.
–Nickie Albert
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
I’ll Not Pay The Piper
I’ll not pay the piper
Nor shall I sing
And forget about
That long flung shout
Which makes a man feel dumb
Have a little care
The grave is just down there
and with but a stoke
Of dumb luck or perhaps a joke
Pinch a penny and drag a shoe
There is much we ought to know
Just in time to get on by
And past the day or time we die
What Are You Thinking
(Bev asked me)
I am so glad that you are you
And I am so glad you are you
I am just so dang glad
As well as happy too
And in as much as that may bore you
I will tell you again and true
I am so glad that you are you
And I am so glad you are you
I’ve Got A Smile On My Face
G David Schwartz
I’ve got a smile on my face
And I take it every place
Every single place I go
–G David Schwartz
Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue. Currently a volunteer at Drake Hospital in Cincinnati, Schwartz continues to write. His new book, Midrash and Working Out Of The Book is now in stores or can be ordered.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
tough guy in moonlight
in 7th grade he sat
last row last seat
head on desk asleep Sister
Cleopha slapped
his ear he laughed her face red
hand
trembling on the playground no one
looked him in the eye afraid
to wake his hands
two furious stones tearing
holes in God’s light
seven years later I poured
drinks in a seaside bar I’d learned
to know a little
about a lot
could talk to the toughest guy who’d
be in the Series where
to find parts for a ’63
Impala how
he knocked that motheringfucking
bartender from down the street flat
out I gave him free drinks
to cool
the bad drunks
now he leans
on a thick
stick worn
smooth by broken
hand & muscled
weight the woman the nuns
warned 7th grade
girls they’d become if
they danced with the tough guy holds
his empty hand full
moon sways
him to her
light
street preacher
when I close my eyes I hear
the father’s voice not
his son’s as he cautiously becomes
man not
the spirit’s tongue
of feathers & fire I hear
continents grind
time’s big drum the voice of no
not what could or should not
being’s eternal quarrel
but when I speak a starling
argues
with its own
reflection
I know
one day I’ll open
my eyes see
his voice a pillar
of sound my breath
braids around & you
will stop & you
you & you
will listen
–Frank Rossini
Frank Rossini has been published in various magazines including Poetry Now, The Seattle Review, and Wisconsin Review.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
(Notes on) A Suburban Landscape
Where dwelling is a mode
Of citizenship
Not self
Not text / landschaft
Because the world
Has been always
Made even not here
But the proprietary between-places
That poetry occupies
‘Filling [one]’—like Lewis or
Clark—‘with vague cravings
Impossible
To satisfy’
Privacy
Beyond the formal
Supervised
Without authority
The daft all-over metropoles
And their back-
Ground of ordinances
Gridding the rural
Mile square mile
Mostly what we notice mostly:
Slightly interesting events
Things to be scared of
Persons with dogs
Taking the place
Of reference anxiety
It’s true:
If the way through
Were not also the way in
We would be lost
Taking Turns
Soon I too will
Carry my string
Into the wilderness
Without
Useful language
Or handsome shadow
I know change
Is not easy
But I resent
The silence
My body makes
Space around it to live in
To have an ideal
When I get back there
To the terror I hope
That song
You used to sing
When you
Thought I wasn’t
Listening still
Has the old
Stardusted magic
–Eric Rawson
Eric’s work has recently appeared in a number of periodicals, including Ploughshares, Agni, and Denver Quarterly. My book The Hummingbird Hour was published in October.
