Douglas Cole, Featured Author

October 2015 | back-issues, poetry

Joe

Joe lived in a cabin

outside of Mount Vernon, Washington,

a place his uncle built for hunting.

I visited him there once or twice,

on my way somewhere else.

There was no water, no electricity,

just a woodstove and black windows,

and his things: a suit of armor

into which  he had pounded hundreds of nails,

a jar with a cat skull and cat bones

that he had labeled with a strip of tape

like the old-world naturalists—

FELUNUS EXTINCTUS.

He had a few books on chemistry,

medieval history, alchemy,

a biography of Alistair Crowley.

And he had a little wooden statue

of the weeping Buddha.

It was such a forlorn place to live,

dark, in the woods, off the road on a dirt drive—

he said, “I don’t fit with people.”

And it’s true, he never did.

Even as a kid he was wild,

eyes on fire with something—

up in his attic room one time,

he and his brother, Jerry, and I

were hanging out doing nothing

on a rainy Sunday, parents away

downstairs somewhere, and Joe ran out

and came back with his father’s shotgun,

loaded, and pointed it at Jerry’s head,

pulled back the hammer—

Jerry just sat there, smiling, a kid

maybe four years old, unknowing,

and then Joe pulled the trigger—

click, and nothing happened.

It was a miracle, really.

We were in slow motion, then,

blue gun barrel, warped windows,

then came back up to speed—

Jerry was crying, and the parents appeared,

my mother grabbed me by the arm

and swept me away.

I ran into Joe years later.

He’d just gotten out of the Navy.

He’d had a good run, he said:

a small ship, hosting dignitaries, parties,

and all the drugs he took, he said,

should have killed him, he should be dead.

But the angels came down and said,

enough…you’ve done enough,

and we can’t protect you from here—

“The rest,” he said, “I can’t tell you.

I don’t want to scare you.”

He drifted back to the northwest,

took some classes at the college,

and began living alone in his cabin there

under the big trees

with his armor and his cat and his Buddha.

The last time I saw him, he said,

“Hey, man, can you help me?

I sort of banged up my truck.

It’s just down the road, there

could you could give me a lift

so I can get my tool box

and tie a rope around it

so kids won’t mess around with it?”

I drove him down the road,

and we came to his truck at a curve,

and what I saw—

the front end was smashed in,

the steering wheel was punched back

through the driver’s seat,

the battery in the passenger seat,

broken glass, buckled doors—

I looked at him and said,

“How did you survive this?”

There wasn’t a scratch on him.

“I don’t know,” he said.  “Just lucky, I guess.”

We got his tool box,

tied a rope around the truck,

and I took him back to his cabin,

dropped him off, and drove away.

I avoided him after that

because I could see he was lucky, sure,

but guys with luck like that come out clean,

and leave wreckage as they go,

and it’s not their fault,

they’re just always in the eye of a storm,

so you have to beware—the force of nature.

The Hearers

they hear it constantly

a low rumbling

like a truck going by

and it drives them mad

no answer to what it is

industry     electromagnetic pulse

plates of the earth grinding away

and she hears it too

I hear it

can’t you hear it?

it won’t stop

it’s like a nightmare

and we can’t wake up

she says it’s making her crazy

can’t wake up

can’t wake up

I say

look at your hands

Thoughts of a Hanged Man

I’ll never be cold again

I’ll never feel hate again

I’ll never be hungry again

I’ll never feel fear again

I’ll never know pain again

I’ll never have nightmares again

I’ll never experience shame again

I’ll never regret again

I’ll never choose badly again

I’ll never wait in line again

I’ll never

The Grave

Raymond Carver has a beautiful grave

with a big granite stone with his words on it.

That’s pretty solid, man—

your words etched in stone.

And he’s got a granite bench you can sit on

and look at his grave and his words

or out over the graveyard at the sea.

Actually it’s the Straight of Juan de Fuca,

which I think of as his

because he wrote about it in his poetry.

I picked out where I’d like to be buried—

Lake View Cemetary

between Denise Levertov and Bruce Lee.

That’s how you’d find me—

someone would say, yeah, he’s right over there

between the poet and the philosopher.

And someone might ask, so what was he?

There probably won’t be a bench.

You’ll just have to stand there

or sit on the ground.  Come on, get real close.

Maybe there will be words on the stone.

I don’t know, and maybe when you look up

you’ll see something you’d say is mine

because I wrote about it and claimed it with words.

Maybe not.  It’s not really up to me to decide.

by Douglas Cole

Douglas Cole has had work in The Chicago Quarterly Review, Red Rock Review, and Midwest Quarterly. More work is available online in The Adirondack Review, Salt River Review, and Avatar Review, as well as recorded stories in Bound Off and The Baltimore Review. He has published two collections of poetry, “Western Dream,” through Finishing Line Press, “Interstate,” through Night Ballet Press, as well as a novella, “Ghost,” through Blue Cubicle Press. He received the Leslie Hunt Memorial Prize in Poetry; the Best of Poetry Award from Clapboard House; and First Prize in the “Picture Worth 500 Words” from Tattoo Highway. He was recently the featured poet in Poetry Quarterly. He is currently faculty at Seattle Central College.

Marc Tretin

October 2015 | back-issues, poetry

The Dining Room Table

is the universal receiver of all

letters that will be answered and filed soon

and bills to be paid next month and the sprawl

of folders on diets and the health effects of prunes.

It’s the holder of everyday intentions

to make some sort of conscientious order

of what we’d forget if put away. The tension

of undone work turns a table into a hoarder

that could say, “I know it’s in here somewhere.”

Yet, the presence of some trivial burdens

are motes defining light-rays shafting the air.

These small tasks we see remain blurred on

the outer edge of our visual periphery,

to be completed by the vagaries of industry.

The Quart-Size Strainer,

having given up its childhood ambition

to be a catcher’s mask, still sees itself thrown

off ceremonially as the catcher runs to position

himself to snare a pop foul. Standing alone,

the catcher puts on his mask and squats behind

home plate.

How spaghetti’s rinsed with cold water,

so their strands won’t stick together, reminds

him that he is made of mere mesh; that order

of wires and space, with a handle of wood.

Yet under the faucet he feels the Zen

of being in the flow. He guesses it’s good

holding rinsed string beans for string bean julienne;

but to be a hero, no one can replace—

ah! to be a catcher’s mask and save a catcher’s face!

by Marc Tretin

Marc Tretin’s writing has been published or is forthcoming in Bayou Magazine, Crack The Spine, Diverse Voices Quarterly, The Griffin, Lullwater Review, The Massachusetts Review, The New York Quarterly, The Painted Bride, Paperstream, The Penmen Review, The Saint Ann’s Review, The Round, Whistling Shade, Ghost Town Literary Magazine, and Willow Review, and he was the second runner-up for the Solstice literary magazine poetry prize in 2013. Conferences Marc has attended include 92nd Street Y, Colrain, and the West Chester Poetry Conference. He has studied with David Yezzi, Molly Peacock, Rachel Zucker, William Packard, and Emily Fragos.

Anthropology of Me

October 2015 | back-issues, poetry

It should be Margaret Meade

leaving her barely palatable threesome

to figure it all out for me.

I don’t live on the banks of the Orinoco:

these rocks on the bottom are

all paved and worn with ruts.

I do want to know why

my brown eyes turned green after

fifty years, why Ancestry DNA needs

my saliva.  Is there really no

First Nation in my children

or Swede in my black hair?

Come on, Margaret, crawl out

of that anemic bed and learn

my language, that secret ceremony

that should save me, again, again,

and never does.  Tell me the meaning

of rituals I always answered with yes.

Why is time suddenly the last button

on a dress shirt; the half-ripped

left back jean pocket; I’m naked

wading to my waist in muddy

water, leeches threatening.

Just look at me, write it down.

by Karen Vande Bossche

Karen Vande Bossche has been writing poetry and short stories for decades. Some recent work can be found at Damfino and Damselfly. Karen is a hard core Pacific Northwest inhabitant who believes that sun is best delivered in liquid form.

Smoke Break

October 2015 | back-issues, poetry

I never told anyone but

I’ll tell you.

About the fire

Folding up my tongue,

The last counted hour

With my stomach shrinking

Toward my graveyard spine.

My body wanted to be pins

And needles,

Balancing voided meals with

Cigarettes. Burn marshmallow

Fat like burning up

S’mores,

Campfire chocolate,

Childhood knobbles

In my rounded knees.

My body was statistical.

It was burned and tarred

And feathered. Monster me,

An under-the-bed story.

Cool dinnertime untruths,

Tamed, lightheaded.

Bless

The daily dizzy shrivel, the

Ribby abdomen poke, the

Airbrush collapse. Spark,

Sear, scissor open

The new pack.

by Alison Lanier

Alison Lanier is a Boston-based writer and graduate of Wellesley College. She recently joined the editorial team at The Critical Flame. Her fiction, reviews, articles, and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in Atticus Review, Counterpoint Magazine, and The Wellesley Review, where she also served as editor.

Tick Tock

October 2015 | back-issues, poetry

The ticks I pick from your flesh

have the verve of John Donne’s flea

but much more adhesive

with the fervor of Lyme Disease.

The garden’s a death trap,

the primrose and forget-me-nots

funereal and dungeon-breathed.

Spreading composed mulch to conceal

the yawn of a hundred open graves

I tire of myself and slacken

almost enough to lie down

and allow the grubs to engage me

in their shy waxen petulance.

Meanwhile in pale innocence

you punctuate yourself with ticks

by kneeling to yank the weeds

eager to elbow out the flowers.

Something about our seasonal

bloodletting lingers. Sprains,

torn tendons, even broken wrists

spike the long dark winters. Blackflies

riot in spring, summer features

splinters from stacking firewood

to season before the cold arrives.

But the ticks linger all year long—

their hard metal bodies, springy

eight legs, driven by blood-thirst

ripe as a rage for celebrity.

Arachnids, not insects, they deploy

their motivation so adroitly

we feel them crawling through our sleep.

In the north, they gang up on moose

and kill with a quarter million

individual nibbles per pelt.

They stick to us both, but lately

you’ve been sporting them the way

ex-smokers sport nicotine patches

on parts of the body that matter.

I flush them into our septic tank

where they probably thrive and plot

a future so bloody no one

but ticks will survive, draining

the blush of sunset to leave

a fog-gray landscape writhing.

by William Doreski

Lunar Dogma

October 2015 | back-issues, poetry

She believes the snow is a mirror

Turned upwards toward her face,

A catalyst for the frigid light

Burning in the old, dappled pines.

She believes that love

Is one or two canoes

Drifting in soft degrees

Over dark, polished waters.

She believes the young boy

Carrying his notebook beneath her shadow

Is a lost star following home

Her wintry beckons.

She believes we will one day remember

Her cold serious heartbeat,

Sending up bright untethered rockets

She pretends are prayers.

by Seth Jani

Seth Jani currently resides in Seattle, WA and is the founder of Seven CirclePress (www.sevencirclepress.com). His own work has appeared throughout the small press in such places as The Foundling Review, The Hamilton Stone Review, Hawai`i Pacific Review, Gingerbread House and Gravel. More about him and his work can be found at www.sethjani.com.