January 2014 | back-issues, poetry
I thought we’d occupy the same space
indefinitely, through the eternities of everydays,
sometimes talking, sometimes merely breathing
in this Eden called Here, until
the sun set behind you and you talked of leaving.
“Good for you,” I say. But I hope you ache
the way I do, the way I have, the way I will.
Oh I’m over-dramatic, it was only a kiss
that one time
when we were drunk.
See I’m a fool
who would think of nothing else, crave nothing less.
Now every bottle I down is a halfway replay.
Always I’ll fall short of a kiss’ intoxication
but somehow float in the haze of a memory
gone stale with repeated remembering
and you’ll leave me dreaming of a kiss
that no more will be returned.
Goodbye
is not the end. It’s only the beginning of missing.
by Kat Madarang
Kat Madarang’s work has been published in the Electronic Monsoon Magazine and the Burningword Literary Journal. She is currently pursuing a Master’s degree in Creative Writing at the University of the Philippines.
January 2014 | back-issues, poetry
A Response to Charles Bukowski: Yes I’m Drinking Today
booted-up, in the makeshift office/mudroom, my old laptop
out again.
I write from my drinking chair
as I’ve done for the past seventeen years.
will see my psychiatrist,
Monday.
“yes Doc, the Xanax helps my anxiety.
but it knocks me out,
I mean it really knocks me out.”
“you’re not getting rest,
are you?
I know what you need,
maybe some Ambien.”
more meds,
that’s what has defined my life
at age thirty-nine.
even at work,
it all seems so futile.
like a throwaway plastic knife,
it’s only sharp enough to cut so deep.
janitor often knocks on the door to my classroom,
“you still here boss” he asks?
while rubbing his persistently
arthritic left wrist,
too swollen to even wear
a watch.
I tell him,
“yeah, living the dream brother.”
he gives me a noncommittal nod,
knowing the well-told lie like the crease in his neck.
so here I am
just a middle-aged joker,
an amateur writer at best trying to emulate
trying to copy because I’m too tired to create,
with my cracked-screen laptop.
something is coming
across the floor
toward
me.
wait
oh, it’s just
my can of beer
this
time.
by Kurt C. Schuett
The Bohemian Waitress
Accent thick,
Traditional Czech dress,
Red and black,
Brown nylons tucked into
White gym shoes.
“Hello, can I take your order?”
We say,
“Becks, apricot stone sour, Becks, Chablis.”
She says, “Okay.”
Grandma says, “Oh, I’ll take an apricot stone sour, too.”
“Better make that two,” Father jokes.
Bread basket,
Rye bread.
But Cousin Becky eats the crackers,
Plain,
A thirty-two-year-old
Drinking kiddy cocktails because of the
Wellbutrin,
And eating crackers.
Butter,
Real butter,
Not margarine,
Sitting at room temperature,
Soft.
“Beef noodle, liver dumpling, or goulash?”
Soup,
Sitting in cups
Sitting on saucers
Sitting on the circular table,
Hot.
Uncle Bill says,
“No soup, prune juice please.”
Probably because of the
High blood pressure.
Main course,
Breaded pork tenderloin,
Capon,
Lamb shank,
Or duck.
Dumplings, mashed, or rice,
Sticky-starchy,
More brown gravy,
Please.
“I’ll take the cucumber salad.”
“That will be one dollar more.”
“No problem.”
Chitter-chatter,
Chitter-chatter.
Forks and knives scraping plates
Like forks and knives scraping plates.
Dessert,
Apple strudel,
Apricot kolacky, cheese kolacky, raspberry kolacky,
Pudding or ice cream.
To go boxes,
“Sure.”
Until the next birthday,
Or the next funeral.
But the Bohemian waitress,
She’s
Always
There.
by Kurt C. Schuett
Kurt Schuett is an ward-winning writer and educator. Insurgency is Kurt’s debut novel, a speculative work of fiction that encompasses elements of urban suspense, thriller, and horror, and it is set to release during the summer of 2014 through Assent Publishing. In addition, Kurt’s short work of fiction, a southern gothic ghost story titled “Calamity James,” will appear in the Belle Reve Literary Journal on Monday, October 28th, 2013.
January 2014 | back-issues, poetry
That road through the country
Unspooling under a dark mountain
Massages my shins like wine.
Rose-colored cliffs protest
My black-and-white ideas.
The day in the city is over.
Old trees on the hillsides crack
Their knuckles into the air,
Pulling at lyres of light.
Birds glide on updrafts
Of the wound I released.
The day in the city is over.
Grasses bend in stress,
Winds unknot muscles,
Leaning hard as a masseuse.
Wheat, a promise panting
Through the throat of the valley,
Nods. The day in the city is over.
We wait under the sun,
Enduring impossible delays
Of this growth. If
The thresher holds
Our heads up to the sickle,
The day in the city is over.
But all is well.
Still on the way, believing
Earthbeats know their sway.
Brentwood
by Ryan Gregg
January 2014 | back-issues, poetry
but beauty is a living room
in a warehouse.
It lies in glass houses
measured in square footage.
Beauty is but a bird
Silk screened,
“only ninety-nine,
ninety-nine.”
My art is the pain in touch,
sanctity
Sucked from the pope
Screaming.
It feels like
raw chicken,
eats like my lovers
ate me,
so feed it.
by Brittney Blystone
Brittney Blystone studied creative writing in the United States at Northern Kentucky University and in England at University of East London.
January 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Farm land, house land,
Town land, mall land
3 hectares of box-store monolith land
Land of the soccer-centre and recreational utility building
Of thirteen civic centre’s and four public libraries with faded magazines and instructional videos
Occupying two thirds of a floor
Of catholic-school kids hogging the computers and Russian literature, faking excessively long shits in the single bathroom stall, to stalking the only people who actually filled out the requisitional form for a library card.
“can I have your number?”
Of one memorial centre/ prison and four banks on separate corners.
“This was once the most fertile land in all of Canada”
Red-eyed in Denny’s after church
“This was all field all corn and field”
I once grew a pumpkin
It took eight weeks and fourteen seeds and
Ballooned to the size of a lemon
And spat out only three seeds when my dad stepped on it
With size fourteen steel-toe workmans.
Of white flights that keep darkening
And a checkerboard layout that keeps filling in all the
Blank spaces
And two schools built in the middle of factory zones
“what’s wrong with this picture students”
And the laser-tag looks out onto the refinery by the Toys R Us
Next to the ten-lane highway with seven interchanges
Where we still see the occasional coyote.
“but where are the good neighbourhoods anymore”
one bar per hundred thousand
And sixteen home reno stores
“just outside of town”
And the movie theatre blasts opera on Fridays to scare off the teens
But don’t tell me there’s religious tension, the grandmother’s won’t allow it
Of cities that still think they’re towns
and town-lines that change every month
and immigrant towns that change the words for immigrant every month
“but don’t tell me we’re full there’s corn everywhere,
don’t worry we’re made for flight”
by Connor Mellegers
Connor Mellegers is originally from Brampton, Ontario and currently resides in Montreal Quebec where he is pursuing an English Literature degree at Concordia University. His work has previously appeared in The Fat City Review.
January 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Soles blue,
numb from the snow’s fall,
I stood reflecting
at the reflection of the moon
in my dry Sherry wine.
Small circles
counter-clockwise making waves
crying, reflecting
at the reflection of the moon;
an infinite snow dons the backdrop.
What was her name that questioned
my heart’s motive for trust?
A quivering hand
presents me with a million moods
breathe….breathe….breathe…., I must,
be dissolving
in to the reflection of the moon.
In the numb I felt home.
At home I felt numb
to the desired fire
that now rents a once vacant room,
no higher,
than my brain will allow.
Like a crime scene
on the day of our Independence,
that glass shattered,
cutting, falling, reflecting
a million moons that fell upon the snow.
Don’t say my name
for it is a worthless name
no one person should have to carry.
I, who will die alone inside,
fall to pieces daily,
wanting to know why you married.
It’s all coming back to me,
in the wine, in the snow,
in the last dissolving reflection of the moon!
by Warren Frieden
